#spectral aether system

[spectralaethersystem]

Doodled our front today. - 🤍

[limesquares]

Could you talk about the ‘dead god’s blood’ you keep mentioning?

Like what kinda god did it come from and how does the freak (Regan) get it 🌚

Aether, also known as giant’s blood, god’s blood, or sometimes quintessence, is a formless, superphysical substance and integral part of life for people in Balor. It is mined out from the colossal corpse of a dead giant whose skull rises over the city, and whose flesh-like remains lay beneath it. Below are concepts for how aether is mined.

 Pure aether (below) is extremely volatile and is contained by specialized materials, except for in specific laboratory settings.

While people like Regan (freak) can integrate it into their bodies, the majority of aether is used in infrastructure, a large circulatory system embedded into the city that keeps it functioning; like keeping railways operational (below) and heating the city to keep it from freezing over, among other things.

As for how someone can get their little freak hands on it, there are legal ways of doing this, and it helps to work at the corporation that monopolizes aether engineering. Although Regan got her spectrals as a result of a DIY bathtub infusion in grad school that she orchestrated all by herself :)

[itchywebreviews]

Exit/Corners - a game review

Are you looking for a game to scratch your Zero Escape itch?

Exit/Corners, by Canadian-based Moon Moth Games, is a free visual novel/puzzle game available on itch.io and playable in web browsers.

You play as Ink, a student who wakes up alongside four other strangers to find himself kidnapped and locked inside a mysterious abandoned hotel that's rigged to explode. They can escape, as long as these 'Contestants' solve a series of riddles and puzzles within a 24-hour time limit. Or, they can die.

Without spoilers, this game surprised and delighted me. It's 29 episodes, takes several hours to complete, and has detailed art and a custom soundtrack. I can strongly recommend it to anybody who enjoys character-focused mystery stories and simple but satisfying puzzles (and who doesn't have an issue with dark themes or depicted violence).

None of the puzzles felt 'unfair', as the game has a great hint system where you can ask the other Contestants for advice or their opinions, which gives you extra insight into their characters as well as providing hints. If you get really stuck, ask them enough times and they'll eventually spell out the answer for you.

The relationships that develop between the Contestants, positive and negative, form the emotional core that the plot needed to keep the reader invested. At first most of the characters are abrasive, stressed, and either insulting to or dismissive of each other. The only friendly face is Aether, the girl who woke up in the same room as you, but she has her own secrets she's keeping. As you can imagine from people picked to play a deadly game, all of them have hidden depths that they're unwilling to trust the other Contestants with—including Ink. Uncovering the pasts of each Contestants is as much part of the mystery as who brought them together, and why.

Generally I found each backstory reveal satisfying, placing each character's previous actions in new context. There was one particular reveal that worked so well on a meta-level that I felt genuinely called-out by the fact I hadn't realised what was happening. Actions that felt unrealistic or confusing could often be explained through later information, as well as the high-stakes situation revealing the best and worst sides of each Contestant.

The mystery plot was excellently foreshadowed. As new information is revealed, through Ink's internal monologue the reader is also gently reminded of relevant points they may have forgotten—allowing them a chance to put the clues together as Ink does without being excessively heavy-handed. Many of the biggest twists were hard to predict, with enough clues that I could guess some of the elements, whilst the actual unveiling left me staring at my screen in shock as my mind went over all the clues I'd overlooked or missed. The plot started slowly, picked up the pace as revelations started stacking on top of each other and revealing the shape of the plot, and in the last few chapters definitely sped up as the different mysteries converged together. The ending felt a little rushed, but each major plot thread and mystery was neatly resolved when the true purpose of Exit/Corners was explained.

This won't be a game for everybody, but for a completely free game that doesn't even require a download? If any of this interests you, give it a try. It might surprise you.

Spoiler-free warnings: This game includes depictions and discussions of graphic violence, depictions and discussions of mental illness and suicide, derogatory language, and internalised bigotry.

What's next for Moon Moth Games? Although they have a demo for an upcoming game called 'Séance: Spectral Noise' on their itchi.io page, there have been no official posts since March 2022. A twitter post from January 2023 stated the project ran into legal difficulties. There have been no subsequent updates.

[tales-from-the-aether-ttrpg]

Tales from the Aether Magic pt 3

The act of Casting a Spell in this system - from a mechanical point of view - is simple. You only need two things, the ability to perform the physical elements of casting spells (cannot be Restrained) and Arcana. There are no spell slots or limits to how many spells you can cast per day. Instead, every spell casting character has Arcana, a pool of magical energy that they can draw on to alter the world around them aka cast spells. Your Arcana pool is constantly regenerating, allowing you to cast spells infinitely while out of combat - as well as curbing the strength of the spells you can cast.

In combat is where things get tricky as you are often casting spells faster than your Arcana Regeneration can keep up in addition to effects such as Lightning that drain Arcana. If your Arcana pool reaches 0 or negative, one of two things happen. 1 - you take 1d12 damage (that cannot be reduced) for every point of Arcana you cannot afford and gain 1 point of Fatigue. 2 - you become Incapacitated until the start of your next turn, gain 1 point of Fatigue, and have a 5% chance (1 out of 20) of becoming possessed by an Aether Spirit. This choice belongs to the player in question and cannot be reversed. Regardless of the choice, the player starts their turn with 1 Arcana.

All spells require some amount of time to cast, be it a Reaction, a Main Action, a Minor Action, multiple Main Actions across multiple turns, or a Ritual that requires a number of minutes, hours, or days.

A Ritual Spell or Spell that takes multiple turns to cast is a Focus spell. The caster must be able to spend the stated cost of the spell every round until the casting is complete. If the caster is unable to meet these demands, then the spell fails. Focus spells are one of the two types of Lingering spells.

Lingering spells are spells that you maintain over time. You can have an unlimited number of Lingering Spells cast at any given time if you have the Arcana resources to sustain it. There are two types of Lingering Spells: Focus Spells and Reserve Spells. If your Arcana reaches zero or you fall unconscious, your Lingering spells end.

Focus Spells require consistent focus and have no predestined time limit. At the start of every round (5 seconds) if you choose to continue focusing on the spell, you pay the Arcana cost of the spell again. Example: I cast Steel Skin, a Focus spell with an Arcana cost of 2. Every round that I maintain concentration on the spell, I spend 2 Arcana. You can lose Focus if you take damage.

Reserve Spells are more stable and temporarily reduce your Arcana Pool by the spell’s cost. Example: I cast Spectral Armor, a Reserve Spell with an Arcana cost of 3. For the duration of the spell, my Arcana Pool is reduced by 3.

The main difference between the two is that Focus spells can reduce your Arcana to 0 if your Arcana Regeneration is not fast enough while Reserve spells are stagnant and have no such risk.

Any Spell can be made permanent through a 10 minute Ritual involving a filled Soul Stone. This Soul Stone becomes an Anchor for the spell and the spell will remain active until the stone is destroyed or it is Dispelled. A Spell cast through a ritual such as this requires no additional Arcana cost once the Ritual is complete and the Soul Stone Anchor is created. 

This is a peak at some design elements of my TTRGP Tales from the Aether. This is not dnd. If you think some of these ideas are interesting, check out my Masterpost linked here and follow for more updates :D

[zeithforge]

The Automaton’s Wake

London, 1888. A city caught between brilliance and smoke. The skies wept endlessly—rain tracing soot-streaked rooftops, coal smoke billowing like ghost-breath from a thousand chimneys. Beneath that churning sky, gaslight spilled onto slick cobblestones, casting amber rivers through the endless twilight. Hansom cabs clattered through the fog, wheels splashing over wet stone. Gentlemen in top hats marched with the focus of men pursued by invisible clocks.

This was the Age of Time. Not just in the sense of seconds and hours, but in faith. Time itself was an idol—measurable, conquerable. The steam engine, the chronograph, the ceaseless tick-tock of invention: all promised progress. Even death, they whispered, could be solved with enough brass and precision gears.

But while progress surged forward, shadows clung harder.

The Chronosynclastic Automaton of Professor Allister Finch. Not far from the fog-choked banks of the Thames, tucked away in the twisting backstreets of Clerkenwell, sat a peculiar workshop—three stories tall and entirely out of step with time itself. Here, amidst towering stacks of brass components, coils of electrum wire, and the pervasive scent of ozone and oil, resided Professor Alistair Finch.

He was not the celebrated, outwardly flamboyant inventor one might see in the pages of the Illustrated London News. Finch was a gaunt, almost spectral figure, his grey eyes burning with an internal fire that seemed to consume his very flesh. His only companion was a collection of chittering, articulate clockwork robins, his singular concession to frivolous decoration.

Finch was a man haunted by a singular, profound loss: the abrupt disappearance of his beloved sister, Eleanor, a brilliant mechanist herself, ten years prior. The official explanation was a tragic accident involving an experimental airship. Finch knew better. Eleanor, his closest confidante, had confided in him a wild theory—that time itself was a fourth dimension, traversable with sufficient, precisely calibrated force. And then, she was gone.

Consumed by grief and a relentless drive for answers, Finch had devoted every waking moment to building the "Chronosynclastic Automaton." It was not a clock to merely tell time, but to traverse it. Imagine a colossal sphere of polished brass, seven feet in diameter, intricately engraved with constellations and timelines, bristling with an impossible array of whirring cogs, gleaming pistons, and arcane crystal conduits. Its primary power source was a perpetually superheated steam core, humming with barely contained energy, meticulously regulated by a complex system of differential gears and a self-adjusting aetheric capacitor. Finch believed it could rupture the membrane of linear progression.

His sole confidante, and indeed his only connection to the rational world, was Miss Ada Marlowe, a tenacious investigative journalist for The Daily Sentinel. Ada possessed a mind as sharp as any industrial blade and a spirit as unyielding as forged steel. She’d initially come to Finch’s workshop chasing a rumor of peculiar energy fluctuations, but had quickly become captivated by his singular vision and the quiet anguish in his eyes. She suspected his genius bordered on madness, yet something in her own restless nature resonated with his desperate quest. She saw not just a mad inventor, but a man battling the very fabric of reality for a truth only he could perceive.

The plot ignited on a blustery November night. Ada arrived at the workshop, her usual professional composure shattered. "Professor!" she gasped, her breath misting. "There's a whisper... the Royal Society, they've been tracking strange temporal anomalies across London. Flashes of impossible light, objects appearing and disappearing from different eras!" Her voice dropped. "They're calling it 'temporal bleed.' And they believe it originates here."

Finch, wild-eyed, didn't seem surprised. "It's the Automaton, Ada! It's reacting. It’s sensing the breach! She’s trying to tell me something!" He gestured wildly towards the behemoth, which had begun to hum with a low, resonant thrum, its brass plates shimmering with an internal luminescence. "Eleanor… she found a way. She's reaching out!"

This was it. Not just a theory, but a genuine crisis. Ada, though terrified, recognized the story of a lifetime, and perhaps, the key to understanding a profound truth. She and Finch had to activate the Automaton, not just to find Eleanor, but to understand and perhaps halt the escalating temporal bleed that threatened to unravel London’s present.

Their journey became a frantic race against the clock, quite literally. Their primary objective: to pinpoint the origin of Eleanor's anomaly and understand the nature of the "temporal bleed" before the Royal Society, led by the ruthless and power-hungry Lord Blackwood, could seize the Automaton for their own nefarious purposes. Blackwood envisioned using time travel to rewrite history, cementing the British Empire's global dominance.

Their first leap, a cautious three-second jump into London's immediate past, was disorienting but successful. They materialized in the same workshop, three seconds ago, seeing their past selves. It was a dizzying confirmation. But subsequent, longer jumps proved far more perilous.

They inadvertently landed in: The Great Fire of London (1666): Witnessing the city ablaze, the choking smoke stinging their eyes, the desperate cries for help. They had to frantically recalibrate, narrowly escaping being consumed by the inferno, solidifying the dangers of uncontrolled temporal shifts. A future, dystopian London (2077): A nightmare landscape of desolate, automated factories under a sky perpetually dark with smog, ruled by silent, omnipresent surveillance automatons. This glimpse into a potential future, a consequence of unchecked industrial growth, served as a grim warning. Ada, the journalist, saw her worst fears of technology’s dehumanizing impact manifest.

Each jump tested their ingenuity. When a critical chroniton valve seized in 1666, Finch had to improvise a replacement using materials from a blacksmith's forge, adapting Victorian ingenuity to a primitive age. In 2077, they navigated a surveillance grid by deactivating old-world steam conduits, forcing them to understand that technological mastery in one era didn’t guarantee it in another. The core conflict intensified: Lord Blackwood's Pursuit: His steam-powered airships, fitted with nascent temporal sensors, relentlessly tracked Finch's Automaton. Blackwood’s agents, often clad in menacing clockwork suits, engaged Finch and Ada in frantic chases through gaslit alleyways and across sooty rooftops, adding thrilling action sequences.

The Temporal Bleed: The more they jumped, the worse the bleed became. Echoes of other times would flicker into existence: a Roman centurion glimpsed on a street corner, a horse-drawn carriage briefly replaced by a roaring horseless carriage, a snatch of music from a future century. This wasn't just a threat to London; it was a threat to the very coherence of time.

The climax arrived when Finch finally pinpointed Eleanor's last known temporal signature: not a precise location, but a repeating temporal loop in a small, abandoned laboratory beneath the London Eye construction site – then just a blueprint.

They found Eleanor, trapped within a self-sustaining temporal bubble, endlessly repeating a few minutes of her life. She was attempting to send a warning, a complex mathematical sequence, but the energy drain of her initial jump had left her in this quantum limbo. Her own experimental device, a smaller, more elegant version of Finch's Automaton, was slowly fracturing.

Just as Finch initiated a complex temporal phase-lock to extract her, Lord Blackwood's lead airship descended, its grappling hooks tearing through the roof. Blackwood, flanked by his clockwork enforcers, demanded the Automaton. He revealed his true plan: not just to rewrite history, but to stabilize it in a single, unchallengeable imperial timeline, eliminating all perceived 'future' threats by nullifying their existence.

The final confrontation was a desperate ballet of clockwork and courage. Ada, using her knowledge of the Automaton's internal workings, cleverly overloaded a steam regulator, creating a diversion. Finch, despite his frailty, fought off Blackwood's agents with an improvised electrum coil, protecting his sister’s fragile temporal bubble.

The unexpected climax came not from a physical confrontation, but a revelation. As Eleanor was phased back into their timeline, lucid for a precious few moments, she didn't speak of rescue. Instead, she gasped, "The Bleed... it's not a malfunction. It's a response. Time... it's a living entity, Alistair. You don't master it. You harmonize with it. Our jumps... they're tearing its fabric. It tries to heal. The real danger... isn't the jumps. It's the stopping."

Just as Blackwood lunged for the Automaton, Eleanor, with a final, desperate surge of will, interfaced her fracturing device with Finch’s. A blinding flash erupted. The Chronosynclastic Automaton didn't explode or simply shut down. Instead, it performed one final, catastrophic act: it didn't travel to a time, but to no time. It became temporal null, a singularity that consumed itself and everything directly connected to it. Blackwood, his hands grasping for its controls, was vaporized, reduced to a shower of chroniton particles.

When the light faded, Finch and Ada stood alone in the wreckage of the laboratory. Eleanor was gone, her temporal bubble dissolved with the Automaton. The temporal bleed across London immediately ceased.

The Chronosynclastic Automaton, and with it, the possibility of deliberate time travel, was gone. Erased.

The conclusion was both tragic and liberating. Finch, though losing Eleanor again, found a different kind of peace. Her final warning, that time was not a river to be damned or diverted but a living force to be respected, resonated deeply within him. The era of casual temporal exploration was over. Humanity had been given a chilling glimpse of the consequences of their ambition.

Ada wrote her article, not about the glory of time travel, but about the profound mystery of time itself, the hubris of humanity, and the need for wisdom over unchecked power. It was a story not of technological triumph, but of profound discovery—that some boundaries are not meant to be crossed, and some forces are not meant to be mastered.

Finch retreated from the public eye, dedicating his remaining years to studying the natural flow of time, seeking to understand its inherent harmony rather than to violate it. He continued to build clocks, but now, each intricate gear, each precise spring, whispered not of grand voyages through time, but of the sacred, relentless onward march of the present, a precious gift to be cherished rather than manipulated. The world still buzzed with steam and invention, but the dream of conquering time, for a precious few who knew the truth, had died, leaving behind only the echoing tick-tock of what truly mattered: the ever-moving present.

[ctrlcreep-blog]

Sexbot Aesthetics & Design: Crystal Chapter

Dull human charm paled in comparison with the aethereal nymphets of mythology, now assembled out of silicon and dream.

Why? Because we can.

CRYSTALS

THE QUESTION OF TEXTURE

Mammalian sensibilities reject frigid marble embraces, craving instead the mild womb-surrogacy of supple and/or pulsating lukewarm flesh. Mercifully, several technological breakthroughs have made crystalloid concubots viable despite this biological weakness.

Firstly, advancements in material science have pioneered the production of soft pseudo-jewels, moss-textured gem-meats with malleability levels ranging from hard plastic to clay. Heated by internal electronics, these artificial tissues satisfy primate desires without compromising the geological aesthetic.

Secondly, cyborg prosthetics and other enhancements have broadened the spectrum of enticing experiences. Custom nervous systems and specialized mechalimbs are capable of shifting preferences towards the rock-hard coldness and sharp edges of real crystal courtesandroids.

TRANSPARENCY

As holography becomes commonplace, we can expect the fetishization of spectral lovers to burgeon. Gemform lolitrons promise a rewarding synthesis of the ephemeral and the solid, as translucent yet tangible beings; containers of fuckable light.

Transparent bodies which display inner mechanics (pulsing synthetic organs, coils of intestine, hearts programmed to mimic arousal by beating more quickly upon contact with humans—or circuits, batteries, and bundles of cables) are charmingly vulnerable. Pellucid skin suggests the fragility of insect wings or glass, and by revealing viscera initiates a kind of automatic intimacy. Subsequent distortions, insertions, and violations of those insides may be of interest to the user.

COLORS, FLAWS, & LIGHT

One undeniable draw of these tantraumatons is their polychromatism, the vivid colors which elevate them so far above their counterparts, the merely-human sexbots. Jewel-tones and iridescence create attention singularities. Lightplay on glimmering folds of skin is hypnotic, arrests time and space. They have the presence of aliens, nymphs, godlings, and may serve as bizarre glass sculptures when powered-down.

While some prefer the coherence of a single-color, models with components based on different gems are refreshingly bright, like multi-colored plastic toys: puzzles of topaz, emerald, and sapphire, each limb a different hue. Others imitate the entwined growth of natural crystals (red cubes of galkhaite in quartz shale) or its emergence from opaque stone (a dark body of polished granite, one limpid arm extruding in an amethyst burst).

Opacity ranges from glossy onyx to diamond, with middling stages such as opal and flawed quartz: internal chips and bends that catch the light, wisps of eery glitter, frozen bubbles.

Interactive refraction is a charming feature. Cyber-catamites with prismic qualities will warp rainbows as kaleidoscopic intercourse metronomes.

FORM

The polished facets of euhedral fornicomatons grant them the low-poly appeal of digital characters superimposed over reality. Resolutions vary, from humanoid cubist sculptures to impressionist goddesses, each glittering stroke of paint a miniscule triangle. These contrast sharply with models aiming to capture the beauty of disorganised crystal growth; volcanic mounds of jade, folds of pyrite that crack and blister where skin creases.

Shoulders, eyelashes, and hips are frequently decorated with spar, desert roses, or bristling clusters of needle crystals—however, tumescent mineral blossoms need not be limited to those zones, and their popularity is merely pragmatic, a function of minimizing user interaction with pointed obstructions.

Layered seductroids may have ordinary human exteriors, but reveal geological strata as pelts are removed: fossils hidden between skins, slabs of artificial flesh marked by canyon-like striations. Lubricated geode orifices, installed in the skull, the joints, and replacing the usual holes, drastically improve standard sexbots. A girl opens her mouth to reveal a crystal garden, becoming instantly more fetching.

---

u could have read this on patreon, like, a month ago

[revpanikbedlam]

The stars did not twinkle or shimmer as they did on Earth, and for that reason they seemed infinitely more distant and unreachable. The ship's atmosphere was not nearly as dense as it was on that small blue planet, so those impossible to hold gems did not flicker as they did when seen in far off observatories. That nebulous glow made the stars seem friendly and especially close when viewed through the fractal-convergence telescopes built into the tall castle spires of the Somek At'Grallah, but here in the void of sub-etheral space they seemed like aliens.

But however distant, these stars became slightly more obtainable as Queen Iste-Hulwa moved ever closer towards those distant points of light in her crystal ship. Thus the stellar frigate roared through space on its heading, leaving a glowing trail of rainbows in the dark which dissolved slowly into the infinite depths of the intergalactic ocean.

Iste surveyed the sky, looking for any constellations she might recognize, but having traveled so far from her terrestrial home all the sky was distorted from this far off point of reference. She looked perplexed at the glowing altar at the top of the steep step pyramid that served as the helm, then looked back into the ornate gazebo that stood behind her. Focusing her attention on the huge chunk of polished amber that sat glowing on a hallowed pedestal at its center, she spoke to it directly.

“Pom, I can't tell if we're still on the correct heading. The console is giving me mixed readings and I never had much of an eye for Oneiromantic Astrogation. The sub-ether of the Dream-Zone might be a faster way of traveling between distant galaxies but the math to understand it is lost on me.”

A small humanoid silhouette shifted inside the resinous gem before a larger, shadowy simulacrum was projected from it, which then responded with an astute but echoing sing-song.

“And not much of a mind for hyper-spacial sacred geometry either. I'm sure the scholars of Atlantis would be disappointed that you've forgotten all your elementary lessons, but luckily you have other talents to compensate.” The form moved close to Iste and playfully added, “As well as friends to crunch the numbers for you.”

Iste smiled at the shadow of the dryad with whom she had shared a long friendship. She preferred when Pom would manifest her form, for it made the trip seem a little less lonely. She also had to admit that her ghostly visage was a beautiful work of art that always filled her heart with joy no matter how many times she looked upon it. With her lithe pointed features of astral umbra and smoky white vines of hair, the illusion that was Pom's body appeared as an alluring fascination with its slight translucence that was yet opaquely impenetrable.

Pom's true body was the seed of life bound in the fossilized heart of a once potent magical tree in her homeland, but Iste had always thought the astral-projection of Pom's own self-image was the truer form. It was a mystery of darkness within darkness, a mien of obsidian glass in which she was shrouded. And although the dryad was perhaps only a shade darker than the Atlantean's own more physical flesh, as most Atlanteans were, the fey's  hologram lacked living warmth. This sheen of undeath lent Pom a spectral coolness that was fearful to some but was beheld by Iste as supernal wonder.

“I'm sure the High Philosophers are rolling in their watery graves, but that hardly answers my question,” Iste shot back at the elfin shade. “I do have a quest to attend to and it would be nice to know if we're on course.”

Pom-Hymenaea sighed cheerfully and moved in position before the helm, drawing up an array of stars and grids projected in lights over the altar console. She studied them for a moment and said, “As best as I can determine we are on course. Unfortunately, your old friend didn't leave us much to follow when he sailed off beyond the sunset.”

Indeed it was true that wondrous scientist and Grand Master, Ji Qi-Miao, had abandoned his throne almost two hundred years ago. He had left to seek the dreams of distant alien worlds with little hint of where his intended destination would be. An appropriate retirement adventure for someone of his power and intelligence, but he had taken with him the Chart, an ancient mapping device made with the most advanced of crystal magic.

It had been something of a gift, for Iste understood the difficulty of navigating the void without a guide, so Qi-Miao accepted it gratefully as he tripped off into the light fantastic. However, the Chart had also been an important tool in determining the placement of the one hundred Crystal Resonators, which mapped their hidden locations. Thus, without the Chart, the whereabouts of these magic transmitters was unknown to Iste and all of the sacred knights of the Somek At'Grallah.

This lack of knowledge put their order in a difficult position. The Crystal Resonators had been a collaborative work of divided labor, and with Qi retired beyond the stars the protection of the resonators fell on Iste. Yet it had been Qi-Miao alone who had been trusted to hide these devices through the terrestrial cosmos. Iste was quick to admit that the eccentric inventor was a cunning trickster, and she could not even begin to guess where the devices might have been interred.

Qi-Miao had derived the divine clockwork that caused the resonators to chime at the correct mystical frequency, and Iste had cut the crystals to hold the quality of perfect psychic harmony. Up to this point, they had successfully served as “spirit granaries” to store and distribute positive energies and draw off and cleanse negative powers. The crystals would absorb bad vibes, converting them into benevolent psychic forces that the dreamers of the world could unconsciously tap. But recently problems with the system had arisen.

They had been hidden specifically so they would not be tampered with, and as they were self-maintaining it should have been a simple matter, placing them and leaving them without thought of finding them again. Qi-Miao had modified the function of the Chart to track them, but Iste herself had insisted that he take it with him as she thought the loss of it wasn't of any hazard.

And for the last two hundred years, it hadn't been a loss of any consequence. However, when it was discovered that the demonic beings of the Diablo-Infernum had found a small number of the Crystal Resonators and manipulated them to serve their goals, the unfortunate repercussions of Iste's present to Qi-Miao became apparent. The demons quickly began to corrupt the resonators which infected the entire energy network with malicious vibrations. This served to exaggerate the nightmare side of humanity.

The mystic-scientists of Somek At'Grallah detected the change in cosmic vibrations, but only after this plot had been put into motion. By the time it was discovered, they calculated that no less than three of the hidden resonators had been rededicated towards the intent of psychotic malice. Iste-Hulwa had taken this terrorist attack personally, and immediately sought out the parties responsible. Although not acting alone, it was determined that the Demon Lord of the Fourteenth Hell, Messier Filbaskist, had used his understanding of the “in-between places” to put a number of the devices under the Infernum's control.

Iste engaged the Devil in combat and though he escaped into the dark of the bottomless pit at the lowest point of Hell, she was able to discover the nature of their plot which the 22 Demon Lords had dubbed the “Lethe Gambit.” With the Crystal Resonators still hidden from the Somek At'Grallah, and thus sitting out of reach and beyond repair, Iste-Hulwa determined that seeking out Ji Qi-Miao and recovering the Chart was the only possibility for salvation.

“We've now passed out of psychic communication range, we are now in the true Deep-Aether,” Pom reported, as Iste repeated the details of her mission in her head for the hundredth time.

“Oh, excellent,” Iste replied, pulled back to the present. “Please check atmospheric and life support systems.”

Pom drifted down the stairs at the fore of the temple-helm and danced over the grass that grew on the surface of their floating island. From above the 'deck' of their ship, its shape appeared like a teardrop, with the temple in the aft centered between a semi-circle of standing stones. Pale and titanic, the rough-hewn monuments exuded a lovely rolling fog like giant shards of dry ice. She examined the stones, then returned to the base of the stairs where a three-tiered marble fountain sprayed misty torrents of water into dripping basins. She gazed into the pools with intense scrutiny paying particular attention to the roll of bubbles churning within.

Satisfied with her inspection, she returned to the helm and reported. “The Quartz-Menhir are successfully generating an artificial dream-synthesis field providing full environmental containment, and external shields are at 98%. The fountain is producing viable terrestrial atmosphere, although it appears that the greenhouse on level 3 of the temple structure is not receiving enough light; so I'll be redistributing additional energy to the lamps. Final report: all life and psychic support systems functioning at full.”

Iste took a deep breath and took one last look over the console. “Excellent. However, do a physical examination of the lamps in greenhouse three. It would be difficult to re-establish any crops if they were lost, and they're vital for the long term life support of a trip like this. Once you've done that if there is nothing else to report, fix the heading and dismiss yourself. If I need anything else I'll call you.”

“Very well Captain,” Pom said with a chuckle before vanishing in an ethereal inkblot splatter.

Iste walked down the temple stairs and past the fountain, looking back and once again noting how much the temples of Atlantis resembled those of the later Aztec. She supposed that it was not technically an Atlantean temple as it was built by the Somek At'Grallah in the Higher Realm many millennia after The Fall. However, the “Earth” beneath her feet was, in fact, one of the last shards of the island of Atlantis.

It was a relatively small slab of geode recovered from when that island shattered and sank so long ago, and its huge crystal tetragons and natural points that clustered at its ventral aft radiated with metaphysical tornadoes of prismatic light. These energized crystals not only projected the hull through space and naturally generated the ship's power, but also served to illuminate the verdant deck of The Axis Mundi. Thus this last Atlantean Starship was brilliantly lit from about its rim by way of rippling waves of aurora borealis.

She gazed into these electromagnetic pulses of color and realized it was not the northern lights that she was reminded of, but the strange sky over the city of her youth. Iste recalled how those purple clouds of the dream-zone could be visually seen, rife with rainbow lightning surges that filled the air with the smell of sweet orchids. It had been a very long time since the people of Earth had so directly and collectively viewed the dreaming tempest while waking, and for the first time in a long time, she felt homesick for the land of her birth.

She navigated between the small knolls formed by the sacred burial mounds that had been placed in honor of that island's fallen. They framed a small winding path which terminated in a pointed overhanging cliff that served as the ship's bow. On this ledge sat a large, round, basalt sculpture which she had placed there long ago, providing the maidenhead for the ship when it was built. It resembled those stone heads produced by the Olmec, though its creation had preceded that culture somewhat and its face was more feminine. With a sudden bound, she gracefully jumped twelve feet into the air and landed delicately on the center of the fifty-ton monument, settling into a relaxed, seated position upon the crown of the head and stared wistfully into space.

“Why come out this far Qi?” she asked of her absent friend. “Was the beauty of our Earth and its heavenly realms not enough for you to focus your genius upon?”

With a sigh of lament, she continued. “And how do I even know that we are on the right path? All you did was point to the sky at a bright white star on the southern horizon, and like Peter Pan, told me 'straight on til morning' was your destination. So long ago you made that gesture, I was lucky to have remembered the astrological house to which you pointed and narrowed the possibilities from there. If only I had a hint or horoscope to tell me if I was on the right track.”

Closing her eyes and reaching out with her mind, she wished for a sign. She knew such simple enchantments were a somewhat childish bit of knavery, but just as the lesser mortals pray to keep heart, it was a spelling cast without air of expectation; nothing more than a purely expressed desire to see her friend again.

As she opened her eyes she saw the answer to her request just in time to react to it, touching the activation gems on the ornate disks that covered her ears. From those large earrings, her tall crowned battle helm instantly unfolded about her head just as a metal sphere about a full foot in diameter erupted through the ship's glowing force field and struck her armored brow with incredible force.

The impact rang against her helm like the grandest bells upon the highest mountain monasteries, and with an explosion of sound, sent Iste flying backwards over the twisting mounds where she landed in the ship's fountain with a splash. For all her abilities, if not for the powers held in her armor, she would have been knocked unconscious or even killed from the unexpected strike but instead, she was only momentarily dazed. Shaking off the staggering hit, she climbed out of the fountain and began searching for the orb that had laid the blow.

Pom appeared suddenly. “Queen Iste! Are you all right?! Long distance scans had detected no foreign objects prior to the impact breech. Do you require medical attention?”

“It's okay Pom, I'm fine. Just a tad disoriented, but not hurt,” Iste said a little out of breath, but still scanning for the object. “I thought you said our shields were functioning at capacity.”

Sheepishly, the spectral dryad admitted, “Technically I stated that shields were at 98%, which is technically functioning capacity, statistically speaking. Technically.”

As Pom spoke, Iste discovered the rogue projectile, which seemed to be made out of a brass-like metal with several seams dividing the sphere into a number of irregularly shaped segments. Although there was a slight scuff indented into the orb where it had struck her, it seemed generally unharmed and was cold to the touch.

“Well this looks like a technical two percent shield failure if I ever saw one,” she joked, hoping that Pom would not take the mishap personally. “Besides, I have something of a suspicion that I may have accidentally 'asked' for this. Although please check the system records to see if we can prevent future problems of this type.”

With a smile, a salute, and an “Aye, Captain,” Pom vanished again, leaving Iste to examine the Orb.

Iste removed her helm which folded back into her earrings, and she carried the metal artifact to the bottom of the temple stairs. Standing on the stone platform at its base, she stated, “Open Private Quarters.” Upon hearing the command, a circle of stone descended downward like a lift from the point where she stood. Reaching the inside of the ship, she traveled through a short hall adorned with strange electric bulbs that erratically sparked, dimly lighting the ancient hieroglyphs that colored the walls.

Her room was large and imperial with fine sweeping curtains, huge velvet cushions, and glorious tapestries. She walked past these comforts and instead approached a long stone workbench placed in the corner. It was covered with both conventional and more eldrich tools so she took a moment to select a few that she would need out of the clutter and cleared a spot to work.

She set the sphere on the bench and proceeded to her wardrobe. Although her ornate battle suit was environmentally sealed, keeping her dry from the neck down, her hair had gotten wet in the water of the fountain. Thus she decided a little bit of comfort provided by more relaxed clothes would offer help sharpening her mind before pursuing the object's secrets.

When removed and folded, the armor took on the vague look of a green eagle statuette as that was the outfit's prime motif with its sweeping metallic arm draperies and wing designs that spiraled about the skirt. She was happy to remove the piles of heavy gemstone beads that were wrapped in strings over top of a hidden electrified scarf which flowed into a white shawl about her shoulders. This tall, necklace-adorned gaiter stretched all the way up her long thin neck reaching just below her chin and was mildly uncomfortable. However, its discomfort was not only for the sake of serving as a beautiful adornment but, like the Quartz-Menhir that provided the ship's life support systems, this gaiter provided her a degree of localized atmosphere and protection from psychic attack.

Her hair was tied up in a forward sloping bun which sat over top her long, deep auburn bangs. She always felt the style, common to the women of the native Seminole, was still a becoming and modern look. She pulled the rings at the ends of her bejeweled hairpins which held the twist of braids in place, and it took some time to brush out the large volume of textured locks, but once free they hung down straight, glistening darkly. Once it was sufficiently dry she took a long green scarf from her dresser and wrapped her hair in the manner of a simple but elegant tignon.

She took a moment to admire her body in a long mirror. Although many uncounted centuries had washed over her countenance, her form was preserved in an appearance of a becomingly voluptuous thirty-something by way of her people's mystic sciences. Not a true immortal, she was still more than merely mortal; ageless and incredibly healthy. She smiled at the curve of her magnificent wide hips and drew her hands down the lines of her contour.

Exhibitionism was a common practice of her ancient people, as well as the people of Somek At'Grallah. Thus it was a regular sight in her culture to go partially or even fully nude, expressing the airs of both bodily pride and personal liberation. Yet Iste had always felt that fine clothes had added a tone of nobility to one's presence, and even if alone in her room, she decided that her matching green tunic and casual purple toga gave a sense of personal decorum.

While her regal lack of modesty caused her to hazard one more adoring glance into the mirror to admire her backside before dressing, she felt that she had indulged her vanity long enough. Even in private, she felt too much of that behavior led to the type of aristocratic arrogance she found unbecoming of true nobility.

It was better to simply let the ritual dressing be the period of self-idolization to laud oneself with fine fabrics and perfumes. She cloaked the toga about her, anointed her head with scented oils, powdered the pink of her hands and feet with fine talc, and then proceeded to her task at the work bench, where the peculiar bronzed rondure waited for her.

Iste looked it over first with a magnifying glass and then a jeweler's loupe before tapping it imploringly with a tuning fork and listening closely. She poked and prodded it carefully for a little over an hour before she sat back and looked at it perplexed and grumbled, “What are you?”

As if responding to her question the metallic ball whirred into life, rolling about the work bench before Iste could stop it and with a series of sudden clicks, the surface of the orb began to undulate and crack like an egg before the shell twisted and turned into a new shape. And from out of this egg unfurled a tiny clockwork man of humorous proportion; having a head the size of its body with large, round, inquisitive eyes and stubby little arms and legs which seemed to flail about uncontrollably at first until it found its footing.

It was by far not the most astounding thing she had ever seen, but it was endearing in its minor wonderfulness and she looked at it with a gleeful smile. The automation quickly noticed her watching him and shouted at her with a tiny metal voice.

“What am I? What art you? Questions, questions! That I'm not a difference engine makes no difference! Questions, questions! What lack of courtesy! Questions, questions right from the start! Not even a greeting! No hello's or how are ye's, but questions, questions from the start!”

Even though the mechanical man was obviously quite slighted, Iste found herself grinning all the more in spite of herself. However, she didn't want to offend the tiny automaton and she stood to give a slight and respectful bow as she stated, “I am Queen Iste-Hulwa, First of the knights of Somek At'Grallah, Northern Faction of the Higher Realms of the Terrestrial Space. I greet you and welcome you to my ship, the Axis-Mundi. Please, my dear sir, tell me who you are and how you came to be floating through the depths of the Deep-Aether.”

The metal man paused but the sound of spinning gears whined from within him, and then with a curtsy, he began to tick in a manner that reminded Iste of a purring cat.

“My name is Tattler, and I was a servant of the Former Grand Master, Ji Qi-Miao. He constructed me as he sailed this space upon the back of his magnificent clockwork whale. I was made to act as his journal, alarm clock, and secretary; but when he encountered a school of transcendental-krakens, I fell overboard in the battle. He must have believed me destroyed, for he never came back for me. With no means of propulsion, I went into sleep mode and have thus slept until you awoke me.”

This information pleased Iste and she said, “It is a delight to meet you, Tattler. I was a friend of your master, Ji Qi-Miao, and it is he who I am seeking now. If you are willing to help me, perhaps we can find him together.”

Tattler stopped ticking and his gears whirred for a moment as he said, “Calculating, calculating, calculating...” Until finally, he said, “Indeed, I will help you. Although I would appreciate a full oiling before any difficult questions are asked, my gears have grown stiff in my slumber.”

With a smile, Iste agreed, and after looking through her tools found some machine oil and got Tattler feeling a bit more limber. She even found some polish and did her best to brush out the scuff that their first meeting had left on the back of his head, although a small dent still remained. Minor indentation aside, it became obvious that Tattler felt instantly better to be oiled and polished, as he bounced around happily for the basic maintenance.

“So, Tattler,” Iste began. “You said that Qi had designed you to be his journal, does that mean you know where he was trying to go?”

Tattler scurried about as if he was ignoring her to look for something. “Oh yes, I know where he wanted to go. We were almost there in fact when we were attacked, but then he fled the beasts when it became apparent he was outnumbered and he vanished from my long range visual scanners.”

“You have long range visual scanners?” Iste asked politely, suddenly curious what powers the petite android possessed.

In a moment of pride, the metal man pranced about and chimed, “Why yes I do! I do! I do! I am fully capable of 500 times magnification, deep field observation, independent focus, and direct to point survey! Behold!” Reaching up as far as his tiny arms would reach, he pressed two rose colored buttons on his cheeks and with a sudden clapping sound, his huge crystal eyes suddenly protruded almost two feet from out of his head on a set of tubes.

The sudden unfolding gave the somewhat cartoon impression that he had seen something startling, and the force of their projection pushed Tattler back causing him to fall into a seated position. The eyes seemed to rotate in opposition as if they were both fighting to look in different directions, which required Iste to stifle a giggle as the lenses googled wildly at her.

Iste wasn't sure how to react and was confused by what he was showing her until she realized his eyes were actually a set of high powered, telescoping spyglasses. Iste stared for a moment without saying a word but could suddenly sense the little man was feeling a bit exposed and embarrassed by her lack of response so she quickly exclaimed, “Wow!” as sincerely as possible and then added, “Oh my, that is very impressive. So you're a lookout too? Does that mean you saw where Qi-Miao went even after you had been lost?”

Tattler's chest swelled with a sudden puff of steam and he cheerfully touched his cheeks to retract his eyes before responding. “Yes, I saw. For it seemed that he was drawn into a distant cosmic vortex just short of his goal, for Levee his whale was injured and unable to fight the current. Where it drew him off to I cannot say, but I could likely direct you to it so long as you took on the same heading. He was attempting to reach a certain star in the Carina constellation ofArgo Navis, in hopes of discovering a particular theoretical planet in orbit around the star Canopus, which was also called Ariki to some who gave it spiritual significance. This star was considered to be the southern polar star by the Ming Astrologer, Xu Guanggi, who noted it to be the most important star in the configuration of The Vermilion Bird of the South. But in secret star-maps of Xu Guanggi, acquired by Master Qi-Miao, there were also implications that within this system was a great source of magnetic consciousness which...”

As Tattler tried to finish what he was saying, he was interrupted by a sudden lurch of the ship. Before either of them could react a huge crashing noise accompanied a tremendous shaking that knocked them both onto the floor. The lights hummed and undulated as a loud series of blasting zaps roared out above them.

“Pom! Status? Report!” Iste shouted with calm authority as she got to her feet.

Pom immediately appeared although she was obviously still occupied simultaneously on the bridge,  for her form was translucent and not all together there. “I'm not sure Captain! We seem to be under attack by invisible forces. Shields seem to be slowing down whatever it is but not holding them off and basic countermeasures seem ineffective. Weapon systems cannot lock in on an exact target. I've begun open barrage, but whatever it is it seems immune to our lasers.”

Iste grimaced. “Very well Pom, proceed with evasive maneuvers and full barrage. Attempt to overpower shields between volleys and see if that will push whatever it is off.”

Tattler scuttled across the floor, diving into the pile of cushions. “Not again! Not again! It is the Transcendental Space Krakens! Not again! I only just got out of the void, I do not want to be cast back into it so soon! Not again! Not again!”

Iste shouted at the pile of pillows. “Tattler! Pom said lasers aren't effective. If these are the Space-Krakens you faced before, did they show any weakness that you can recall?”

“They seemed immune to almost all attacks, only Levee's psychic sonar scream seemed to scare them off. It was just enough for the Master and her to get away.”

“Only vulnerable to direct psychic attack?” She chuckled confidently and grinned wide in spite of herself. “I suppose I'll just take care of this myself, then.”

With a swift, extravagant twirl, Iste unveiled herself in a singular motion. The folds of her garments floated down around her like autumn leaves, and Tattler's eyes shot out again as he watched Iste's form appear before him, nude and impeccable.

Falling into a short and distinct kata of elegantly choreographed dance, her movements were accented by the singing of a ghostly song that possessed an antediluvian quality. The ship shook and tilted and the artificial gravity failed sporadically. Various objects bounced across the room, falling and floating erratically. However, Istemoved gracefully by maintaining her own sense of reference, detached from space as the Axis-Mundi spun about her.

As her dance ended, she thrust her arms out to her sides and the green eagle statuette unfurled its wings and flew to her. Unfolding itself and then wrapping around her as it met her touch, she was again adorned in her ornate suit of mystical armor. Tapping her earrings, her head was encased in her heavy battle helm. Armed and armored she ran down the hall to the stone lift, shouting back over her shoulder, “Stay here and try to be safe, Tattler!”

The tiny automation remained buried deep in his pile of pillows but chirped loud in response. “Will do! Will do!” as he tried to shove his eyes back into his head.

As Iste rode the lift to the deck of her ship, she gripped in her right hand what appeared to be a large crystal point approximately a foot long. The points themselves were exposed and glistening prisms, but the center of the crystal appeared to be wrapped in leather held in place by twists of gold wire. This gold was braided at the ends, creating a series of thick, ornate cables which formed an elegant basket hilt like that of a saber.

She drew an electronic gun-shaped device out of a holster on her hip. Its barrel was a long pipe with several metallic bulbs near the end which terminated with a setting like that of an oversized wedding ring. In that setting was placed a red diamond larger than a fist, and it glowed with an energy that flickered across Iste's bright tan eyes as she exited from the ship's cabin.

Set in vivid darkness against the ship's blaze of northern lights were obvious yet unseen tendrils of nothingness, each wrapping themselves about the vessel. Iste glanced up the temple stairs where Pom drifted between several manifestations in order to operate the helm's console from several angles at once. She sensed that the limbs of this ethereal beast were seeking to strike at the ship's controls, but the outward push of the dryad's aura seemed to drive the unseen menace from its goal.

Iste knew that Pom's amber crystal radiated a raw telepsychic field as she projected her image, and although it was typically harmless to most beings she noted that the monster recoiled from the gem. Seeing this, she grinned as she realized that this confirmed Tattler's guess; that these Deep-Aether squids were susceptible to heightened mental energies.

Her heart pounded hard in a slow rhythm as she asked herself how long it had been since she had last been in the fray. Too long had she been trapped in the halls of power amid naught but pomp and circumstance. The diplomacy and politics of the aristocratic life had been her charge in hopes of maintaining the order of the higher realms. Yet she was now far and away from that place, and her body sang as the joy of battle gripped her; a warrior's hymn from elder lands long lost tasted like honey on her lips as she leapt into the sky.

The segmented metallic draperies that ran from the center of her back to the bracers of her gloved gauntlets erupted in a pink field of energy. This field was as solid as her armor and unfurled from her limbs as a set of rose colored wings. On these, she soared into the air like an angel to meet her foe. Realizing the beast was not to be seen by the light of mortal eyes, she closed her lids gently as she continued to ascend, singing boldly. Looking within, she saw the thing: gargantuan, bulbous, and lurid.

At first it appeared to be three monstrous cephalopods, each with a singular bulging red eye and several toothy beaked maws. But then she saw that the creature was a sort of hydra, one horror with three heads awkwardly bound together in grizzly folds of gathering mantle. From this macabre swell of fetid flesh, scores of maliciously spiked tentacles emanated, each dripping with acrid ectoplasm. Those tendrils not entangled about her ship were now reaching to halt her ascent, yet at the summit of her flight she sang the verse of victory in her ancient song and from the crystal handle of her blade-less sword flared a brilliant crackle of lightning.

From that minor storm, a rainbow brand rippling with a surging current of eldrich force erupted from that crystal hilt. Singing still, she spun in the air like the most masterful dancer and cut free a number of the creature's reaching pseudopod. The Kraken thrashed in pain bludgeoning the ship which careened wildly out of control despite Pom's vigilant efforts. The Axis Mundi filled the void with a vivid display of lights as batteries of lasers pulsed wildly into the distance with a thick ozone smell.

Iste dove down hard and fast in pursuit of the dreadful squid, driving her sword into the eye of the central head. As she punched through the membrane, it exploded in a wretched splatter that filled Iste's mind with awful visions, and her ears rang with the lingering psychic screams of the creature's past victims. Iste was caught off guard by the hallucinogenic images inspired by the being's spiritual gore spilled on her in melee, and the two remaining heads took the opening to strike.

It hit her in the center of the chest, driving her down into the stairs of the temple with a cracking of stone. Her head swam, but she fought off unconsciousness. She lifted her blaster to take aim but discovered the crystal had insufficient charge from the long period of disuse. She sought to sing but her diaphragm cramped in a pain that seized her breath, failing to notice that the wind had been knocked out of her in the heat of combat. combat. Iste gasped for her words as the pistol clicked uselessly in her hand.

The creature roared in a shrill whine just beyond her ability to hear, but in the lag of its scream, she could hear its bellowing shout in a deep residual hum that made the whole of the ship vibrate violently. For a brief moment, Iste felt a shock of fear as she could hear loud crackling sounds as the crystals that composed her ship began to shake themselves apart. The adrenaline that coursed through her veins finally drew her abdominal muscles back under her command and her chest once again filled with air.

She cried out with a sudden and beauteous crescendo, singing forcefully from her diaphragm, and the singular perfect note filled her blaster with energy. With a small tornado of glowing rings circling about the gun's diamond barrel, a brilliant torrent of radiant plasma ripped into the creature tearing the left head from its body. The creature itself was now gripped quite obviously with fear of its opponent, and let go of the ship. But this left the ship in free fall as it tumbled through the void. The creature attempted to descend with full force into Iste as she stood poised on the steps of the temple-helm.

Again the warrior of Atlantis and First Knight of Somek At'Grallah stood firm, shouting out with a loud kia followed by a glorious trill of song. From this melody she fueled a barrage of blaster fire, and amidst the flurry of prismatic strikes from her sword, the Transcendental-Kraken made a last effort to drive its immense bulk into her.

The stone stairs below her feet began to shatter and sent broken shards up about her. But her aura blazed bright as the sun and the strength of her mettle became a psychic shield of willpower, a perfect barrier set about her through which the monster could not pass.

With a last shrieking knell, the Kraken fell into a writhing death-roll which it used to fall into her with all its might, but in vain. In this last moment, the integrity of its body failed and in a sickeningly abhorrent mass, the creature discorporated. As it spontaneously turned into a viscous fluid it rained down onto the ship, smearing it with an ethereal slime that spattered across the deck and trailed behind them.

For a moment, Iste was overwhelmed by the hallucinogenic ectoplasm and fell faint into nightmare visions of remembrance. She was forced to recall other violent battles, wars with foes that had once been her friends. Exaggerated horrors created from her personal failings that swelled up from her long lived past, and the heart of all her fears: memories of her sinking homeland as the crystals below her feet shattered and the sky as she knew it vanished from her sight above.

“Iste! Iste! Wake up! By all the Animal Masters, Iste wake up!” The voice cut through the fog of miserable memories. “Iste! The ship is holding together but just barely. Many of the power crystals cracked and some of them even shattered. We're having trouble maintaining atmosphere and life support!”

Looking into the translucent umbra of the dryad's face, Iste remembered where she was. “All right, let me gather myself. The systems are damaged but not knocked out, so we just have to remain calm and start regeneration protocols. What about navigation, where are we? Where are we going?”

Pom looked pensive and with a deep frown said, “The engines are completely out. We're in full speed drift without steering.”

Iste tried to maintain composure, but she had to admit the situation was dire. As she tried to decide as to the next course of action, she noticed Tattler exiting the lift and climbing the stairs to join her, although the steepness of the steps provided him extreme difficulty. His awkward ascent made her smile despite circumstance, but she moved down the stairs to help him.

But it only took a few steps before she realized that she had to struggle herself. Her armor was resilient, but the nigh-physical power of the beast had managed to exceed its endurance. She seemed to have broken a rib or two in the fight, thus found herself sitting on the steps again trying to catch her breath.

The clockwork companion reached her, climbed into her lap and asked, “Is the danger over?”

Iste nodded to him with a light smile. “It is, but our ship is so damaged that our expedition is probably going to have to be halted until we are able to make appropriate repairs. Searching for Ji Qi-Miao will have to wait.”

Extending his telescoping eyes outward, he glanced off in the direction that the ship seemed to be drifting before retracting them again. In a happy tone, Tattler gave a chiming report. “Oh no, oh no, don't you worry about that. Damaged or not our ship is still in pursuit of my master. If you look you'll see, we approach the same cosmic vortex into which he and Levee fell!”

Watching as Tattler pointed off into space, Iste shot a worried glance at Pom who vanished to the ship's helm and returned in a flash.

“He's right,” the dryad somberly reported. “We're being drawn towards an unidentifiable spacial anomaly. Advanced analysis indicates no conclusions about the nature of the aberration, but early readings do suggest that it may be a cosmic vortex.”

Although a mild sense of dread lingered, Iste found herself amused more than fearful. "Wonderful,” she said with a reassuring grin. “At least we're on the right track.”