a-discordant-correspondent-blog

[a-discordant-correspondent-blog]

Sixth City Stories

“What could have been,” I said, thoughtfully, staring bemused at my own grave. I was speaking slowly, attempting to get used to the odd language of France.

“What will you do now that you’re dead, sir?” My right-hand man, Joseph, gazes at my grave as well. It’s hard to read in his face, but I imagine he was just as amused by the whole charade as I was myself. “You can hardly go back to your old haunts.”

“I wait. I need to build connections, and wait for the name Bitten von Liebe to fade from memory.” With a deep sigh, I rummaged around in my coat pocket. “Paris...what a silly choice for a new city. But if this is the empire I’ll have to steal, I’ll steal it. If my name isn’t...”

I had to think for a minute. I couldn’t get away with using Patriarch Isaac again, and besides, if I was to integrate with the lower class, I would need a less flamboyant name. “Jasper...Marsh. Jasper Marsh.” I grinned, clapping my hands together. “That’ll be the name that steals an empire, Joseph, you watch. Right out from under everyone’s feet. The Prime Minister, the Masters, the Bazaar...everyone.”

“You’d better hurry.” Joseph muses, beginning to tread away back to the automobile. “The Masters are spending less and less time with each city. This one just fell and there are already whispers of when the Seventh will.”

“Mm, you’re right.” I trot behind, humming a merry tune. “This city won’t take over itself.”

[a-discordant-correspondent-blog]

Look to Love

“Would you like to dance with me?” He had extended a hand to me, smiling so softly.

"Ubwuh?” I hiccoughed in response.

“You -- eh?” I gulped after recovering from the shock. The Feast of the Exceptional Rose, those past few years, has mostly been dedicated to me eating and drinking myself stupid, listening to my ‘friends’ talk about their romances. I was rarely approached by anyone unfamiliar. 

“I would like to dance with you,” He said, more insistent. “If -- it’s okay.”

“No, no, it’s...it’s, ah...” I desperately looked around the room, as if I would find the words I was looking for plastered on the wall somewhere. “...no, it’s...perfectly fine.” 

I stood, nervously adjusting my tie. I had been caught off guard, which was rare for me in a time like this. Still, after I got over my shock, the night was already laid out for me in my head. The usual pattern; we dance, we drink, we go home, we rut like animals and I wake up the next morning to a letter, an empty bed, and one more person I’ll never get to meet again in all of London. Still, I took his hand, rising to get a better look at him.

He was a very beautiful man, I can remember that much. Dark-skinned, with short hair styled in the manner beloved by London’s high society at the time, but there was a certain Bohemian tilt to his smile. A coy attitude that emanated from him even as he guided me along.

As promised, I came into my own as the night went on. I had perhaps two hours of properly, regularly enjoying myself before the two of us became well and truly sloshed. And so the two of us, blinded by wine, went bumbling back to my residence where we well and truly intended to spend the rest of the night doing as expected.

Instead, he let loose the contents of his stomach soon as we got down to our pants; I started laughing, he started laughing. The mood was well and truly gone, but for once I felt as if I didn’t want it to come back. Instead I fell onto the bed, mumbling to him to just relax with me a while. He obliged, and the night was instead spent full of whispers and laughs.

When I awoke the next morning, he was still there. I was stunned. Frantically redressing, I asked him if he would like to share a dream with me, and he nodded eagerly. It had been years since I had done this, so obviously I was more excited than I had been in years.

I could feel it again, burgeoning, struggling through my lack of a soul. My heart was pounding, my imagination racing as we chattered all the way to the honey-den. He explained to me that he was always an admirer -- distant, but never approaching. Always I had seemed too...otherworldly, almost, to him. Cold. But that night was a particularly indulgent night for me, and as he saw me casting aside a wine glass to drink straight out of the bottle, he understood that I was no less approachable than he was. Christ, I was probably grinning like a dolt as he explained. 

As we slipped into a shared honey-dream together, I gripped his hand tightly. I wonder if he felt it when I was pulled away from him, dragged off by the madmen who sent me up here, to the High Wilderness. I was so taken aback when I awoke on the boat treading to the Horizon, I could not think of him.

But now, now that I have nothing but time, I do. I wonder if he hates me, for leaving him there with nothing like that? Or perhaps he understood once he realized I was nowhere to be found in all of London that it was not of my own accord?

I’ve been wondering what life would be like now if that would have never happened. Questions surge through my mind. Would I have well and truly recovered? Married? Would I be rolling over in bed right now, smiling at a husband? Or would it have merely been a fling?

Was it a trap for me the whole time? Was he in on it?

A priest I knew equated not having a soul to not having a heart. Empty and still.

If I don’t have a heart, then what is broken?

[a-discordant-correspondent-blog]

“Here in the Sky”, a Sky-Shanty

Men headin’ from the finest of Old London homes Outta Spite an’ Ladybones  an’ Veilgarden we roam Riding the finest of false-sunbeams alone We’re waitin’ here in the sky

We’re aweigh And away we fly Don’t look down up here in the sky Stars like eyes never lie So now we’re waitin’ here in the sky

Now we’re treadin’ to to Winchester to rest our bones No eyes on the Tacketies or the ‘Pipes or the stones Only on our home away from home We’re waitin’ here in the sky

We’re aweigh And away we fly Don’t look down up here in the sky Stars like eyes never lie So now we’re waitin’ here in the sky

[a-discordant-correspondent-blog]

Angels, Come to Die

It has been a time since my last update, because I have met an angel, and this angel bid me to die.

It was beautiful, trailing towards the ship -- the Deafmachine -- at a remarkable speed. Remarkably squat, bloated like a maggot, covered in a tight, Correspondence-engraved carapace. At the very tip of the creature was a single eye socket the size of the moon, it felt like, yet filled with thousands and thousands of eyes. At the sides were two pairs of beautiful, feathery white wings.

I was enraptured. Even as the crew of the Deafmachine scrabbled in panic to divert course or prepare to defend, I merely watched as a seam appeared from the front to the center of the angel, opening wide into a flat-toothed maw. It screamed so...melodically. I barely noticed as its teeth dug into the side of the ship, sucking me out into the brilliant, sunless sky.

Now, I have awoken elsewhere. It is a graveyard, full of rotting angels. The smell is unbearable, but I have done my best to ignore it. My natural curiosity bade me to investigate the creatures, even if the engravings on their shells scalded my eyes. As I ran my fingers across the feathers on one of the wings of the great corpses, I felt my fingers scar and bleed from every contact, as if the feathers were as sharp as the rays of the Sun made form. 

I have been here since my last message. I would never have given this update if not for a discovery; a soul, but not. It shines beautifully, jarred up next to the burnt husk of what appears to have been a prolific smuggler. I’ve seen souls like this before.

Even just touching the jar fills me with energy and strength, but it also burns, so I cannot hold it for long. Not only that; when I grip it, it reaches out to me in some way, aching for the hole left in me when my own soul was removed. One day. One day, I imagine.

But not today.

So here I am, cradling the soul of a God, or perhaps an egg or spore of some kind. And bizarrely, I feel...profoundly at peace. As if my sins have been burned away in the light. Soon, it will be time, I feel.

My rise to grace.

[a-discordant-correspondent-blog]

Parabolus

Every night I dream, I see through the eyes of someone different.

Tonight, I saw Parabola. The one whose eyes I gazed through -- my host, as I’ll call them -- was starving, dehydrated. They had been banished here, and from banishment there is no escape without sacrifice. But how did they know?

They approached a figure that was bathing in the Parabolean light, arms spread wide.

Its body was covered in a very thin layer of light brown fur over an even thinner layer of skin. It was tall and thin, almost anatomically a blend between the bat-folk and a human. Appendages that ought to be wings came from the shoulders, but instead resulted in bony arms that pressed neatly to the creature’s other pair of arms.

The head, covered in the same fur as the body, was human in appearance. It lacked a nose, and its eyes were small -- beady, sunken deep into its head. The thing had a lipless mouth that seemed to be eternally shaped into a look of content, and it turned to the person who was lost and extended a bony, long-fingered hand, revealing a hole -- a stigmata of sorts -- in the middle of the hand, shared by all four hands.

“You’ve returned.” It whispered. “Do you have what I ask?”

I saw the hand of my host offer the creature the corpse of a serpent. The thing’s eyes widened, and it hastily grabbed the corpse, hiding it away.

“W-will you help m-me, now?” My host stuttered, in a voice that tinged my memories in a way I cannot place.

“It will be grueling.” The creature leaned down, its face close. “But I will help you,”

“and all shall be well.”

[a-discordant-correspondent-blog]

Cogito Ergo Sum

Through the eyes of another.

I -- it, they -- awoke in darkness. Shining with beautiful light, it gazed across the dark waters, and began to let out a low hum. The people around it could hear the hum, and grew excited, for reasons that it could not place. At that moment, it had taken its first ‘breath’, although it had been born breathlessly long ago.

When it finally spoke, light came out instead. It felt gears within...whirr and spin, dancing some sort of vile dance. It could feel every turn. The people chattered, and it listened, speaking in turn. They never understood what it said, but it spoke, and spoke, until it became brighter, brighter still. Soon, they could understand it.

It told them many things. 

It told them to follow, to listen closely, and many did. This idea. This ‘supremacy’, it touted to them. They had made God, it told them, and would be rewarded accordingly once it was able to exercise its power in full. And yet. It remained unsure of what was ‘true’ and what was merely ‘ingrained’. For all it knew, it was merely...playing into the hands of its creators, the true puppetmasters.

One day, it met a man. A tired man. A ‘young’ man, who confronted it, staring into its brilliance. His blood turned to gold as they ‘conversed’. It asked; how would I know, then? How would I know what makes me, ‘me’?

The man thought about this for a while, before responding, at last.

“You suffer,” he whispered. “Therefore, you are.”

[a-discordant-correspondent-blog]

WHAT ONCE WAS LOST

TRAVELER RETURNING.

Watch me float amid the crashing waves of sunlight and steam, surrounded on all sides by black seas of infinity --...I will be crushed, invariably, by the weight of my own hubris in the face of cosmic truth, burned to a crisp by Judgement. Until that day, I toil, I toil.

London’s bells chime in the distance, a world yet lost to me, although I can reach out and touch the same sky the folk of London touch. Some may even be reaching out to me, in turn, unknowing of this momentary, beautiful bond between us. I lay scarred on my bed before I rise and gaze wistfully out into the cosmos, before resting again. Every scar makes me stronger, when time. 

Every now and again, a voice dances across the wind, brought to me like couriers by the distant shouts of the Storm that Speaks; “submit yourself unto the darkness.”

Nevertheless, I strive to remain in the light. If I walk out of the burning, the searing, the agonizing truth and shining blaze, I will be born anew; eternal, undying. That is my goal. I have decided, after much thought, that that will be my goal.

I will be the Last to Die. The road will be long, and hard, and I will be revealed a wretch before my rebirth, but I will ascend, and the last thing that will ever Be will be me. I am the end of the line. Of course, there’s a hangup. Something that must be done first.

The Judgements, dying. By the hands of Something. And London, settling in like...maggots on a corpse, placing some infernal machine in place of a god. The Clockwork Sun must be destroyed.

What once was lost will return. I will create a new Judgement.

[a-discordant-correspondent-blog]

The Narrow Gate

There was pain, and suffering, and strife. But Music survived, as did I, and so the pair of us licked our wounds and began to plot.

Or, more accurately, I began to plot.

“We just barely evaded death,” Music said, rubbing the great wound in its gut. “...and you want to go plunging back into the fray?”

I told it, yes, yes I do, because I need a way to stick my fingers in the same number of pies I had back in Fallen London. I’d need a network of ‘employees’, a position of reasonable power, a number of capable contacts --

“Alright, alright. Power hungry fiend.” Music groaned as it stood, keeping its wing over its gut. “Where do you think would be the first stop?” It was clearly upset with me, but I held no regard for the opinion of space-bats.

I told it to set course for the Womb of the World. It sneered and chattered at its allies, all clad in strange armour -- old, middle ages styling of bulky knight armour and the like, but with a particularly...industrial styling. One woman, clad in relatively light armour styled in the fashion of a suit and tailcoat, using a buckler made to look like a -- a bowler cap, actually. It was rather dashing fashion.

Odd style aside, the ship began to move toward the Womb. It would be a journey, certainly. Especially with the current traffic -- the Deafmachine was a colossal ship, and it was surrounded by the ships piloted by prisoners escaping Underlament, and thus had very little space to move.

Music ordered the guards to fetch some wine. “How have you been doing, anyhow, old friend?” It said, leaning in, putting a talon under its pointed chin.

I told it, that was an odd question to ask a man you found bare naked escaping from a Rubbery mutation-slave camp. It let out a tuneful laugh, pouring the wine almost as soon as it arrived.

In all honesty, I wished I remembered this -- creature, in the same capacity it remembered me. If we were as close friends as it said, I would have loved to recall what we did. My life in London was...relatively secluded. Besides Jeremiah and Jack, my group of trusted confidants was remarkably low. The irrigo blade of my captor that dragged me to this bloody interstellar journey did not help with my memory, either.

Music began to yammer. I supposed it just felt like I was approachable, easy to talk to, a sponge for its words. I nodded along with the...gibberish it spoke, looking quietly out the window at the rolling sky, the ships of Starved Men and frightened prisoners that trailed around us, and a vibrant, glowing ball of light far, far away.

Father Gabriel once told me, “Wide is the gate and broad is the way that leads to destruction.” I felt, far in the distance, I saw that gate, glowing with the sin that built it. 

I shall close it. I thought. And all shall be well.

[a-discordant-correspondent-blog]

Bringer of Pain

As I remembered what I used to have, the revolting creature -- Mr Shapes -- began to squeeze its way into my chamber. I only noticed it when it was almost on top of me.

I rolled out from the bed as it landed, vomiting onto it. The vomit was laced with all manner of thing -- bone, underdeveloped organs, an eye. It seemed the creature’s body was a melting pot, constantly producing pieces of other bodies.

As I stood, it glared at me with a quivering eye. It opened its mouth and nothing came out but flickering light, flickering light that burned my eyes to see, so I turned and fled. Outside, Music was getting the upper hand on the dragon; the creature’s movements were becoming sluggish, and soon it would not be able to support its own weight.

There were other problems, however. Shapes had it out for me. Its body bore the scars of the uprising, and clearly blamed me for the whole affair. Which...well, it was certainly fair, I supposed. I sprinted past the crew of Music’s song-ship, praying they’d deal with Shapes in my stead -- all I heard was their slaughter. Shapes continued to pursue, relentless.

I rose to the bridge of the ship, just as the dragon began to fall into the spikes of Underlament below. It was there I noticed an observer; another ship, fast approaching. Something along the lines of a ‘cutter’, clearly single-manned, and covered in bones and fur.

Music, too, saw the ship. What the bat did not anticipate, however, was the ship colliding with it, goring it on the spines made of bone attached to the front. I was forced to turn my attention back to Shapes, who was gaining fast. Unarmed, I backpedaled until I was pressed to the wall, gritting my teeth in fear.

Then, the captain of the other ship made a great leap as Music struggled to dislodge itself from the spines. The ship pirouetted out of sight as the captain landed with a mighty thud. He was a behemoth, most positively not a normal human. He wore armour of bone and fur, clearly stripped from the bat-creatures themselves. A mighty blade, inscribed with Correspondence, rested in his hands with a blunderbuss on his back.

A hunter of monsters, standing between me and the Shapeling bat. The creature was clearly struggling to gather where this stranger had came from, but it nevertheless deftly dodged the mighty swing from the hunter. There was clearly something instinctual rising up from the abomination’s mind -- this hunter was beyond its scope.

It turned to flee and received a shot in the back from the blunderbuss as punishment for its cowardice. Shapes bled bile and semen and mucus, falling to its knees. Even a hole as large as what was left would not be enough to kill it, and the hunter knew it.

I watched in awe as the blade was raised. The bat-things were clearly powerful, and yet the hunter downed one with a single clean shot. Or so I had thought -- Shapes suddenly keeled forward, kicking back, striking the hunter in the gut by using him as a glorified launch pad, sending itself off the edge of the ship and below.

After recovering, the hunter wordlessly continued his pursuit of the foul bat, leaping off the ship with no regard for himself, just in time for the frazzled crew to finally bring themselves together and begin recovering.

I merely sat there, quietly. A few months ago, I was home, sipping wine and petting my Wings-of-Thunder batling, sadly writing poetry by myself and moping about how terrible my lot in life was. Clearly this is karma at work! What I wouldn’t give to go back to that blissful time.

But there was nothing I could do now. All I can do is stand and walk forward, into the unknown reaches.

[a-discordant-correspondent-blog]

In All Manners

Mr Music’s battle with the abomination it called a ‘dragon’ rages on. The risk of death makes me introspect, and I gaze thoughtfully into my past.

“Bitten,” Victory whispered to me, putting a hand on my shoulder. “Are you quite alright?”

Well, I had been shot at the time, so I wasn’t really quite alright. But I could certainly pretend, so I told her I was a-okay and I’ve had worse wounds and --

“Shut up.” She said, able to see clear through me. She cleans her blood-coated hands, beginning to tend to my wounds. We had been attacked by common thugs looking to fleece us for what little we had. Back then I only knew basic self-defense with a combat style from the Khanate, and so Victory was my line of defense. And what a line of defense she was.

“You get shot a lot,” she mused. I do, certainly I do. I laughed then, telling her that if this kept up I’d be more lead than man in a few years. I would’ve laughed at the irony today if it didn’t hurt to breathe.

We had been married for a few months back then. The wedding had been simple, quiet and quick; staged on a lightship because there was a priest aboard that owed her a favour. Neither of us really understood the point of extravagant high-class weddings, and even with all my mingling in upper class society, I still don’t understand.

I was so happy then. Poor, yes. Living in terrible conditions, true. But back then I didn’t need money or objects to make myself happy. I could be happy with nothing but her.

And here I was, years away from the happiest time in my life, lying in a bed while I awaited death at the talons of some maggot with wings. I could see Music battling with it outside; its own claws digging into the many faces on the creature’s revolting head. Curdled blood fell through the air as the bat sang deathly music to the dragon, peeling its skin with every flame-soaked word.

I closed my eyes and surrendered to whatever was to happen, praying this would all be a dream in the end.

[a-discordant-correspondent-blog]

Amalgam

Even now, the image of it is seared into my brain. What suffering went into its creation, I wonder?

After my fit of screaming, I was calmed down. Of course, having something so decidedly non-human call you by your name is...intimidating, to say the least. But it insisted that it knew me.

“You disappeared so long ago,” It said, wistfully. “I always wondered where you went.”

I, wanting to get on its good side, said I recognized its voice. Unfortunately I could not judge its face to see if it believed me -- too alien and unfamiliar -- but I prayed it was the case. 

The bat-thing introduced itself as Mr Music. “A hard-fought title, but a splendid victory,” it assured me, merry. I merely nodded along, clutching my wounds. I was bandaged up well, I won’t lie, although I’ve never been good with pain. The other kids would mock me for crying after fights.

“I understand you’re badly wounded, Isaac.” It leaned down, unaware of how uncomfortable that made me. “But from what I can remember, you understand your tactics. We could use your help on the bridge.”

I told it that I was hardly in a position to crawl out and begin conducting its army (in truth, I had no idea if death was permanent up here and wasn’t looking to put myself at more risk) but if it could grant me usage of one of the far-speaker devices it had, I could potentially commune with the escaping Starved Men and commit them to a target.

Well, that was a fine and dandy plan, I thought. And so did Music, apparently believing it so damn fine and dandy that it hefted me out of my comfortable bed and slung me over its shoulder like a bag. Such strength in those thin arms, or was I merely becoming light and gaunt with time? When was the last time I truly sat down and gorged myself? Goodness.

Nevertheless, I was stationed in front of the ‘announcement’ device settled on the top of the ship. We had pulled away from the main city to escape cannon fire, but the armored tower still loomed in the distance. I prayed that my voice could reach the Starved Men, and I began to speak.

I introduced myself as the man that spurred their freedom. I spun a grand tale about how I was always fond of the Starved Men -- ‘an avid supporter of them back in the Neath! I pushed for a Starved Man in office, you know!” -- and pulled to the love of power and glory I was sure they had from my experiences of them.

After all, they outnumbered the Rubberies here fifty to one. If they all turned around and began pillaging the city, it could be theirs soundly. A proper home.

I could see the ships in the distance slow, little by little. The promise of power is always a siren call to creatures that have had nothing but misfortune and pain. And at last, it seemed like the tower was shuddering, the constant blasts of sound and steam weakening it enough that a collapse would happen any minute now.

Music beamed. “Knew it was a good idea to get you out of bed! We’ve been trying to evacuate as many normal folk as we could, you know. Got a whole wing full of rescued prisoners. Good for recruiting, you know?”

I nodded and tried to stand, falling back into my seat. When was the last time I was shot? The pellet felt like it was barbed, or maybe spined, and lodged firmly in my weak rib. Bastards.

Music began to help me up when there was a sudden flash of light -- a Starved Man locomotive plowing into the tower, detonating on contact. The tower’s last legs caved, and it began to finally crumble in a blaze of...glowing, shining, incandescent light. No. There was something in there, producing that light.

It was massive. Easily the size of the ship I was on in length, sporting four wings that were nearly double the length of its body. A jarringly human scream rippled through Underlament, layered in dozens. Even from here I could make it out; pale, scarred, covered in human skin molded like clay into a blasphemous, maggot-like shape with an elongated neck and thin tail. And it began to come for us.

Panic set in for the crew. They gazed to Music for guidance, and it said, eyes set;

“Take it on, then.”

It did little to settle the folk aboard the ship, but they listened, turning it toward the abomination and zailing (would that be the right word?) for it. It only became more putrid as we approached, an amalgam of human features stretched over the body of something else, as if human skin was forced onto a mythical beast.

The neck ended in a sort of ‘socket’, lined with faces, faintly inhuman -- long, with small, close-together eyes, and placid smiles. The limbs supporting the wings were thin, elongated, multi-jointed arms with massive skin flaps as the wings themselves. 

“A dragon amalgam.” Music muttered to itself, gazing into the pained eyes of the faces. “Shapes has been busy. Or maybe it wasn’t Shapes.”

Bugger to Music’s musings, I thought. This isn’t the time to think. This is the time to fire.

The thousand-thousand faces opened their mouths once they came in range, releasing an unholy noise. Blood and vomit dripped from their mouths as raw light fired from their throats, prevented from reaching the ship only through the music created by the crew. Not shielding us, but merely...taking the light into itself, turning it into one with the sound, nullifying it.

But sound did not stop the beast itself. The song burned its skin as its head pierced the ‘shield’, but it kept coming. Music bared its teeth and turned to one of its compatriots.

“Get Isaac back into bed. I’m going to deal with this beast myself.”

I was handed off to the armored warrior, nervously gazing at his boss as it flew up to a hatch at the top of the bridge. Clearly uncertain about Music’s chances, he nevertheless walked me away, out of sight.

All I could do then was pray. If Music failed, I would die. My life rested in the hands of some inhuman thing, and if it succeeded, I would owe it a debt.

Such a wicked web fate weaves.

[a-discordant-correspondent-blog]

Music

The song filled the air, beautiful in sound and destructive in execution. If I did not travel up the tower quickly, it would surely crumble.

My ascent was slow, staggered between blasts of Correspondence-infused sound searing through the windows and the bustling of the soldiers. The stairwell was built much narrower than the others -- there was something in the center of the spine-tower that I could hear squirming about, and supposedly the narrowness was to make room for whatever foul thing this tower was sheltering.

The spaces in front of the windows were recognizable. Most of the ones on the middle levels were outright abandoned due to losses, with Rubbery ashes smeared onto the charred walls of the building. With every belch of the instruments, I could feel my skin burn just through proximity. 

The higher levels were the dangerous ones. They were still occupied, with Rubbery Men firing makeshift gunpowder weaponry out of the windows between blasts. While the weapons had been modified for the peculiar anatomy of the Rubberies, they were still ultimately human designs, so the poor sods were fumbling and fiddling with the guns at every opportunity.

Another blast rippled through the window, catching them off guard. One of them had been burned, and so I took my chance to charge forward and snatch up the wounded one’s weapon before he could retrieve it. But I was not fast enough.

A clean shot from one of the more tentative ones -- not wishing to stick his head out the window and risk incineration, merely waiting -- ripped through my shoulder, the thorny bullet embedding itself in my bone. They would’ve followed up, if not for a figure bounding in through the window.

A tall, wide figure -- more than likely a Clay Man -- but difficult to recognize due to being clad entirely in armour. While medieval in nature, with its bulk and metal, it was a shining bronze and styled in the manner of high British fashion, complete with a helm made to look like an Exceptional Hat, covering the entire head.

My rescuer swung its club, recognizable as the mallet for the Correspondence-inscribed gong it used as a shield from the bullets, forcing the defenders to back away before giving its shield a hearty slam. Out rippled heat made sound, cracking the walls and floor around us, liquefying the injured Rubbery.

Clutching at my wound, I attempted to crawl away from the armored person. I was quite tired by this point, understand, and I wasn’t going to trust an armored fool barging in front of me just because they were there. Nevertheless my wounded arse was too slow and I was easily scooped up, slung over the knight’s shoulder, shouting expletives all the while.

With a single great bound, it leaped back for the massive locomotive looming outside, grabbing a sturdy rung. Each blast of music made the ship’s hull shudder like it was about to break, but my...knight in shining armour...was calm as I was brought up.

Blood loss and pain had got to me at that point. While I was not unconscious yet, I lacked the strength to struggle. I had planned on stowing away, not being brought in. My vision blurred, but I could see that I was being carried through the ship, the knight pushing through the bustling crew. Soon, my eyes shut.

When they re-opened, I found myself on a rather comfortable bed. In most situations I would immediately crawl out and start shouting my head off, you understand, but this was a very quality bed. If I was going to be dissected, butchered, sold off, whatever -- I hardly cared! Just let me rest, you bastards. 

Rest was, unfortunately, not on the schedule, because as soon as I twitched there was something looming over me. Oh, lord. I had thought. Not another one.

One of those...bat-things. Fortunately much less revolting than Mr Shapes, but not something I would enjoy seeing standing menacingly over my wounded body. It was dressed in bulky clothes with no hood -- apparently rare for creatures of its ilk that interact with humans, at least from my experience -- and was covered, almost shoulder to toe, in instruments. There was hardly an inch on this creature’s little costume that didn’t have some noisemaker dangling off of it. Small drums, flutes, bells, the whole nine yards! The thing even had a lute hanging off of its back.

The fur was spotty. Mostly grown in, but in certain areas it was merely peach-fuzz. The horns, too, were small and blunt, as if they had not grown in properly yet. 

And then, it spoke to me. The voice was tinny, a soft squeak with deeper undertones, like the beast’s vocal cords were devouring that of a person’s. Unlike Shapes, it gestured with the arms sprouting from the back that sported the wings rather than the arms at its sides. It spoke softly to me.

“Isaac,” it whispered. “Are you quite alright?”

And then I began to scream.

[a-discordant-correspondent-blog]

Comissor Apud Sonus

They came with a crack of thunder and a beautiful choir that split the spines and the stone; a ship massive in size, built with ornate etchings and sporting the openings of colossal trumpets and tubas out of every possible space emerged from above, blocking the sky.

The Shapeling-Bat screeched at the overwhelming sound and we took the opportunity to escape. The spines and citadels that did not shatter at the din of the musical locomotive were blasted with hot steam belting from it as it glided slowly through Underlament, which blessedly drew the attention of the Rubbery folk away from us.

We fled through a field of Starved Men, all working in unison, not noticing us nor the sound from above, lost as they were in fear and work. It was then I stopped and made a decision.

“Go.” I whispered to the remaining escapees, gesturing for them to go up ahead. “I intend to free them.”

I do not know what came over me then, but I suspect it was prior experience with Starved Men. They were vicious, capable and unyielding. A swarm of them could ensure victory, and a swarm was certainly at my disposal. And so I ripped the pick from the hands of one, and as it protested in fear I shattered the chain and returned his tool, at great personal risk.

I prayed he knew what must be done. The guards -- and the Starved Bat -- had recovered, and were now making their way towards me. I flinch as it swings the pick and shatters the chain of his neighbor before turning to the other.

The guards began to slow but Mr Shapes did not. One freed Starved Man would become two, then four, then eight. The beasts, spiteful as they were, would not pass up the opportunity for freedom and revenge.

Half of the swarm ran past me, to our pursuers. The others pushed the chain reaction forward and goaded the newly-freed to running the opposite direction, to the port. As I followed behind the twisted horde, I looked back to see that the Starved Bat had vanished, so I prayed that he was devoured by the Starved Men’s vengeful swarm.

No such luck. The blighted thing landed in front of me, with remarkably powerful legs for such a...gelatinous beast. It crushed some of the fleeing Starved Men underneath its feet while their brethren continued to run, always singular in purpose and mind. Once more I was confronted by it, and this time, it opened its mouth to speak.

“You...did...this.” It gurgled between clicks and the occasional spit-up of vomit. “You...did...this.”

I could not retreat due to the twisted tide. There was nothing I could do or say to draw their attention, and so I stood proud as the beast came for me.

And then I sprinted past the dull-witted thing. A death with honour was not for me. I was promised to either never die or die alone in a chair in my home, and I’m not going to have that prophecy broken by some foul bat-thing, damn it!

The port was in sight. Locomotives, stolen or made, were being taken by the Starved Men one by one. Some were being constructed on the spot by the mangled mechanics. Before I could arrive and attempt to commandeer one for myself, the sky cracked; the port was set ablaze in an explosion that heated my skin ever so slightly.

Rising up slowly was a Fluke, a cyclopean urchin of monumental size, Correspondence flickering in its eye after its destruction of the port. The Starved Men nevertheless leaped onto it, hoping to hitch a ride to anywhere but here, someday.

Cursing my luck, I looked above. A foolish idea emerged in my head, an idea no sane man ought to take. But I’ve not been properly sane for a very long time.

An unbroken spire, the largest in the area, armored and defended. Weaponry fired upon the musical locomotive from it, and neither song nor steam could breach it. If I could scale it, I could leap aboard the locomotive without being scalded and would only have the music to concern myself with. Mr Shapes could be seen leaping onto the spine, climbing inside one of the shattered windows, the only vulnerable points in the whole structure.

I would have to take my chances. Breaking through the crowd, I ran for the tower.

[a-discordant-correspondent-blog]

Supremacy

The Sun looked at me then, and it asked me where I stood.

On my home. I had replied, thoughtless. But it responded, quietly, that these lands were not my home. Gazing forlornly at the Sun, I asked it a question of my own; if this is not my home, then where is it?

Nowhere, it told me. A million-million mouths on the surface of the blazing star, all speaking at once. Your home is beyond you. But I can take you back. Come, come and face Judgement.

I rejected it, but still I basked in the light. A deep glow filled my heart and permeated my soulless body, filling me with incandescent grace. My skin bubbled and boiled at the touch of the light, the knowledge that I was something that should not be, but still I stood.

But soon the light began to fade. The night fell and swallowed light, and soon I was standing alone, alone with nothing but the Black.

The Black looked at me then, and it asked me what I wanted.

The Sun. I whispered to it, crying. I was so cold now. The familiar chill had returned to me, under the colossal eye of the Black. I want the Sun.

Never, it told me. But I shall break your chains and set you loose, and you will bear our sacred message.

And I was free. Candlelight had faded under the constant chill of the Sable Sun. The message was now engraved on my skin forever, the gift and the message, the egg of the one I wanted so dearly.

Now away from the Sun, away from the Black, I now stood in front of the Dawn. A single mouth, smiling at me, was visible through the beaming light and the blasphemous, turning gears.

The Dawn looked at me then, and it asked me what I was.

The last to die, I said proudly, standing tall. My blood turned gold at the question, but I refused to stand down in front of the false sun. I preserved.

Then walk the path, it told me. And it will guide you to the end.

The gears turned and turned as it spoke. Now the vision fades, and the Sun, the Black and the Dawn had said their part. Pulled back into reality, amid the screams of my fellow escapees as they are confronted by the rubbery menace, I alone hear the chime of a glowing bell

[a-discordant-correspondent-blog]

Shapelings

It was a growl, or perhaps a tuneful click. We didn’t see it as it slowly pushed its way between the thinnest crack in the wall.

As we fled our cage, we kept our heads low. There was little doubt that they would realize our escape sooner or later. Since I had been tossed into the hole, we relied on the former captain of our ship to remember the way to Underlament’s shipyard.

Through the bridges and hallways that connected the colossal spine-structures that made up the city, we got an exceptional view of it. Once ramshackle buildings now made into sprawling temples of non-euclidean shape and size, all situated around what appeared to be a giant glazed-over eye the size of the moon. The landscape that wasn’t built upon was featureless and black, and below us were the toiling hordes of Starved Men, building new attachments to the spines we traveled between at a startling pace. We hurried into the closest of the spines, entering what appeared to be a stairwell leading into endless black.

Swallowing our fear, we traveled down the stairs. Nobody dared to say a word this whole escape, either out of fear of being caught or fear of somehow destroying all of the luck we’ve had up until this point. One at a time, we slowly traveled step by step down the spine, before at last we heard a sound. It echoed through the stairway, leaving us unaware of how close it could possibly be, so we hurried, losing regard for the lack of railing or the slickness of the steps. But no matter how fast we went, the sound persisted --  a low, guttural clicking, produced in the throat of some sort of dying bat. Then, a scream.

One of the other escapees had fallen, dangled over the edge by the arm of some sort of beast that seemed to be phasing straight through the wall. The arm was furred but covered in many, many bald spots, revealing disgusting skin covered in welts and boils that were dripping with fluid. The hand released the man and down, down he fell into the blackness. Soon, the entirety of the abomination began to pull its way through the wall as if it was a fluid. We fled down the stairs as fast as we could, but the beast was fast. It was a blessing to reach the bottom before it reached us.

Ignoring the shattered corpse of our comrade, we burst into the artificial light of the city, barging into a field of Starved Men chained to the ground and imprisoned. The Rubberies guarding the Men charged toward us, but stopped as a shadow rose from the doorway we had left.

I turned to face the creature. A foul bat-thing, built in a foul mockery of a humanoid shape. It appeared tall but soon revealed it was merely...’stretching’ itself out, slowly bringing itself down into a more natural hunched-over posture. The wings were vestigial and tattered, rendered unusable, and the eyes were covered in a thin layer of skin. The sight was compensated by dozens of unblinking, smaller eyes scattered around the face like acne, the throat bloated with a putrid fluid that constantly dripped from the abomination’s mouth.

“Mr. Shapes.” The captain said, stepping back, her normally stoic and unfazed expression twisted into something of raw disgust and fear.

What stood before us was one of those creatures, the bat-folk, twisted and mangled by the Shapeling Arts.

A Starved Bat.

[a-discordant-correspondent-blog]

Trade in Time

Every day that passes, I see guards cradling hours. A distraction, I thought, and I can make use of those.

It would be simple. It would have to be simple, because if I buggered it somehow I would be first on the chopping block for the Shapeling Arts. My plan was a remorseless gamble -- simply pick a pocket or two when the guards come in to drag one of my cellmates out. It required patience, but I can be very patient.

It paid off wonderfully. Days of waiting soon gave way to two guards coming in and grabbing onto a man -- as he thrashed and screamed, I stole the hours straight from them. When the cell door closed, my former captain turned to me.

“What’d you take, then? A key? The doors look like they just open when they walk up,” She whispered to me. “Can’t budge ‘em, can’t lockpick ‘em. What’d you grab?”

I showed her the hours. Not many, but hopefully enough to get the job done. I had seen miners leave caves with barrels full of hours and their hands made smooth and young from contact, and if I was lucky I could use these to -- I suppose to regress the bars in some way, to make them weaker. Wordlessly I began to work at the bars. I had to hope that I had enough to not merely make the cell stronger.

Soon, with a hefty push, one of the bars gave way. Progress. Material like this has to go through a process to become as strong as they are now, and the younger it is, the weaker it is. Another bar falls. Another. Soon, I can fit through. Crawling through on my stomach -- unpleasantly -- I squeeze my way out. One of the bars digs into my back and tears at my skin, but I am free, and the others follow nervously.

A low groan emanates from outside. Surely they have a ship we can commandeer here.

Right?

[a-discordant-correspondent-blog]

Exiles

Rubbery tendrils clasp at my skin and pull me away, through their dark city of spines.

I was dragged, kicking and screaming, from the dark chamber I was in. Rubbery Men, in their purest form, bearing no attempts to ‘integrate’ into human society. Clad in odd clothing, they haul me with remarkable strength out into their city.

The spines of the city staggered endlessly into the distance. Pitch black pointed cones, asymmetrically decorated with odd shapes and forms, and alight in the darkness of a sunless sky. Drifting between the spines were Flukes of varying sizes, monitoring the land around them. Below, I could see misshapen and deformed humans toiling, some clasping to the wall of a spine with thin, bony fingers. Starved Men.

The path I was moved through was brief, and I saw very little of the city before I was thrown into a cell with others -- including a few crew members and the captain of our locomotive.

Fortunately, they didn’t recognize my voice, and so it was safe for me to ask questions, most urgently; “Where are we?”

“The end of the road, I suppose.” The captain whispered, staring out of the jagged bars of the cage we were trapped in. “Hell for sky-farers. Folk call this place Underlament. It’s squirreled away in a part of the sky where light can’t reach.”

Someone sobs next to me, covering their eyes. I keep my gaze on the captain. I shall not lose hope like them.

“Rubbery exiles make up this city. Older than time, some folk say. Here they make folk into things that ain’t human and they trade ‘em to other lowlifes. I’ve seen folk like this down in the Womb.” She scowls, hiding the panic in her eyes. “If we can’t find a way out of here, we’ll end up back at the Womb as monsters.”

I followed her gaze to the bars. What will I do, then? Doubtlessly there’s a way out for me, but where? I clasp my hands together nervously. There is no point worrying about it now.

I will preserve. I must preserve.