Change of Gears, RY-766
Change of Gears, RY-766
Click click click, heavy hydraulic doors slowly open upon the ruling Tripartite of Sova. A firey woman of late years stands as she speaks, her luminous robes chasing her rapidly moving arms.
“…this is madness, Olya booms, the Great Maker needs not aid from the outside! To open the seals is to invite destruction to all patropolis, now is not the time to lose hope, peace and trade with Yugash is the answer.”
A huddled council of powerfully built men and women confer for a moment before a young man in the stately browns of the Pious Harvesters steps forward.
“To those who do not know me, I am Eilym of the Harvesters. I speak for all of the Sodalities when I say this – the Nation of Yugash is not the problem or the solution. We have seen the gifts of the Great Maker dwindle, many in the council chamber gasp and whisper as Eilym continues, and the time that passes between blessed years becomes ever greater. Nutrient demands are exceeding our patroplis ability to produce and some even go without work for lack of material to ply their trade. It is our belief that we need to take drastic action or die a slow death of starvation and energy failure.”
At that the whispered cries of heresy abate and are replaced by an intense worry. Even the rage of Olya quiets and she grows still, the flames in her eyes becoming embers. The lights flicker a moment, akin to a herald of dark times to come – as if on cue, Daria moves to the stage.
“It is true, our great nation of Sova is in decline. Our stores grow meager and we could not afford another war with any of the Great Nations, even our ability to produce goods is beginning to flag. The Sodalities have strained their minds for a solution and have worked closely with the Olgotary for some months. In some three generations it is calculated that our resources will no longer be able to maintain our population even on constant rationing. It will not be long after that before our lights dim and our factories fall silent. Great Maker forgive me, but we must find another way.”
From the shadows of the chamber a misshapen figure, dull broken pipes and shattered glass, ambles into the room. As those in attendance take notice they drop to their knees and then to their bellies. A sickening terror sweeps the chamber as the Minister shambles into the center of the meeting and begins to speak in the hiss of strained pipes and the grind of broken bones.
“Rise children of the Maker, your words have found my ears and their meaning is of no harm. It is true, the Great Maker’s flesh falters about you, the cancerous afflictions of the Gremlins take from the maker what was for his children, and he can not maintain both. He is dying, providing for his children as these abominations devour his processes is too much for his divine body to bear. Ixut is the answer, a great wealth is there, do not squander it. Turn the loss of your countrymen into hope for Autochthonia, break the seals and bring succor to the Maker as he has done for all of you for five millennium.”
When the Divine Minster had melted away, the bickering and arguing had vanished, to be replaced with the clamor of progress.