Entry Two - Third Shift of Steam, DA 4876
λ^19, Third Shift of Steam, DA 4876, Chamber 5
(Border Fort to Igris Exerbs)
I saw from the crawler-ship the blind flame of the Maker’s champions, or rather, the Champions of the vermin that feed upon his flesh. Champions of the Maker, Sys and myself are the only ones I know, the others blinded by their humanity and serving parasites. Those others, I heard them, questioning Ku and seeking to hold onto the chains that bind them to fleas and rats. I was sickened, but Lord Ku has known suffering and the foolish questions of children are nothing to him. They will learn. They believe they are champions of Sova? Lord Ku put all of that into motion – he is the impetus of their creation. The Despot breaths deeply, Lord Ku can defend himself and has transcended the need to shield his pride – I am only feeding my pain. I cannot afford to whip myself into a tantric union with the Maker’s suffering now, not with the short sighted cretins out in the dark all too ready to turn my body to ash.
The Despot brings out a heavy jar and sets it upon the ground, dipping his head and uttering a short sung prayer, the container begins to leak its living smoke. Pan’ta’chik solidifies from the roiling haze, dried purple blood marring her flesh. The pain is intensified with her in this realm – creeping along their bond like lightning and rust.
The Despot places a hand lightly on the crown of her head, just above her multitude of eyes, and hopes she feels his spiritual pain and dissonance. Taking the hand away, The Despot leads her deeper into the shadows, Darkling, the other Champions should be back in a few days’ time – but the vermin of Igris have set their guards upon the roads. We cannot simply wait in the open so long or we’ll be discovered. The thick chitinous mandibles dance as the massive lady-spider speaks, Master, I shall lay my thinnest webs upon the flesh of the Maker. When the Champions return I shall feel their presence and I will alert you. The Despot watches for several minutes as Pan’ta’Chik weaves hair-thin strands from her spinnerets and skitters back and forth across the narrow chamber. When done, the pair retreat to a large duct in the ceiling – sealing it tightly closed with essence charged steel webbing. Blind in the total darkness, The Despot spills more of his blood into a deep cup heavy with moonsilver tubing and softly whining gears made of deep green and black jade – again he feeds the massive shadowy spider beside him and her pains ebb away as the potent virulent blood courses into her veins humming with essence. The Despot leans against the wall wearily, Now all that is left, is to wait…