The Black soared in circles until exhaustion crippled it’s flight. From a watch den high upon the cliff wall did it witness it’s own kind butchered.
Tully 679, clone slave to a sophisticated AI called Corona, is sent to investigate an alien defence grid who’s magnetic field is collapsing terraforming protocols.
“Priest,” the voice whispered. A grating sound more akin to a rasp, “Thy cross is of little use if the armour behind it is broken.”
Yish nodded. “The texts span Elder Mages, the Necromage and Witch Queen. Do you never read? The sorcerer passed through here sacrificing his guard to the undead as payment to pass. He travelled through here to the Dragon Yard and beyond into the badlands seeking the green Dragon Stone.”
Naz nodded, his throat felt dry. He reached into his gunna and drew out a water-skin. “It has insatiable curiosity,” he ventured.
Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil! – prophet still, if bird or devil! – Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,. Edgar Allan Poe.
Time slips in minds that drift unfocused. Something The Amanuensis frequently reminds me often from an ice prison far in the future. Long and long has the hibernation of written word escaped logic. Now is now, and the time to explore begins once more.