Ecological Succession
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- The Incarnates
- Posts: 54
- Joined: Wed Jun 05, 2013 2:09 am
Ecological Succession
(OOC: Yeah, I know some of this will be creepy. The Deep Singers are creepy folks. )
The day the world changed began with hope.
-----
The Broodmother's multitude of legs tapped irritably against the ground. "How much longer?" she fluted irritably.
"Nearly there, Ladyship," murmured the technician. He looked nervous. It was not often that anyone was called upon to perform a major procedure upon an Incarnate, and it didn't hel that the Incarnate was currently an impatient one.
Long ago, the Broodmother had undergone extensive modding that had left her with a form not very unlike a queen ant. Extending far behind her thorax was a lengthy abdomen, comprised of numerous chambers; in these, generations of young Cultivators had been grown, allowed to develop, and decanted to be raised by their parents. In providing a controlled and stable environment for the production of new generations, she had been a cornerstone of the Cultivators' attempts to guide their own evolution and control their own population growth. Children were no longer born from unplanned mixings of genes facilitated by hormones and wild passions, as they were with the human population; they were produced as needed and as planned, screened for genetic anomalies and developmental abnormalities.
The needs of population maintenance had many years ago meant that the Broodmother had ceased to be the sole carrier of offspring; they had been shifted to biological tanks of newer and flexible designs. But she had remained personally involved, taking on the more delicate cases herself, until the tanks could be proven to handle them. And, at long last - and to her own exacting satisfaction - this had been done.
She fidgeted uncomfortably as the last fetus, developed enough to be separated from her, was decanted from its chamber into a mobile incubation tank. Still squalling and crying, the infant was carefully enmeshed in the tank's tubing. The technician breathed a sigh of relief, and carefully disengaged the tank's orifice.
"It's done, Ladyship." He took the tank's guiding-limb and pulled it gently away; the tank, supported by eight legs, shuffled quietly aside.
The Broodmother expelled a long breath. "Thank you. And now, if you will excuse me..."
Her situation had not allowed her much mobility. Aside from issues of size and weight, she had remained connected to a series of umbilicals extending from resource containers in the ceiling. These, too, disconnected from her body and a commanding thought. And then, slowly, her abdomen contracted, folding itself up behind chitinous plates that slid and interlocked with each other. It was a strange and unpleasant feeling, even for her. Nonetheless, when it was done, the Broodmother carefully planted all her legs on the floor, and lifted her body up...
...and stood.
She smiled. A simple thing, but she hadn't stood up under her own power for... how long now? Centuries, certainly. Her leg muscles had been kept strong and functional through careful stimulation, but her steps, when she took them, were hesitant and unsteady; but after a few minutes spent making her way around the floor, the movements came back to her.
A radiant expression on her face, she glanced at her assistant, who merely nodded; she knew her mistress' mind. "I can watch over the clade for a time, Ladyship," she murmured.
"Execllent." The Broodmother stretched her limbs, smiled again, and added, "In that case, I think I'll go for a walk."
-----
The chambers of the various Incarnates were, for the most part, centrally located within Elder Beacon; they did not often have to travel into the surrounding public areas, where in any case they tended to attract awed attention from the crowds. Nonetheless, the Broodmother, who had been cooped up in her own chambers for so long, made a point of taking a route where she could be seen, wearing a mantle embroidered with the gold badge of her clade, proclaiming her identity to all who could see - though it was a rare Cultivator indeed that did not know what she looked like, from publicly available pictures and memories. She spent a good hour basking in the astonished gazes, before turning into the districts of the Webweaver's clade.
The Webweaver had been watching, she knew. He saw nearly everything, through the ubiquitous sensory clusters, and in any case rarely missed an opportunity to watch her. Nonetheless, as she strode through the corridors, he remained quiet until she was back in the less public areas. His voice emanated from the wall. "You enjoyed your little processional, I take it?"
"Naturally." The Broodmother gave a woodwind laugh. "I know you were always one for closeted meetings and work behinds the scenes, my dear, but I'm more of a public face."
She slowed to a halt outside the door of the Webweaver's chamber. Glancing at it, she took a long, deep breath, in and out. "So..."
"The day's finally here," the Webweaver murmured.
The Broodmother looked up at the sensory cluster above the door. "Are you all right?"
"Yes. I've waited for this, too, you know. It's just... strange." The Broodmother merely nodded.
The door slid quietly open, and then shut itself behind the Broodmother as she entered. She faced the figure at the other end of the chamber, an emaciated shape enmeshed in tubes and neural connections, smiled, and said, "Hello, Emeric."
The Webweaver looked back silently, tears in his eyes, before finally replying. "Celestine..."
She shuffled to his side. A hand with long, narrow fingers stretched out to her, and she took it; she rested her face on his.
No more words were spoken; they had been able to talk every day, and had. But this, for nearly as long as they could remember, had been denied them, and there and then was all that was needed.
The day the world changed began with hope.
-----
The Broodmother's multitude of legs tapped irritably against the ground. "How much longer?" she fluted irritably.
"Nearly there, Ladyship," murmured the technician. He looked nervous. It was not often that anyone was called upon to perform a major procedure upon an Incarnate, and it didn't hel that the Incarnate was currently an impatient one.
Long ago, the Broodmother had undergone extensive modding that had left her with a form not very unlike a queen ant. Extending far behind her thorax was a lengthy abdomen, comprised of numerous chambers; in these, generations of young Cultivators had been grown, allowed to develop, and decanted to be raised by their parents. In providing a controlled and stable environment for the production of new generations, she had been a cornerstone of the Cultivators' attempts to guide their own evolution and control their own population growth. Children were no longer born from unplanned mixings of genes facilitated by hormones and wild passions, as they were with the human population; they were produced as needed and as planned, screened for genetic anomalies and developmental abnormalities.
The needs of population maintenance had many years ago meant that the Broodmother had ceased to be the sole carrier of offspring; they had been shifted to biological tanks of newer and flexible designs. But she had remained personally involved, taking on the more delicate cases herself, until the tanks could be proven to handle them. And, at long last - and to her own exacting satisfaction - this had been done.
She fidgeted uncomfortably as the last fetus, developed enough to be separated from her, was decanted from its chamber into a mobile incubation tank. Still squalling and crying, the infant was carefully enmeshed in the tank's tubing. The technician breathed a sigh of relief, and carefully disengaged the tank's orifice.
"It's done, Ladyship." He took the tank's guiding-limb and pulled it gently away; the tank, supported by eight legs, shuffled quietly aside.
The Broodmother expelled a long breath. "Thank you. And now, if you will excuse me..."
Her situation had not allowed her much mobility. Aside from issues of size and weight, she had remained connected to a series of umbilicals extending from resource containers in the ceiling. These, too, disconnected from her body and a commanding thought. And then, slowly, her abdomen contracted, folding itself up behind chitinous plates that slid and interlocked with each other. It was a strange and unpleasant feeling, even for her. Nonetheless, when it was done, the Broodmother carefully planted all her legs on the floor, and lifted her body up...
...and stood.
She smiled. A simple thing, but she hadn't stood up under her own power for... how long now? Centuries, certainly. Her leg muscles had been kept strong and functional through careful stimulation, but her steps, when she took them, were hesitant and unsteady; but after a few minutes spent making her way around the floor, the movements came back to her.
A radiant expression on her face, she glanced at her assistant, who merely nodded; she knew her mistress' mind. "I can watch over the clade for a time, Ladyship," she murmured.
"Execllent." The Broodmother stretched her limbs, smiled again, and added, "In that case, I think I'll go for a walk."
-----
The chambers of the various Incarnates were, for the most part, centrally located within Elder Beacon; they did not often have to travel into the surrounding public areas, where in any case they tended to attract awed attention from the crowds. Nonetheless, the Broodmother, who had been cooped up in her own chambers for so long, made a point of taking a route where she could be seen, wearing a mantle embroidered with the gold badge of her clade, proclaiming her identity to all who could see - though it was a rare Cultivator indeed that did not know what she looked like, from publicly available pictures and memories. She spent a good hour basking in the astonished gazes, before turning into the districts of the Webweaver's clade.
The Webweaver had been watching, she knew. He saw nearly everything, through the ubiquitous sensory clusters, and in any case rarely missed an opportunity to watch her. Nonetheless, as she strode through the corridors, he remained quiet until she was back in the less public areas. His voice emanated from the wall. "You enjoyed your little processional, I take it?"
"Naturally." The Broodmother gave a woodwind laugh. "I know you were always one for closeted meetings and work behinds the scenes, my dear, but I'm more of a public face."
She slowed to a halt outside the door of the Webweaver's chamber. Glancing at it, she took a long, deep breath, in and out. "So..."
"The day's finally here," the Webweaver murmured.
The Broodmother looked up at the sensory cluster above the door. "Are you all right?"
"Yes. I've waited for this, too, you know. It's just... strange." The Broodmother merely nodded.
The door slid quietly open, and then shut itself behind the Broodmother as she entered. She faced the figure at the other end of the chamber, an emaciated shape enmeshed in tubes and neural connections, smiled, and said, "Hello, Emeric."
The Webweaver looked back silently, tears in his eyes, before finally replying. "Celestine..."
She shuffled to his side. A hand with long, narrow fingers stretched out to her, and she took it; she rested her face on his.
No more words were spoken; they had been able to talk every day, and had. But this, for nearly as long as they could remember, had been denied them, and there and then was all that was needed.
The Incarnates: the Webweaver, the Broodmother, et al.
Burrow in the dark; reach toward the light; grow the Garden, within and without.
AKA Shyriath
Burrow in the dark; reach toward the light; grow the Garden, within and without.
AKA Shyriath
- Gman Russell
- Posts: 306
- Joined: Mon Jan 03, 2011 2:02 am
- Location: Eh...Yardistan?
- Contact:
Re: Ecological Succession
No idea what this is, but awesome! If alittle creepy.
It is from our fruitful hands that we will make this nation perennial with fate.
- Mira Raynora Major
- Bathtub Philosopher
- Posts: 1739
- Joined: Thu Feb 02, 2012 9:26 pm
Re: Ecological Succession
I find this touching rather than creepy...but maybe that's just because I have a higher tolerance for the latter.
Mira Raynora the Elder
Queen of Lichbrook, Duchess of Brookshire
Lichgravine of Overdolor, Countess of Caverden and Woodshire
Cedrist Demi-Goddess of Undead and Regional Autonomy
Queen of Lichbrook, Duchess of Brookshire
Lichgravine of Overdolor, Countess of Caverden and Woodshire
Cedrist Demi-Goddess of Undead and Regional Autonomy
- The Incarnates
- Posts: 54
- Joined: Wed Jun 05, 2013 2:09 am
Re: Ecological Succession
The day the world changed began with hope.
-----
The Broodmother and the Webweaver had spent several hours in each others' company. This feat did not carry the same overtones that might have applied to other beings; sex, in the conventional sense, was something that neither of them found practical any longer. The pheromones that the Webweaver had emitted into the chamber for the occasion was a much more direct stimulant of the pleasure centers, and between this and the chance to enjoy each others' scent, it had been more than enough.
Nonetheless, time moved on and other tasks awaited, and the Broodmother made her way sedately through the corridors toward the Thoughtseeker's domain. It was hard to believe that there might be two family reunions in the same day, but she'd been told it might be possible. She hardly dared hope; there had been much progress in the last century or so, but the Thoughtseeker's strange torpor had proven very deep and very difficult to draw her out of.
It was a sore subject for the Broodmother. It was even more so for the Webweaver. While it had been the Thoughtseeker's idea to become an Incarnate, they had certainly encouraged her - and an Incarnate they'd gained, at the cost of their daughter's mind.
They had all been human, once, for a given value of humanity. Modified from the standard strains, in ways that would now be thought primitive, but still human-shaped. But long ago, after they'd established their settlement in the safety of Elder Beacon, they had turned to biology and genetic engineering to perform those tasks that they'd no longer had the technology and supplies to do in the old ways. Lacking computers, her husband had become the Webweaver; lacking amniotic tanks, she herself had become the Broodmother. It had been something of a sacrifice, but an entirely willing one, and each of them had adapted well, so well that they'd forgotten that it had been a sacrifice. And then Krzysztof, fiery Krzysztof, their chief genetic engineer, had become the Geneshaper, expanding his powers, and had either accepted or ignored the sacrifice.
Fleurette's parents had become Incarnates, and then so had her lover. It must have seemed so easy, so natural for her to do the same. But where the others had chosen their modifications based (mostly) on specific, practical needs, the young woman had wanted something different, more transcendent: an enhanced capacity for creativity and original thinking. She'd wanted to be a fountain of new ideas in a society where long life threatened a kind of stasis.
Krzysztof had tried to warn her against it. Too tricky, he'd said. Creativity couldn't be straightforwardly enhanced, it involved delicately balancing a number of factors. The Broodmother could remember with terrible clarity the day he'd come to her to convince her to dissuade her daughter, and how she'd gently denied his fears; the Webweaver had done the same. Krzysztof was the best, they'd thought; it would be no problem if he performed the procedure himself, it was just protectiveness for Fleurette that was speaking. They had no idea how wrong they'd been.
It had worked, though. That was the thing. Fleurette, in becoming the Thoughtseeker, had got exactly what she'd wanted. But the price of a brain that sparked constant visions, ideas, and solutions, endlessly malleable, was a difficulty with reality. The world inside her head had begun to move with a speed and in a mode that utterly failed to match those of the world outside… and unable to cope with it, it was the inside of her head she'd retreated to. She'd been there ever since, while her body lay motionless in a bed.
The Broodmother watched the recumbent shape through a transparent membrane as the Thoughtseeker's attendants bustled around her. For centuries they'd been charged with maintaining contact with her still-active consciousness, with keeping her as healthy in body and mind as they could manage… and, gradually, delicately, training her, applying mods and alterations to her brain, trying to bring her back into reality.
And now…
"We're nearly ready, Ladyship."
She turned to glance at Vali Nen, her daughter's chief attendant. "How is she feeling?"
"Nervous, Ladyship. She's convinced of the need to wake up, but… it has been a long time, after all."
The Broodmother gazed through the membrane. "Do you think some extra encouragement would help?"
"I imagine so." Vali, made a vague gesture at the door to the chamber, which opened. "No one would begrudge you the right, in any case."
The Broodmother gave a grateful nod, scuttled through, and settled her bulky form next to the bed, gazing expectantly down at her daughter's face. Beneath the Thoughtseeker's eyelids, her eyes raced back and forth.
After a time, Vali's voice came out of the room's organic speakers: "Withdrawing neural inhibitors, beginning now."
Through the organic tube connected to the Thoughtseeker's body, the steady drip of chemicals gradually ceased. The Broodmother could not see this directly, but as the minutes passed, the Thoughtseeker's rapid eye movement paused, first only infrequently, and then more often.
"I'm here," the Broodmother murmured. "I'm here. I'll help you as I can."
The eye movements dwindled to a halt. The eyelids flickered open - once, twice.
"I'm here, Fleurette."
The Thoughtseeker took a deep, sudden breath; the eyes opened and swiveled around. She simply took in her surroundings at first, but her breaths, at first slow and deep, began to come quicker.
"Mmh-" the Incarnate said, in rising panic. "Mmnnnn-"
"It's all right. Fleurette…" The Broodmother hauled her torso onto the bed, pulling the Thoughtseeker into her arms. "Calm down. Control your breathing." She wafted some soothing pheromones over her. "Take it slow. Adjust."
The Thoughtseeker remained still for a moment, struggling to keep her breath steady, then wrapped trembling arms around her mother. "M-mama…" she croaked. "Trapped. Trapped in time. All frozen, it-"
"Remember the exercises, dear," the Broodmother said, rocking her gently. "You can't control time, but you can control your perception. Slow yourself down to match it."
There was a long pause while the Thoughtseeker, blinking back tears, tried to press herself into the mental routine they'd spent the last few decades trying to train her into, scaling back the hyperactive mental state she had previously spent her life in. Her breathing slowed and steadied, and her trembling gave way to limp weariness.
"I… I think I… yes…" With some effort, she tilted her head up to look at the Broodmother's face. "Mama… it's really you, isn't it…?"
"Yes, dear. It's really me." She planted a kiss on her daughter's forehead. "You're back."
The Thoughtseeker, her eyes misting, nodded. She craned her neck, looking around the room. "And… Papa? Krzysztof?"
"Papa's watching. Once you're up and about, we'll go see him. And Krzysztof is..." The Broodmother struggled for an appropriate excuse for the Geneshaper's absence. "Well, you know how he is. He missed you, of course, but when he's in the middle of something, he doesn't let it drop until he's done."
The Thoughtseeker nodded wearily, and rested her head in the crook of her mother's arm. "I'd like to see him too... once I'm up and about."
-----
The Broodmother and the Webweaver had spent several hours in each others' company. This feat did not carry the same overtones that might have applied to other beings; sex, in the conventional sense, was something that neither of them found practical any longer. The pheromones that the Webweaver had emitted into the chamber for the occasion was a much more direct stimulant of the pleasure centers, and between this and the chance to enjoy each others' scent, it had been more than enough.
Nonetheless, time moved on and other tasks awaited, and the Broodmother made her way sedately through the corridors toward the Thoughtseeker's domain. It was hard to believe that there might be two family reunions in the same day, but she'd been told it might be possible. She hardly dared hope; there had been much progress in the last century or so, but the Thoughtseeker's strange torpor had proven very deep and very difficult to draw her out of.
It was a sore subject for the Broodmother. It was even more so for the Webweaver. While it had been the Thoughtseeker's idea to become an Incarnate, they had certainly encouraged her - and an Incarnate they'd gained, at the cost of their daughter's mind.
They had all been human, once, for a given value of humanity. Modified from the standard strains, in ways that would now be thought primitive, but still human-shaped. But long ago, after they'd established their settlement in the safety of Elder Beacon, they had turned to biology and genetic engineering to perform those tasks that they'd no longer had the technology and supplies to do in the old ways. Lacking computers, her husband had become the Webweaver; lacking amniotic tanks, she herself had become the Broodmother. It had been something of a sacrifice, but an entirely willing one, and each of them had adapted well, so well that they'd forgotten that it had been a sacrifice. And then Krzysztof, fiery Krzysztof, their chief genetic engineer, had become the Geneshaper, expanding his powers, and had either accepted or ignored the sacrifice.
Fleurette's parents had become Incarnates, and then so had her lover. It must have seemed so easy, so natural for her to do the same. But where the others had chosen their modifications based (mostly) on specific, practical needs, the young woman had wanted something different, more transcendent: an enhanced capacity for creativity and original thinking. She'd wanted to be a fountain of new ideas in a society where long life threatened a kind of stasis.
Krzysztof had tried to warn her against it. Too tricky, he'd said. Creativity couldn't be straightforwardly enhanced, it involved delicately balancing a number of factors. The Broodmother could remember with terrible clarity the day he'd come to her to convince her to dissuade her daughter, and how she'd gently denied his fears; the Webweaver had done the same. Krzysztof was the best, they'd thought; it would be no problem if he performed the procedure himself, it was just protectiveness for Fleurette that was speaking. They had no idea how wrong they'd been.
It had worked, though. That was the thing. Fleurette, in becoming the Thoughtseeker, had got exactly what she'd wanted. But the price of a brain that sparked constant visions, ideas, and solutions, endlessly malleable, was a difficulty with reality. The world inside her head had begun to move with a speed and in a mode that utterly failed to match those of the world outside… and unable to cope with it, it was the inside of her head she'd retreated to. She'd been there ever since, while her body lay motionless in a bed.
The Broodmother watched the recumbent shape through a transparent membrane as the Thoughtseeker's attendants bustled around her. For centuries they'd been charged with maintaining contact with her still-active consciousness, with keeping her as healthy in body and mind as they could manage… and, gradually, delicately, training her, applying mods and alterations to her brain, trying to bring her back into reality.
And now…
"We're nearly ready, Ladyship."
She turned to glance at Vali Nen, her daughter's chief attendant. "How is she feeling?"
"Nervous, Ladyship. She's convinced of the need to wake up, but… it has been a long time, after all."
The Broodmother gazed through the membrane. "Do you think some extra encouragement would help?"
"I imagine so." Vali, made a vague gesture at the door to the chamber, which opened. "No one would begrudge you the right, in any case."
The Broodmother gave a grateful nod, scuttled through, and settled her bulky form next to the bed, gazing expectantly down at her daughter's face. Beneath the Thoughtseeker's eyelids, her eyes raced back and forth.
After a time, Vali's voice came out of the room's organic speakers: "Withdrawing neural inhibitors, beginning now."
Through the organic tube connected to the Thoughtseeker's body, the steady drip of chemicals gradually ceased. The Broodmother could not see this directly, but as the minutes passed, the Thoughtseeker's rapid eye movement paused, first only infrequently, and then more often.
"I'm here," the Broodmother murmured. "I'm here. I'll help you as I can."
The eye movements dwindled to a halt. The eyelids flickered open - once, twice.
"I'm here, Fleurette."
The Thoughtseeker took a deep, sudden breath; the eyes opened and swiveled around. She simply took in her surroundings at first, but her breaths, at first slow and deep, began to come quicker.
"Mmh-" the Incarnate said, in rising panic. "Mmnnnn-"
"It's all right. Fleurette…" The Broodmother hauled her torso onto the bed, pulling the Thoughtseeker into her arms. "Calm down. Control your breathing." She wafted some soothing pheromones over her. "Take it slow. Adjust."
The Thoughtseeker remained still for a moment, struggling to keep her breath steady, then wrapped trembling arms around her mother. "M-mama…" she croaked. "Trapped. Trapped in time. All frozen, it-"
"Remember the exercises, dear," the Broodmother said, rocking her gently. "You can't control time, but you can control your perception. Slow yourself down to match it."
There was a long pause while the Thoughtseeker, blinking back tears, tried to press herself into the mental routine they'd spent the last few decades trying to train her into, scaling back the hyperactive mental state she had previously spent her life in. Her breathing slowed and steadied, and her trembling gave way to limp weariness.
"I… I think I… yes…" With some effort, she tilted her head up to look at the Broodmother's face. "Mama… it's really you, isn't it…?"
"Yes, dear. It's really me." She planted a kiss on her daughter's forehead. "You're back."
The Thoughtseeker, her eyes misting, nodded. She craned her neck, looking around the room. "And… Papa? Krzysztof?"
"Papa's watching. Once you're up and about, we'll go see him. And Krzysztof is..." The Broodmother struggled for an appropriate excuse for the Geneshaper's absence. "Well, you know how he is. He missed you, of course, but when he's in the middle of something, he doesn't let it drop until he's done."
The Thoughtseeker nodded wearily, and rested her head in the crook of her mother's arm. "I'd like to see him too... once I'm up and about."
The Incarnates: the Webweaver, the Broodmother, et al.
Burrow in the dark; reach toward the light; grow the Garden, within and without.
AKA Shyriath
Burrow in the dark; reach toward the light; grow the Garden, within and without.
AKA Shyriath
- Royana Dolordotch
- Posts: 64
- Joined: Thu Dec 04, 2014 7:26 pm
Re: Ecological Succession
What a sweet day for these... creatures.
(although if the day only "began" this way...)
(although if the day only "began" this way...)
Royana S.D. Dolordotch
Viscountess of Karymovka
Third State Arborist of the Empire of Minarboria
(Krasniy)
Viscountess of Karymovka
Third State Arborist of the Empire of Minarboria
(Krasniy)
- The Incarnates
- Posts: 54
- Joined: Wed Jun 05, 2013 2:09 am
Re: Ecological Succession
The day the world changed began with hope.
It made no promises about who was doing the hoping, or what for.
-----
“Are the troops ready to move?”
“They are. I remain interested to hear how you intend that he will not notice their positioning.”
“He’s busy being distracted by family life. In any case, my clade has been adding… components to the neural net within Elder Beacon over the last century or so. In the name of maintenance, you understand. Officially, they’re capable of taking up the more autonomous functions of the net, and so they are. But they’ve also been keyed to respond to a pheromone of my own design; when activated, they disrupt his ability to pay attention to the signals passing through those nodes.”
“Elegant. Let us hope that they are also effective.”
“They will be.”
“And what shall happen to him?”
“He may yet be useful. He just can’t be allowed to remain in control.”
“The Broodmother will not be pleased with you.”
“She never has been.”
“And what of the Thoughtseeker?”
A lengthy pause. At last:
“So? What of her?”
“She held you in high regard. One would be tempted to think that the idea of her disappointment might affect your approach to this endeavor.”
“The person she held in high regard is gone. She slept through his demise. What disappointment she has in him is of no consequence to me.”
“A curious way of looking at it.”
“Did you have anything else relevant to discuss?”
“No. I know my part in this as well as you do yours.”
“Good.”
It made no promises about who was doing the hoping, or what for.
-----
“Are the troops ready to move?”
“They are. I remain interested to hear how you intend that he will not notice their positioning.”
“He’s busy being distracted by family life. In any case, my clade has been adding… components to the neural net within Elder Beacon over the last century or so. In the name of maintenance, you understand. Officially, they’re capable of taking up the more autonomous functions of the net, and so they are. But they’ve also been keyed to respond to a pheromone of my own design; when activated, they disrupt his ability to pay attention to the signals passing through those nodes.”
“Elegant. Let us hope that they are also effective.”
“They will be.”
“And what shall happen to him?”
“He may yet be useful. He just can’t be allowed to remain in control.”
“The Broodmother will not be pleased with you.”
“She never has been.”
“And what of the Thoughtseeker?”
A lengthy pause. At last:
“So? What of her?”
“She held you in high regard. One would be tempted to think that the idea of her disappointment might affect your approach to this endeavor.”
“The person she held in high regard is gone. She slept through his demise. What disappointment she has in him is of no consequence to me.”
“A curious way of looking at it.”
“Did you have anything else relevant to discuss?”
“No. I know my part in this as well as you do yours.”
“Good.”
The Incarnates: the Webweaver, the Broodmother, et al.
Burrow in the dark; reach toward the light; grow the Garden, within and without.
AKA Shyriath
Burrow in the dark; reach toward the light; grow the Garden, within and without.
AKA Shyriath
- The Incarnates
- Posts: 54
- Joined: Wed Jun 05, 2013 2:09 am
Re: Ecological Succession
The Webweaver’s attention flicked between sensors in his ever-present watch over Elder Beacon. Everything seemed optimal.
Of course, it was hard to avoid that impression in any case. His love - his wife, in every sense but the legal one - was free to visit him in person, so that he could feel her touch after far too many years. Their daughter, lost in her own dreams for almost as long, was finally awake and aware again. The Garden gave life and took it, but it had been unusually abundant in giving it today.
It would have been perfect except for a faint, nagging sense that he was missing something. The sensors it was coming from were quite healthy, and he could perceive through them without issue; but even looking directly at their surroundings, he felt that there was something amiss, as if he knew something was there to see but was unable to see it. A sensory phantom, perhaps. He used to have similar feelings often, when he’d first been enmeshed in the neural web and his brain had still been adjustin. It hadn’t happened in centuries now, but doubtless it was some remnant of that difficult time and would fade away. He’d have to have Krzysztof or Pirin look at it, sometime-
One of the sensors began emitting a warning signal, flooding the Webweaver’s brain with stress hormones. Focusing on it, he determined that it was a different sensor cluster than the sources of the phantoms; its olfactory bulb was screaming the presence of several gases at toxic concentrations. Methane, hydrogen sulfide… biological exhalations. Some kind of microbial bloom? More sensors began to report the same.
He activated the vocal transmitters throughout the Beacon. “All citizens, be alert. Poisonous gases are present in publicly accessible areas of the following clusters: Noonshade, Fragrant Petal, Upper Stonetree, Waterchimes, Long Road, and Hyphal Exchange. Please evacuate from these areas and from any where a dangerous odor is detected. Follow the safety-scents and blue fungi.”
Meanwhile, he felt the presences of the other Incarnates appear in his consciousness as each attached a neural connector. ”Are any of your areas experiencing this?” he demanded.
”A small leak in mine,” the Broodmother stated. ”But it’s at the edge of the main cavern. We’re redirecting airflow away from the tanks.”
”Likewise here,” the metallic voice of the Steelsculptor added.
”Another leak is developing in mine,” the Webweaver said. ”Lifemesher, had there been any anomalies in the balance of the lifeweb here in the caverns?”
”No,” the Lifemesher droned. ”No unusual drains on nutrients or energy sources, no previous atmospheric imbalances. It may be that one of the deep mining teams just recently breached the habitat of a previously unknown subterranean microbe.”
”Don’t be ridiculous,” the Geneshaper snapped. ”If that was all, it would’ve taken more time to spread into the Beacon. We would’ve seen some sign before now. For a sudden spike like this, in so many places… this is a coordinated activation of some sort.”
”Sabotage?” the Mindsoother exclaimed. ”Who would be so disturbed as to do such a thing? How would they have escaped notice?”
”The why is not the main thing,” the Webweaver said, firmly. ”We need to combat the infestation itself first. Then we can look for clues.”
”He’s right,” the Geneshaper agreed. ”The behavior of these organisms suggests sophisticated engineering. If that’s the case, they could have other unpleasant surprises in store.”
”I will have the Biological Containment Corps deployed to the affected areas,” the Lifemesher said. ”They may require additional ritualists to locate the sources of the gases.”
”Geneshaper,” asked the Webweaver, ”can you pull some of yours off duty to assist the Corps?”
”Of course.”
”Good. The rest of you should focus on coordinating the evacuations. Keep in contact.”
One by one, the presences of the others faded out, until only that of the Geneshaper was left.
"What is it?"
"Webweaver... you realize what it means if they're engineered organisms?"
"Treachery."
"Yes. Probably from inside my own clade. For the Garden's sake, Emeric, we're going to have to track down whoever did this. No matter what."
The Webweaver, in his dark chamber, nodded. A skilled ritualist apt to treason and endangering life... dangerous. Very dangerous. It said something that the Geneshaper had been thrown off so badly as to use his given name.
"We will, Krzysztof. We will."
Of course, it was hard to avoid that impression in any case. His love - his wife, in every sense but the legal one - was free to visit him in person, so that he could feel her touch after far too many years. Their daughter, lost in her own dreams for almost as long, was finally awake and aware again. The Garden gave life and took it, but it had been unusually abundant in giving it today.
It would have been perfect except for a faint, nagging sense that he was missing something. The sensors it was coming from were quite healthy, and he could perceive through them without issue; but even looking directly at their surroundings, he felt that there was something amiss, as if he knew something was there to see but was unable to see it. A sensory phantom, perhaps. He used to have similar feelings often, when he’d first been enmeshed in the neural web and his brain had still been adjustin. It hadn’t happened in centuries now, but doubtless it was some remnant of that difficult time and would fade away. He’d have to have Krzysztof or Pirin look at it, sometime-
One of the sensors began emitting a warning signal, flooding the Webweaver’s brain with stress hormones. Focusing on it, he determined that it was a different sensor cluster than the sources of the phantoms; its olfactory bulb was screaming the presence of several gases at toxic concentrations. Methane, hydrogen sulfide… biological exhalations. Some kind of microbial bloom? More sensors began to report the same.
He activated the vocal transmitters throughout the Beacon. “All citizens, be alert. Poisonous gases are present in publicly accessible areas of the following clusters: Noonshade, Fragrant Petal, Upper Stonetree, Waterchimes, Long Road, and Hyphal Exchange. Please evacuate from these areas and from any where a dangerous odor is detected. Follow the safety-scents and blue fungi.”
Meanwhile, he felt the presences of the other Incarnates appear in his consciousness as each attached a neural connector. ”Are any of your areas experiencing this?” he demanded.
”A small leak in mine,” the Broodmother stated. ”But it’s at the edge of the main cavern. We’re redirecting airflow away from the tanks.”
”Likewise here,” the metallic voice of the Steelsculptor added.
”Another leak is developing in mine,” the Webweaver said. ”Lifemesher, had there been any anomalies in the balance of the lifeweb here in the caverns?”
”No,” the Lifemesher droned. ”No unusual drains on nutrients or energy sources, no previous atmospheric imbalances. It may be that one of the deep mining teams just recently breached the habitat of a previously unknown subterranean microbe.”
”Don’t be ridiculous,” the Geneshaper snapped. ”If that was all, it would’ve taken more time to spread into the Beacon. We would’ve seen some sign before now. For a sudden spike like this, in so many places… this is a coordinated activation of some sort.”
”Sabotage?” the Mindsoother exclaimed. ”Who would be so disturbed as to do such a thing? How would they have escaped notice?”
”The why is not the main thing,” the Webweaver said, firmly. ”We need to combat the infestation itself first. Then we can look for clues.”
”He’s right,” the Geneshaper agreed. ”The behavior of these organisms suggests sophisticated engineering. If that’s the case, they could have other unpleasant surprises in store.”
”I will have the Biological Containment Corps deployed to the affected areas,” the Lifemesher said. ”They may require additional ritualists to locate the sources of the gases.”
”Geneshaper,” asked the Webweaver, ”can you pull some of yours off duty to assist the Corps?”
”Of course.”
”Good. The rest of you should focus on coordinating the evacuations. Keep in contact.”
One by one, the presences of the others faded out, until only that of the Geneshaper was left.
"What is it?"
"Webweaver... you realize what it means if they're engineered organisms?"
"Treachery."
"Yes. Probably from inside my own clade. For the Garden's sake, Emeric, we're going to have to track down whoever did this. No matter what."
The Webweaver, in his dark chamber, nodded. A skilled ritualist apt to treason and endangering life... dangerous. Very dangerous. It said something that the Geneshaper had been thrown off so badly as to use his given name.
"We will, Krzysztof. We will."
The Incarnates: the Webweaver, the Broodmother, et al.
Burrow in the dark; reach toward the light; grow the Garden, within and without.
AKA Shyriath
Burrow in the dark; reach toward the light; grow the Garden, within and without.
AKA Shyriath
- The Incarnates
- Posts: 54
- Joined: Wed Jun 05, 2013 2:09 am
Re: Ecological Succession
The feeling of wrongness only grew as the Corps spread out. The Webweaver found himself getting annoyed. What was it he wasn't seeing? And why wasn't he seeing it?
It made it hard to concentrate on the troop movements. Worse, another of the leaks had developed just outside his own chamber; he'd messaged his clade members to seal themselves into the duty office nearby if they couldn't evacuate, notified the Geneshaper of the new leak, and then ensured that his own chamber was secure. Nothing for it but to wait. Normally, he was good at waiting, but now...
Something from one of the "wrong" sensor clusters made him turn his attention to it. Peering out through its eyes, everything still looked no-
...no. No, not quite normal. There were... patches of moving fuzziness, like faint outlines. Hard to see, unless, as now, they filled the vision with movement. It was... it was as if something were being carefully edited out of his vision, between the eye and his brain. And, knowing this, when he prodded the other senses in the cluster, they gave similar impressions. The auditories could pick up things like the ghosts of sounds, there and gone again so that you couldn't be quite sure you heard...
And then, in a brief, sudden burst of light and sound, the signal cut off. From that one, and from all the clusters downstream from it in the system. Without pain, or any warning except the strange sensations, he'd been cut off from an entire branch of his own nervous system.
And, one by one, the other troubled sensors - each a node for many further branchings - also went dark. The Webweaver watched in horror as, all around him, the web he'd woven fell apart.
-----
The Corpswoman withdrew the small needle from the sensor cluster; she'd injected just as instructed. Some quick-fix modification to protect the cluster from the gases, apparently, although it seems to her that the eyes had glazed over a bit.
"Squad-Gamma."
The voice behind her nearly caused her to choke. She whirled around, crossed her second pair of arms, and bowed. "Lord Geneshaper?"
The hulking Incarnate stared down his muzzle at the Corpswoman. "The injections have been going well?"
"Yes, Lord. This was the last one in my assignment. Do you need me elsewhere?"
"No. You may return to your squad."
"Thank y-"
She was interrupted by a furious commotion from off in the distance, the sound of shouting and fighting. The Steelsculptor was headquartered in those chambers.
The Corpswoman stared in horror. "Fighting?"
"Treachery, no doubt." The Geneshaper glared down the tunnel. "Return to your squad, please, Gamma."
"Lord? Surely we should defend the Stee-"
"Your squad, Gamma. Now."
The Squad-Gamma hesitated, ducked her head in acknowledgement, turned to go, and was stopped short by a long-fingered hand clamping itself onto her helmet and wrenching it off. Another pushed a small object into her face, where its gave a brief, gaseous expulsion. The Gamma blinked, gasped, clawed weakly at the air, and clattered to the ground.
The Geneshaper leaned down, arranged the body into a position of dignified repose, and bowed his head. Stowing the emitter in a pocket of his tunic, he strode toward the Steelsculptor's chambers.
The Corps group here had been one of the few to knowingly participate in the unpleasant parts of the plan, and the occasional small explosion testified to their thoroughness in destroying the Steelsculptor's abominable work. Contamination, that's what it was. Transmitters, cybernetics, artficial exoskeletons... all of it. It had to go.
Under the pretense of coming to end the source of the gas leak, the Corps had been ushered in without complaint. The Steelsculptor's clade had never been a very big one, and it had gotten rather smaller today. The remainder, less than a hundred, had been herded into one of the larger chambers, along with the Steelsculptor herself, a brain encased in a strange, bulbous metal shape, like a desert plant on legs.
Keeping them in line were a group of heavily armed Corpsmen, directed by the squat, multilimbed shape of another Incarnate... his partner in crime. "Lifemesher," he murmured. "This is all of them?"
"All that remain," she droned. "A number of others fought back in defense of their work, but have been terminated."
"Needlessly!" the Steelsculptor shouted. "They were working for the good of the Garden!"
"They have left the Garden," the Geneshaper growled. "In a world of life building upon life, dead bits of metal and wire have no place. Your work here is finished."
"Merely delayed," the Steelsculptor ratcheted. "One day, we will resume-"
"Purify them," the Geneshaper said, deliberately.
Weapons fired. Tiny creatures launched at the crowd, carrying sacs of juices that were harmless in themselves, but when mixed...
Tiny, sharp bangs, one after another. They went on for some time, until the Lifemesher's voice managed to make itself heard over the din.
"Stop! STOP! Immediately!"
Silence. Not many shapes were moving within the smoky cloud now; the wreckage of the Steelsculptor's artifical body was barely visible. Unpleasantly organic fluids leaked from inside.
The Lifemesher turned all her eyestalks on the Geneshaper, no longer droning, but growling. "That was not part of what we discussed!"
"They were a danger too, Lifemesher," the Geneshaper said calmly. "Regrettable, but the Garden will be better for it. You have to know that."
She said nothing, and watched as he strode off. Then she turned on her Corps; they had followed the order without question. They'd been trained to, and it had been an Incarnate who had commanded them. But some of them seemed sick, and most of them, participating in the death of one Incarnate and witnessing the quarreling of two others, suddenly looked lost.
The Lifemesher gazed at them for some time, then said in a tense drone, "You are of my clade. Remember that. There are other Incarnates... but if I issue a command, the contrary commands of other Incarnates must not be followed." She paused, and glanced around. None of the Geneshapers' ritualists here. Good.
"I have new orders for you. I will need couriers to carry them to the other squads..."
It made it hard to concentrate on the troop movements. Worse, another of the leaks had developed just outside his own chamber; he'd messaged his clade members to seal themselves into the duty office nearby if they couldn't evacuate, notified the Geneshaper of the new leak, and then ensured that his own chamber was secure. Nothing for it but to wait. Normally, he was good at waiting, but now...
Something from one of the "wrong" sensor clusters made him turn his attention to it. Peering out through its eyes, everything still looked no-
...no. No, not quite normal. There were... patches of moving fuzziness, like faint outlines. Hard to see, unless, as now, they filled the vision with movement. It was... it was as if something were being carefully edited out of his vision, between the eye and his brain. And, knowing this, when he prodded the other senses in the cluster, they gave similar impressions. The auditories could pick up things like the ghosts of sounds, there and gone again so that you couldn't be quite sure you heard...
And then, in a brief, sudden burst of light and sound, the signal cut off. From that one, and from all the clusters downstream from it in the system. Without pain, or any warning except the strange sensations, he'd been cut off from an entire branch of his own nervous system.
And, one by one, the other troubled sensors - each a node for many further branchings - also went dark. The Webweaver watched in horror as, all around him, the web he'd woven fell apart.
-----
The Corpswoman withdrew the small needle from the sensor cluster; she'd injected just as instructed. Some quick-fix modification to protect the cluster from the gases, apparently, although it seems to her that the eyes had glazed over a bit.
"Squad-Gamma."
The voice behind her nearly caused her to choke. She whirled around, crossed her second pair of arms, and bowed. "Lord Geneshaper?"
The hulking Incarnate stared down his muzzle at the Corpswoman. "The injections have been going well?"
"Yes, Lord. This was the last one in my assignment. Do you need me elsewhere?"
"No. You may return to your squad."
"Thank y-"
She was interrupted by a furious commotion from off in the distance, the sound of shouting and fighting. The Steelsculptor was headquartered in those chambers.
The Corpswoman stared in horror. "Fighting?"
"Treachery, no doubt." The Geneshaper glared down the tunnel. "Return to your squad, please, Gamma."
"Lord? Surely we should defend the Stee-"
"Your squad, Gamma. Now."
The Squad-Gamma hesitated, ducked her head in acknowledgement, turned to go, and was stopped short by a long-fingered hand clamping itself onto her helmet and wrenching it off. Another pushed a small object into her face, where its gave a brief, gaseous expulsion. The Gamma blinked, gasped, clawed weakly at the air, and clattered to the ground.
The Geneshaper leaned down, arranged the body into a position of dignified repose, and bowed his head. Stowing the emitter in a pocket of his tunic, he strode toward the Steelsculptor's chambers.
The Corps group here had been one of the few to knowingly participate in the unpleasant parts of the plan, and the occasional small explosion testified to their thoroughness in destroying the Steelsculptor's abominable work. Contamination, that's what it was. Transmitters, cybernetics, artficial exoskeletons... all of it. It had to go.
Under the pretense of coming to end the source of the gas leak, the Corps had been ushered in without complaint. The Steelsculptor's clade had never been a very big one, and it had gotten rather smaller today. The remainder, less than a hundred, had been herded into one of the larger chambers, along with the Steelsculptor herself, a brain encased in a strange, bulbous metal shape, like a desert plant on legs.
Keeping them in line were a group of heavily armed Corpsmen, directed by the squat, multilimbed shape of another Incarnate... his partner in crime. "Lifemesher," he murmured. "This is all of them?"
"All that remain," she droned. "A number of others fought back in defense of their work, but have been terminated."
"Needlessly!" the Steelsculptor shouted. "They were working for the good of the Garden!"
"They have left the Garden," the Geneshaper growled. "In a world of life building upon life, dead bits of metal and wire have no place. Your work here is finished."
"Merely delayed," the Steelsculptor ratcheted. "One day, we will resume-"
"Purify them," the Geneshaper said, deliberately.
Weapons fired. Tiny creatures launched at the crowd, carrying sacs of juices that were harmless in themselves, but when mixed...
Tiny, sharp bangs, one after another. They went on for some time, until the Lifemesher's voice managed to make itself heard over the din.
"Stop! STOP! Immediately!"
Silence. Not many shapes were moving within the smoky cloud now; the wreckage of the Steelsculptor's artifical body was barely visible. Unpleasantly organic fluids leaked from inside.
The Lifemesher turned all her eyestalks on the Geneshaper, no longer droning, but growling. "That was not part of what we discussed!"
"They were a danger too, Lifemesher," the Geneshaper said calmly. "Regrettable, but the Garden will be better for it. You have to know that."
She said nothing, and watched as he strode off. Then she turned on her Corps; they had followed the order without question. They'd been trained to, and it had been an Incarnate who had commanded them. But some of them seemed sick, and most of them, participating in the death of one Incarnate and witnessing the quarreling of two others, suddenly looked lost.
The Lifemesher gazed at them for some time, then said in a tense drone, "You are of my clade. Remember that. There are other Incarnates... but if I issue a command, the contrary commands of other Incarnates must not be followed." She paused, and glanced around. None of the Geneshapers' ritualists here. Good.
"I have new orders for you. I will need couriers to carry them to the other squads..."
The Incarnates: the Webweaver, the Broodmother, et al.
Burrow in the dark; reach toward the light; grow the Garden, within and without.
AKA Shyriath
Burrow in the dark; reach toward the light; grow the Garden, within and without.
AKA Shyriath
- The Incarnates
- Posts: 54
- Joined: Wed Jun 05, 2013 2:09 am
Re: Ecological Succession
Through the confusion and alarms, through the smoke and the distant sounds of battle, a long figure wandered, aware of every bit of it and disregarding it all.
Papa. She had to reach Papa. The sensory web in her chamber had gone unresponsive; somewhere, somehow, its connection with her father had been disrupted. And the warnings of infestation, the sounds of battle... treachery. Sabotage. Papa was in danger.
She rounded a corner, moving unsteadily after her long immobility, and nearly walked into a group coming the opposite way: Two encased in armor, flanking a third, wearing a green robe not unlike hers.
Everything was still slow to Fleurette. She watched as the other robed figure - a ritualist, a manipulator of vital force - stared at her in shock, and then hostility, beginning to raise his arms...
Before the motion could be completed, Fleurette's hand had already unfolded, fingers tracing golden lines in the air, and sent a pattern flying at the ritualist's forehead. His muscles jerked, he staggered, he fell to the floor. The Incarnate turned her hands toward the two Corps members-
"Wait!" one of them called. "We give in! You're... the Thoughtseeker?"
Fleurette glanced down at the ancient, worn badge adorning her robe. "I am... yes. Yes. Why did this one-" She indicated the paralyzed ritualist. "-attack me?"
The Corps members knelt briefly. "We think he had orders to subdue other Incarnates, ladyship. We were to guard him, but if he-"
"If you were guarding him, how did you not know his intentions? Are you traitors as well?" Her gaze focused on their armor, and on the clade badge set discreetly into the shoulders. "Nika? Has she betrayed us too?"
"N-nika?"
"The... urgh... the Lifemesher."
The soldiers squirmed at the description. "She... we... it was to protect the Garden, lady. But when she saw what they were doing, she-"
"They?"
Fleurette turned over the stiffened ritualist, and stared at the badge.
She whispered, "Go. Go. If Nika's told you to keep things out of hand, at least do that."
Without looking at them further, she strode off.
It had to be a mistake. Not what it looked like. Some split in the ranks.
It had to be.
-----
In the Webweaver's district, one last body slumped to the floor. It was carefully stepped over by several armored figures, followed by the Geneshaper. A nod from him sent them to guard various exits, leaving him alone before the door to the Webweaver's own chamber. He looked grimly at it, then placed his hand on a particular spot and twisted gently; the door unlocked itself with a clunk, allowing the Geneshaper to pull it open enough to slip inside.
"Who's there?... Krzysztof?" The Webweaver sounded lost... frightened.
The Geneshaper heaved the door closed. "It's me, Emeric. The Containment Corps is taking care of the infestation outside. They'll have the area secure shortly."
"Ah." The voice, emanating from the walls, sounded relieved. "Excellent. Do we know who's responsible? Who attacked the sensory web?"
"I may have some leads." The Geneshaper's gaze focused on the figure enmeshed at the far end of the chamber. "But we can discuss them after the cleanup is finished. After all..."
Bony protrusions slid out of his wrists. Their tops looked very, very sharp.
"...the infestation has not yet been fully disposed of."
Papa. She had to reach Papa. The sensory web in her chamber had gone unresponsive; somewhere, somehow, its connection with her father had been disrupted. And the warnings of infestation, the sounds of battle... treachery. Sabotage. Papa was in danger.
She rounded a corner, moving unsteadily after her long immobility, and nearly walked into a group coming the opposite way: Two encased in armor, flanking a third, wearing a green robe not unlike hers.
Everything was still slow to Fleurette. She watched as the other robed figure - a ritualist, a manipulator of vital force - stared at her in shock, and then hostility, beginning to raise his arms...
Before the motion could be completed, Fleurette's hand had already unfolded, fingers tracing golden lines in the air, and sent a pattern flying at the ritualist's forehead. His muscles jerked, he staggered, he fell to the floor. The Incarnate turned her hands toward the two Corps members-
"Wait!" one of them called. "We give in! You're... the Thoughtseeker?"
Fleurette glanced down at the ancient, worn badge adorning her robe. "I am... yes. Yes. Why did this one-" She indicated the paralyzed ritualist. "-attack me?"
The Corps members knelt briefly. "We think he had orders to subdue other Incarnates, ladyship. We were to guard him, but if he-"
"If you were guarding him, how did you not know his intentions? Are you traitors as well?" Her gaze focused on their armor, and on the clade badge set discreetly into the shoulders. "Nika? Has she betrayed us too?"
"N-nika?"
"The... urgh... the Lifemesher."
The soldiers squirmed at the description. "She... we... it was to protect the Garden, lady. But when she saw what they were doing, she-"
"They?"
Fleurette turned over the stiffened ritualist, and stared at the badge.
She whispered, "Go. Go. If Nika's told you to keep things out of hand, at least do that."
Without looking at them further, she strode off.
It had to be a mistake. Not what it looked like. Some split in the ranks.
It had to be.
-----
In the Webweaver's district, one last body slumped to the floor. It was carefully stepped over by several armored figures, followed by the Geneshaper. A nod from him sent them to guard various exits, leaving him alone before the door to the Webweaver's own chamber. He looked grimly at it, then placed his hand on a particular spot and twisted gently; the door unlocked itself with a clunk, allowing the Geneshaper to pull it open enough to slip inside.
"Who's there?... Krzysztof?" The Webweaver sounded lost... frightened.
The Geneshaper heaved the door closed. "It's me, Emeric. The Containment Corps is taking care of the infestation outside. They'll have the area secure shortly."
"Ah." The voice, emanating from the walls, sounded relieved. "Excellent. Do we know who's responsible? Who attacked the sensory web?"
"I may have some leads." The Geneshaper's gaze focused on the figure enmeshed at the far end of the chamber. "But we can discuss them after the cleanup is finished. After all..."
Bony protrusions slid out of his wrists. Their tops looked very, very sharp.
"...the infestation has not yet been fully disposed of."
The Incarnates: the Webweaver, the Broodmother, et al.
Burrow in the dark; reach toward the light; grow the Garden, within and without.
AKA Shyriath
Burrow in the dark; reach toward the light; grow the Garden, within and without.
AKA Shyriath
- The Incarnates
- Posts: 54
- Joined: Wed Jun 05, 2013 2:09 am
Re: Ecological Succession
A tiny beetle fluttered after a squad of Corpsmen, themselves trooping after a pair of ritualists toward the Mindsoother's chambers. Each group was tensed up and nervous; the Corpsmen because the ritualists had announced their intention to take the Incarnate into custody, and the ritualists because they weren't quite sure how the Corpsmen would act.
The beetle flicked past the group, hovered in front of them, and flashed an alternating pattern of bioluminescent patches on its abdomen. Green-orange-green-orange-green-orange-green-orange...
The Geneshaper's ritualists stared at it uncomprehendingly. Behind them, however, the Corpsmen raised their weapons and took aim.
-----
A golden design hurtled through the air, colliding with one of the guards barring the way to the Webweaver's chamber. The other two turned and fired; one keratinous needle embedded itself in her shoulder, but the others passed over her head as she ducked and scuttled aside. She cast another set of vital-force glyphs at the remaining guards; another one dropped, paralyzed, but the last one cast a glyph of his own, colliding with hers in midair.
Gritting her teeth, she sprinted forward the guard, flicking pattern after golden pattern through the air at him; each was swatted aside, but the barrage disrupted his aim with the needle-thrower, right up to the point that Fleurette grabbed it and attempted to wrest it from him. Unable to free it entirely, she forced it to point at the ceiling, cast a glyph directly into the guard's face, and pulled the weapon to her as he thudded to the ground.
Fleurette paused, panting, leaning against a wall. She probed at her shoulder, where blood had seeped through her robe, and hissed; the needle was barbed, and would be a bit of a task to pull out. It was also poisoned, but the venom was of a type she was resistant to; though she felt a slight fever as her body struggled to neutralize the substance, she padded onward nonetheless, to the door of the Webweaver's chamber. She placed her hand on a particular spot, twisted, and pulled the door open.
A bulky, winged shape hurtled from the darkness inside, slamming her to the ground. Two arms held her down, two others threatened her with dewclaws...
It stopped, and stared down its muzzle at her face with a stricken expression.
"Fleurette..." the Geneshaper whispered.
The beetle flicked past the group, hovered in front of them, and flashed an alternating pattern of bioluminescent patches on its abdomen. Green-orange-green-orange-green-orange-green-orange...
The Geneshaper's ritualists stared at it uncomprehendingly. Behind them, however, the Corpsmen raised their weapons and took aim.
-----
A golden design hurtled through the air, colliding with one of the guards barring the way to the Webweaver's chamber. The other two turned and fired; one keratinous needle embedded itself in her shoulder, but the others passed over her head as she ducked and scuttled aside. She cast another set of vital-force glyphs at the remaining guards; another one dropped, paralyzed, but the last one cast a glyph of his own, colliding with hers in midair.
Gritting her teeth, she sprinted forward the guard, flicking pattern after golden pattern through the air at him; each was swatted aside, but the barrage disrupted his aim with the needle-thrower, right up to the point that Fleurette grabbed it and attempted to wrest it from him. Unable to free it entirely, she forced it to point at the ceiling, cast a glyph directly into the guard's face, and pulled the weapon to her as he thudded to the ground.
Fleurette paused, panting, leaning against a wall. She probed at her shoulder, where blood had seeped through her robe, and hissed; the needle was barbed, and would be a bit of a task to pull out. It was also poisoned, but the venom was of a type she was resistant to; though she felt a slight fever as her body struggled to neutralize the substance, she padded onward nonetheless, to the door of the Webweaver's chamber. She placed her hand on a particular spot, twisted, and pulled the door open.
A bulky, winged shape hurtled from the darkness inside, slamming her to the ground. Two arms held her down, two others threatened her with dewclaws...
It stopped, and stared down its muzzle at her face with a stricken expression.
"Fleurette..." the Geneshaper whispered.
The Incarnates: the Webweaver, the Broodmother, et al.
Burrow in the dark; reach toward the light; grow the Garden, within and without.
AKA Shyriath
Burrow in the dark; reach toward the light; grow the Garden, within and without.
AKA Shyriath
Re: Ecological Succession
You saved Lichbrook!
- The Incarnates
- Posts: 54
- Joined: Wed Jun 05, 2013 2:09 am
Re: Ecological Succession
"...Krzysztof?"
It was him. Fleurette was sure of it, even though time and modifications had somewhat altered his features; even without the signature smell that each Incarnate emitted as a sign of identity, the feel of his body was familiar to her (and in their youths they'd gotten to know each others' bodies quite well). It was certainly him, Krzysztof Rzezbiarczyk, friend and lover, but...
His eyes, now, his eyes were quite different. The fire, the passion, was tinged with bitterness and anger; but more than that, it was overlaid with fear and guilt, sharp and fresh.
"Krzys... you're involved in this? What have you done, Krzys?" she whispered.
The Geneshaper had difficulty replying. For all that he'd believed that the sight of Fleurette would not sway him, for all that he'd steeled himself, he found it hard to face her. "Fleurette..." he croaked. "It's for the Garden. Everything I'm doing, it's for the Garden. You've been out of touch, you don't know what they-"
"Cultivators against Cultivators? Fighting? Sabotage? Targeting Incarnates? That's all for the Garden, Krzysztof?" she demanded in a coarse whisper. "And how much of it will be left, when it's all over? What could have been happening that you and Father-"
Fleurette stopped. She glanced past the Geneshaper's face at the door to the Webweaver's chambers, then at his dewclaws, still stained with blood.
"No..."
The Geneshaper looked stricken at her expression. "Fleurette, listen to me, I ha-"
There was a faint, organic sound as the needle-thrower, hastily wrenched upward, fired into the Geneshaper's abdomen. Crying out against the pain tearing into his guts, his grip faltered; Fleurette shoved him aside, scrambled to her feet, and darted into the darkness of the chamber. Even with her enhanced vision, her eyes could not adjust fast enough to the darkness to beat her nose to the punch; the scent of her father was tangled with the sharp iron tang of blood. Blinking tears from her eyes, Fleurette ran across the chamber to the slumped form of her father.
More than half the organic tubes that connected his distended skull to the wall has been severed; blood and other fluids continued to leak from them, but she felt a weak, erratic pulse from one o those still intact. Hands shaking, she tried to trace glyphs around the severed ends, halting the further loss of blood. "Papa... hold on..."
One by one, she bound them in golden traceries. But she knew that it wasn't going to be enough; her father needed medical attention, and her knowledge of neither her father's modifications nor of the rituals was sufficient to provide it. She was going to have to locate help, she turned, and hurried back toward the door.
The Geneshaper stood in the gap, leaning heavily on the frame. The spined needle was still stuck in his belly; his expression was still marred by pain, but back by a terrible determination.
"It's too late for him, Fleurette," he murmured. "Too late. I gave him every chance to avoid this. He brought it on himself-"
Fleurette drew the needle-thrower again, but this time the Geneshaper was ready; even wounded, he ducked and danced to avoid the few remaining needles, then strode purposefully toward his former love.
Snarling, she cast glyph after glyph at him, attempting to bind him, slow him down, but he brushed each one aside. Krzysztof had been the one to teach her how to use the vital force in the first place; he'd been among those who had invented its use. Few knew better than he how to counter glyphs in battle, or to use them. One after another, he swatted them aside, then cast one at her; muscles throughout her body spasmed, sending her to the floor.
Her face was turned away from him, but she heard him approach and stop, standing over her. After a moment, she heard him say, quietly, "I don't expect you to forgive me."
Fleurette heard him turn and walk purposefully toward the Webweaver; she commanded her limbs to respond, she tried to scream and shot, but to no avail-
And then, in the corner of her vision, there were flashes of golden light, the eerie sounds of glyphs passing through the air, and then, from the direction of the Geneshaper, the thump of a body hitting the ground.
Fleurette listened to the sound of many people entering, running over to the Webweaver, muttering in clipped phrases; and, approaching her, the sound of many insectile legs clicking across the floor.
"Fleurette," droned a voice. "It's been a long time." A chitinous limb unfolded, and traced several golden lines just above her skin; she felt sensation return to her muscles, and she managed to turn over, looking up at a bulbous body covered in eyestalks. The voice, the body, even the scent were unfamiliar, but dangling from one of the eyestalks was a familiar badge.
"Veronika? ...Nika, is that you?"
The Lifemesher sat down with a heavy thunk next to her. "I do not think of myself by that name anymore... but yes." Fleurette wasn't surprised. She vaguely remembered Nika in humanoid form, a lush-bodied brunette with an attractive face, but with all the vivaciousness and emotional expressiveness of a brick. Her work and associated interests had been nearly the total of her identity.
Fleurette glanced over at the people gathered around her father; a mix of the Lifemesher's people and the Woundmender's, they were already feverishly working to save him. The Geneshaper lay unconscious nearby, with Containment Corps personnel binding him in physical restraints. She shook her head; she was tired, terribly tired. "And whose side are you on, Nika? Weren't you working with him?"
The Lifemesher made a long, thoughtful grinding noise in her vocal tracts, then replied slowly. "Things needed reprioritizing. Reorganizing. I was convinced that it could not be done under the current power structure..." A pause. "...but I did not expect that restructuring would be so directly performed. The Geneshaper did not tell me so, until the Steelsculptor was cut down. I hoped to arrive here before he could act, but..." She trailed off into silence.
Fleurette felt like she should be angry at the Lifemesher's complicity, but the emotion wasn't there. A cold hatred was still solidifying inside for the Geneshaper, but for Nika-
"The Woundmender and your mother should be here shortly," the Lifemesher said. "Between them, if there is anything more to be done for your father, they will do it."
"You summoned them?"
"Yes. The Webweaver was a colleague."
That seemed to be all there was to it. Fleurette glanced at the other Incarnate. "I'll have to explain to them what you and Krzysztof did, you know."
"I have already done so. He and I will be taken into custody."
"You're surrendering?"
The eyestalks turned to peer at Fleurette. "I acknowledge my complicity in this. My reasoning for disobedience remains valid, but the act itself has caused unjustified damage to the Garden; I cannot deny that." The eyestalks turned away again. "If and how long the healing may be... who can say?"
Fleurette looked again at the Geneshaper and Webweaver - a father and a lover, both possibly lost to her forever - and burst into tears.
It was him. Fleurette was sure of it, even though time and modifications had somewhat altered his features; even without the signature smell that each Incarnate emitted as a sign of identity, the feel of his body was familiar to her (and in their youths they'd gotten to know each others' bodies quite well). It was certainly him, Krzysztof Rzezbiarczyk, friend and lover, but...
His eyes, now, his eyes were quite different. The fire, the passion, was tinged with bitterness and anger; but more than that, it was overlaid with fear and guilt, sharp and fresh.
"Krzys... you're involved in this? What have you done, Krzys?" she whispered.
The Geneshaper had difficulty replying. For all that he'd believed that the sight of Fleurette would not sway him, for all that he'd steeled himself, he found it hard to face her. "Fleurette..." he croaked. "It's for the Garden. Everything I'm doing, it's for the Garden. You've been out of touch, you don't know what they-"
"Cultivators against Cultivators? Fighting? Sabotage? Targeting Incarnates? That's all for the Garden, Krzysztof?" she demanded in a coarse whisper. "And how much of it will be left, when it's all over? What could have been happening that you and Father-"
Fleurette stopped. She glanced past the Geneshaper's face at the door to the Webweaver's chambers, then at his dewclaws, still stained with blood.
"No..."
The Geneshaper looked stricken at her expression. "Fleurette, listen to me, I ha-"
There was a faint, organic sound as the needle-thrower, hastily wrenched upward, fired into the Geneshaper's abdomen. Crying out against the pain tearing into his guts, his grip faltered; Fleurette shoved him aside, scrambled to her feet, and darted into the darkness of the chamber. Even with her enhanced vision, her eyes could not adjust fast enough to the darkness to beat her nose to the punch; the scent of her father was tangled with the sharp iron tang of blood. Blinking tears from her eyes, Fleurette ran across the chamber to the slumped form of her father.
More than half the organic tubes that connected his distended skull to the wall has been severed; blood and other fluids continued to leak from them, but she felt a weak, erratic pulse from one o those still intact. Hands shaking, she tried to trace glyphs around the severed ends, halting the further loss of blood. "Papa... hold on..."
One by one, she bound them in golden traceries. But she knew that it wasn't going to be enough; her father needed medical attention, and her knowledge of neither her father's modifications nor of the rituals was sufficient to provide it. She was going to have to locate help, she turned, and hurried back toward the door.
The Geneshaper stood in the gap, leaning heavily on the frame. The spined needle was still stuck in his belly; his expression was still marred by pain, but back by a terrible determination.
"It's too late for him, Fleurette," he murmured. "Too late. I gave him every chance to avoid this. He brought it on himself-"
Fleurette drew the needle-thrower again, but this time the Geneshaper was ready; even wounded, he ducked and danced to avoid the few remaining needles, then strode purposefully toward his former love.
Snarling, she cast glyph after glyph at him, attempting to bind him, slow him down, but he brushed each one aside. Krzysztof had been the one to teach her how to use the vital force in the first place; he'd been among those who had invented its use. Few knew better than he how to counter glyphs in battle, or to use them. One after another, he swatted them aside, then cast one at her; muscles throughout her body spasmed, sending her to the floor.
Her face was turned away from him, but she heard him approach and stop, standing over her. After a moment, she heard him say, quietly, "I don't expect you to forgive me."
Fleurette heard him turn and walk purposefully toward the Webweaver; she commanded her limbs to respond, she tried to scream and shot, but to no avail-
And then, in the corner of her vision, there were flashes of golden light, the eerie sounds of glyphs passing through the air, and then, from the direction of the Geneshaper, the thump of a body hitting the ground.
Fleurette listened to the sound of many people entering, running over to the Webweaver, muttering in clipped phrases; and, approaching her, the sound of many insectile legs clicking across the floor.
"Fleurette," droned a voice. "It's been a long time." A chitinous limb unfolded, and traced several golden lines just above her skin; she felt sensation return to her muscles, and she managed to turn over, looking up at a bulbous body covered in eyestalks. The voice, the body, even the scent were unfamiliar, but dangling from one of the eyestalks was a familiar badge.
"Veronika? ...Nika, is that you?"
The Lifemesher sat down with a heavy thunk next to her. "I do not think of myself by that name anymore... but yes." Fleurette wasn't surprised. She vaguely remembered Nika in humanoid form, a lush-bodied brunette with an attractive face, but with all the vivaciousness and emotional expressiveness of a brick. Her work and associated interests had been nearly the total of her identity.
Fleurette glanced over at the people gathered around her father; a mix of the Lifemesher's people and the Woundmender's, they were already feverishly working to save him. The Geneshaper lay unconscious nearby, with Containment Corps personnel binding him in physical restraints. She shook her head; she was tired, terribly tired. "And whose side are you on, Nika? Weren't you working with him?"
The Lifemesher made a long, thoughtful grinding noise in her vocal tracts, then replied slowly. "Things needed reprioritizing. Reorganizing. I was convinced that it could not be done under the current power structure..." A pause. "...but I did not expect that restructuring would be so directly performed. The Geneshaper did not tell me so, until the Steelsculptor was cut down. I hoped to arrive here before he could act, but..." She trailed off into silence.
Fleurette felt like she should be angry at the Lifemesher's complicity, but the emotion wasn't there. A cold hatred was still solidifying inside for the Geneshaper, but for Nika-
"The Woundmender and your mother should be here shortly," the Lifemesher said. "Between them, if there is anything more to be done for your father, they will do it."
"You summoned them?"
"Yes. The Webweaver was a colleague."
That seemed to be all there was to it. Fleurette glanced at the other Incarnate. "I'll have to explain to them what you and Krzysztof did, you know."
"I have already done so. He and I will be taken into custody."
"You're surrendering?"
The eyestalks turned to peer at Fleurette. "I acknowledge my complicity in this. My reasoning for disobedience remains valid, but the act itself has caused unjustified damage to the Garden; I cannot deny that." The eyestalks turned away again. "If and how long the healing may be... who can say?"
Fleurette looked again at the Geneshaper and Webweaver - a father and a lover, both possibly lost to her forever - and burst into tears.
The Incarnates: the Webweaver, the Broodmother, et al.
Burrow in the dark; reach toward the light; grow the Garden, within and without.
AKA Shyriath
Burrow in the dark; reach toward the light; grow the Garden, within and without.
AKA Shyriath