Swamp Town Burns - Part XIII: Embers
There is only one war — the war against Chaos — and it has been waged by gods and titans for innumerable aeons. You are the latest footsoldier spawned for this conflict. You are a lesser footnote in the Great Plan, and that is a more prestigious honor than you will ever comprehend.’
-Chuqa-xi of Tlaxtlan, Slann Mage-Priest
Lizardmen Encampment, Salamander Cove
25th of Nachgeheim, 2538 IC // 40.0.9.13.19 12 Kawak 12 Mol
Quirigua’s limp but still breathing body clings to Roland’s chest, claws weakly digging into his chest and the leather strap slung across it. When he looks down, Roland can’t help but notice how his medallion -the large golden emblem identifying him as a Herald and emissary of the First Children of the Old Ones- is filthy with grime and blood which thanks to the humidity and the only now arriving sunrise is yet not dried up.
Nothing a good buffing won’t fix. Gold doesn’t tarnish after all, that’s why the Lizardmen view it so favorably. They see themselves reflected in it.
Although that reflection is quite harder to see as the skink in his arms barely manages to hiss in pained confusion due to the gruesome wounds the skink has sustained. An axe strike to the chest from one of the now decimated foes, according to Quirigua’s cohort-mates. Luckily the strike must have been a failed one, as a war ax directly digging
into the Skink’s chest would have surely meant death. Under the current conditions -as he steps up from the low-tidal waters into the patch of dry land where the lizardmen had built their camp over the days before- Roland thinks his friend has a chance.
The rest of the cohort does so after him, too tired to swim while carrying another wounded and downed skinks, with the low waterline being just enough to force them to drag themselves forward without a longer stride such as his.
Pantoran isn’t carrying or being carried… And Roland is no fool. The cohort will have to find a new Alpha Talon soon, whether that happens before or after the Death Rites, Roland cannot guess. He is a friend, a close-marching fellow warrior, but he is not of the cohort, and it would be a great insult to intervene. And so he leaves the body of his dear friend in a leaf-weaved cot made available by the army’s healer-skinks. He rubs his head against those of the cohort to share in their grief, muttering the closest thing to mournful rumbles his warmblood throat can produce. The skinks thank him for action and intent. Especially Ra'kaka, Quirigua’s closest confidant.
Roland marches a good way off into the camp to give as much privacy as he can, crossing paths with their skink and saurus units doing the same. Others rest, others prepare for Death Rites and begin organizing preparations.
Roland’s tired and aching legs land him by a fire with a grid of charred sticks built over it. Meat of varying sizes and kinds rests atop it while fats drip off. The skink attending to it silently passes an especially large strip of well charred flesh once Roland has dug his polearm’s shaft into the soft soil, sinking into a cross-legged resting position. When Roland’s unlizard-like teeth tear into it, the sealed-in liquids of the expertly cooked meat explode in his mouth. Kaapiuara, the extremely fishy yet mammalian texture is unmistakable and extremely welcome. The pinkish meat juices drip over his chin and pool between his crossed legs. Roland periodically dries his hands off against his own belly, uncaring for the greasy stripes.
He’s going to be getting dirty again soon, no point in trying to clean up now.
The skink also passes a gourd to Roland, who grunts in appreciation before taking a deep gulp of the -yep- hard tequitl. The harsh metl-based drink burns all the way down to Roland’s stomach, much more than any fruit-pulp based liquor would. Then again, that’s probably why it was brought in as part of the Pahuax forces’ supplies. Lizardmen exhausted from combat would want someone to dull their rest-demanding brains. And lizardmen ecstatic after victory would want something harsh to celebrate with.
Roland staggeredly continues to eat and drink, trying to refuel his -comparatively- weaker human body for the work that remains for the day. He gasps between mouthfuls, if he needs to, he can rest and sleep his way through celebrations.
A few minutes later, as Roland goes through his third “serving” of butchered game meat, heavy thuds indicate a new arrival to the particular bonfire he seems to be the sole comensal of. Roland looks directly up while half the leg of some kind of junglefowl hangs out of his mouth.
His eyes find themselves staring at a maw of green scales absolutely coated in a mixture of spittle and blood. Some drops of the mixture land on his cheeks, running only for a few centimeters before the mix with the mess that is Roland’s own buccal region.
Alpha Talon Uccuchtan of the Temple of Constellations seems to have enjoyed his own meal during combat and not afterwards. An advantage Xho’za’khanxs like himself are sadly deprived of.
Roland rises moments later, offering his gourd to the saurus, to takes it and dumps the entirety of the clear liquid into his gaping jaws, threads of tequitl dripping off between the green saurius’ teeth like a stream’s modest waterfall.
“The Old Ones have given me and those of the Temple of Constellations a chance to serve the Grand Purpose in a way that will be recorded in glyphs for centuries to come. They were gracious in making our constellations align.”
Roland bows in acknowledgement of the warrior’s words. If his mouth were not filled with white avian meat, he’d answer with an expression of his gratefulness.
“The salamander handlers of Pahuax seek you out,” The saurus continues, moving close enough to Roland as to snap the roasted leg hanging from his lips, leaving Roland with a much more manageable amount of food to shove down his gullet. “Be sure to go to them quickly, we all hope to celebrate as soon as possible and they are no different.” The saurus finishes saying after gulping down the bird thigh in a single fluid motion.
Roland bobs his head in acknowledgement again, fully rising and yanking his weapon out of the soil. After a few stretches of his sore muscles, he begins walking away.
“Herald.” Uccuchtan’s call makes him stop, although he doesn’t turn around. “You fought well.” The saurus growls out as he takes Roland’s place by the fire. “Getting to see them… Reminds one of how much of an improvement your spawning is.”
Roland doesn’t respond, as he does not know how to. He just gives out a surprised grunt as he continues walking away, hoping that his skin is not showing that annoying reddened hue again.
Salamander Cove
25th of Nachgeheim, 2538 IC // 40.0.9.13.19 12 Kawak 12 Mol
Barra’s trusty rowboat meekly paddles its way out of the mangrove forest. Specifically, out of a hidden nook between a few especially knotted aerial roots. It’s about an hour’s worth of rowing time from the now-annihilated stilt-built settlement.
Close enough that the downwind keeps his nose full of the odious smell of burning trash and his eyes squinting and watery with flecks of ash. Same deal for the army of ghostly children he’s found himself the impromptu caretaker of. A bunch -maybe half and a couple more- had somehow managed to fall asleep despite the distantly burning fire and the cacophony of shooting and roaring which had accompanied it, only to be woken up by a flotilla of galleys passing by of all things.
Barra is thankful that the ones who had stayed up had been smart enough -likely out of experience- not to draw attention with noise. Although some part of him would bet good money that mentioning his blue-gold eyed friend might have gotten them a free pass with the imperially-dressing men aboard…
Might.
Then again, seeing as how with morning some still had not woken up until Barra’s rowing conked them in the head… Barra begins to realize that a night of distant massacre might have in fact been the most restful night of their lives for the orphans.
“Not for Skewer Girl though… That one stayed up all night long… Creepy little bitch.”
Welp… He shouldn’t complain, all those sleepers had only made his job easier after all. And it’s only about to become easier, because once he gets to the agreed-upon location -another recognizable nook in the labyrinth of mangroves, one high enough to become a dry islet during the high tide- he knows all responsibility on his part will be fulfilled.
He does not know what awaits him in the homeland of his new business partners, but he can hardly think of anything worse than what’s happened to his
previous ones. Barra laughs to himself as he and the children mill about, leaning on his oar as it digs into the soft and salty mud.
Barra is soon enough alerted of the arrival of his escorts when one of the children screams bloody murder and begins to run. Barra jumps a bit in startelement, but goes on to move his sight towards where the kid had started his run from as the rest freeze like hares caught far from the burrow.
Aaaaand yep, there’s it there, one of the lizardmen, of the kind as tall as trolls and with heads of wickedly curved jaws full of crocodilian teeth. A thud somewhere beyond sight makes it clear that the running kid has been grabbed, although Barra is not surprised about how surrounded he is.
“Ok kids,” Barra claps with a nervous smile, failing to catch their attention. “I hope you are well rested, because these fine folks are here to take you to your new home!”
Many scream, many run, most scream
and run. A couple faint, piss their already soiled clothes or collapse and begin to cry. It is
really awkward for Barra, but the sounds of more and more rustling all around tell him that the lizardmen have it under control.
Skewer girl shouts in bloody murder and runs towards the saurus who made himself visible first. The coldblood grips her by the hair as swiftly as a cat batting at a fly and lifts her painfully up. She takes it in stride and begins trying to stab the thing’s wrists, only stopping when the pain becomes too vibrant and her skewer snaps in half.
Barra then turns his head and looks
up at something even more striking as a mounted lizardmen literally breaks the treeline towards them.
“TECPOYOTL?” It roars, clearly talking at -not to- Barra.
“Te-tecpoyotl!” He quickly bows, speaking back the saurian name for his unusual half-naked “friend’s” position.
The leader bows his head in a distinctly avian motion, although Barra isn’t very sure if that’s supposed to be a nod, before turning to address another suddenly appearing lizardman. This one has a struggling orphan -Fingerless-Boy and some other one- under each arm, but carelessly dumps the latter and hoists the former. Around Barra, crying and terrifying children continue to be corralled.
“What is wrong, Moqoa?” Asks the mounted leader in a language Barra doesn’t speak.
“This one, it smells much worse than the rest, Scar-Veteran Xohpe-Xlte. And its arm is clearly injured. I think it is sick.” Answers the warrior, shaking the blabbering boy as if to emphasize.
“Give it to me.” The Scar-Veteran commands. The saurus moves fast, throwing the boy up like a sack as the mounted commander catches him, moving his colossal head to smell at the offending limb.
“The rot has bitten deeply.” He states a few moments later.
“A Child of the Old Ones would be able to survive, this one… No, I do not think it worthwhile wasting some of the food and medicine they all need on this one.”
“Do I kill it?” Another saurus asks as he literally herds the children into a tight pack with his spear. Barra, meanwhile, is allowed to stay back as he does his best at not being worth talking about. He uses the moment to gather his rucksack of belongings and kiss his rowboat goodbye. The old girl has kept him alive, safe and “dry” for years, a swindler couldn’t have asked for a more loyal companion.
“Yes, but not here, they are extremely emotional at this stage, and don’t have even a dusting of the understanding of the Great Plan the xho’za’khanx of Pahuax have.”
“What is your command then?”
“We take them all, once we reach the jungles, bash its head in once it falls behind and the rest leave it behind without realizing.”
“Can we eat it, Scar-Veteran?” The growl of a fourth saurus interrupts.
“I just said the rot has taken, mudbrain. Of course you can’t eat it” Snorts the leader before making his massive bipedal mount face Barra with a twist of the reins.
Being face to face with the Lustrian equivalent to a meat-eating horse-crocodile is not fun. But as the reptilian rider stretches his trunk-like arm out, he becomes even morse pale.
It -he- wants Barra to… Ride with him?
“Truthsayers… And I can’t even say I didn’t earn this exile… If only I had kept my dick in my skirts…“ Barra the Entrepreneur curses in his native Albionese and…
Takes the offered claw as the cold one growls and children bawl.
The two ancient salamanders dredge the waters looking for fresh corpses to swallow whole. Both of warmbloods -human and otherwise- and of fallen skinks and saurus. None of the lizardmen try to stop them from eating the latter. For as the beasts have dutifully served their purpose in the Great Plan as living engines of war, they should now be allowed to serve their purpose as carnivores of the swamps.
Still, lizardmen
do mill about, particularly those of the hunting packs, trying their hardest to keep their own much smaller salamanders from cavorting off with the hormonal males. And yet, the ancients do show strange behavior. Where a day before they would have fiercely fought each other for territory, they now mill around uncomfortably close to each other, keeping themselves occupied by eating despite already being full.
“I have seen it before,” Akro the skink rests like a squatting bird on a low branch as his own tamed salamander suns itself below him, tired and bloated enough to reach the closest thing to pet-like behavior the loyalty-incapable animals can approximate. “During a skirmish, a shaman called forth a swarm.”
“I didn’t invoke them like a swarm. I am no shaman or priest of Itzil.”
“Obviously, but you
are as Chosen of Itzl as the rest of us. Speaking the beast tongues is your gift from the Three-Horned Ruler as ours is to master the salamander… Roland…”
“I know, I know…” The human sulks and rises up from his own spot, walking by Tlahui as the carrion bird pecks into the open chest cavity of a fat but unrecognizable humanoid. The bird does follow, though, hopping along until Roland reaches the water’s edge and then jumping up to his shoulder guard with a ruffling of his wings. The blood-soaked head and neck to the bird snake to look at him, delivering a questioning squawk.
“I.. Yes, thank you.”
Roland wades deeper and deeper into the water, which is somehow even more full of pollutants and yet feels cleaner. Using his halberd to push floating pieces of charred wood and body parts away.
The pressure at the back of Roland’s mind mounts and mounts, he can feel and see life returning to the tidal brackish lake, called by the abundant food. Birds first, yes, hundreds walk on top of floats and bloated corpses or fight over strips of flesh in the sky and branches. But fish, turtles and reptiles swim unseen below, bruising his legs as they realize that he’s not dead meat and that more attractive targets exist. As he beholds the burned-out city he says goodbye to the ancients. This is why what once was Swamp Town feels cleaner. Because now it's deeply unnatural decay, locked into a single self-feeding phase of constant worsening, has rejoined the great circle of nature. Now decay feeds new life instead of itself. The corpses won’t remain, they will fuel plants to grow and animals to breed. Birds will nest on floating wrecks and transient animals will use the lagoon to rest.
And salamanders like the two massive individuals he finds himself before will use it as a nursery for their hatchlings. Some day salamanders the size of newts will snap at the insects and smallfry who will colonize the water and air, and then they will move onto bigger and bigger prey until one day…
One day, a few will be large enough to burn cities as their progenitors did.
“Thank you.” Roland mutters in the language of reptilian predators as both reddish fire-breathers twist their snaking bodies to look at him like coiled vipers.
“Thank you, we -you- have served the grand purpose. This is your territory now. And I thank you for cleansing it so.”
The response is immediate. The animals don’t so much bolt as they
thunder with an explosion of movement that makes him stumble back and almost throws Tlahui off. In a matter of seconds, the ship-sized animals are just
gone with only large missing trees to mark where they have broken into the mangrove labyrinth to return to the centers of their overlapping territories.
And for a moment, just a moment…
The pressure relents, and the voices of a thousand beasts turn from a violent cacophony to a distant melody.
“Roland!” Akro shouts out from his tree branch, standing up and pointing at the eastern edge of the mangrove-covered horizon.
Roland follows the guiding clawed hand until his eyes land on…
What can only be Siegmund Armburster at the helm of a ship carefully mooring ion the lagoon. And the distinctively female shape by his side?
Can only be the clay tablet to his mace. Elma.
Roland laughs, it is a disjointed and maddened laugh, one of loose ropes snapping. And for the first time, the idea of a night of celebrating the massacre he has orchestrated becomes undeniably appealing.
Now all he needs to do is invite the governor-general, does he not?
The Citadella, Re Island, Port Reaver, Settler’s Cove
26th of Nachgeheim, 2538 IC // 40.0.9.14.0 13 Ajaw 13 Mol
“Call for a council.” Says the hedge mage as he looks out of the fortress’ narrow stone window.
“I am going to wait until my spies -and my men’s contacts- send back information from Sudburg. Those fires could have come from nowhere but Swamp Town and Sudburg is closest there. If anyone has information, it’ll be those who survived whatever happened… Or Sudburg.” The king answers, nursing an opaque glass of rum as he pensively looks up at the rafters.
“We know that you will likely get no survivors. We know what happened. And who did it. And why.”
“Point by point: The council will take days to assemble, waiting one more to gather information will not hurt and a pirate knows not to trust chance. We don’t know
what happened, it could have been what you hoped for… Or a peatbog wildfire, or an accident, or that cesspool full of worthlessness might have simply tore itself a new asshole..”
“Be honest, Bastjan. Honest kings make for good kings…” The ancient birch tree of a man smiles, taking his lord’s words without a single grain of seriousness.
“I am not close-minded. And I agree that it would be too much of a coincidence for your call to parlay to happen the same night that a section of jungle so large we can see it from here suddenly starts to burn. We don’t see fires that big and concentrated even at the height of the dry season. I just want assurances.”
“More assurances than what your court wizard can give you? tsk-tsk.”
“Will you stop bothering me if I call for
my council to meet tomorrow?”
“Mmmmh,” The wizard audible fake-thinks.”Yes, those are the ones that we need on board the most at the practical level, even if they lack the resources your little friends have.”
“My ‘little friends’ are the most powerful pirates of the New World…”
“I know what I said. Rabble, just component rabble…” The king ignores the fire-stoking words. “In the meantime, I need men.”
“So soon? What for?”
“Nothing as big or as demanding, just an escort, I need to travel inland to an old site and want someone to keep an eye on Stefan as we go. A day’s trip there and back.”
“Ask me again tomorrow,
after you spend today doing your job.”
“Ahhhh King Borġ,” The wizard bows. “Always a pleasure to serve you.”
Lizardmen Encampment, Salamander Cove
26th of Nachgeheim, 2538 IC // 40.0.9.14.0 13 Ajaw 13 Mol
In the eyes of Siegmund Armbruster, his “allies” celebrate their massacre of a victory exactly the way he would have expected them to. Around him, hundreds of the reptilian folk trample the soil as they “dance” with a strange combination of coordinated sways, tail stops and claw-raking. They dance to a music of massive flutes, thundering drums and their own animal roars and bird-like trills.
He, of course, participates from the edge of the encampment as more of an observer, sitting on a mostly flat stump with a bowl of meat-based stew on the ground by his side and a gourd for a cup on his hand, filled with his own rum. The few times he’s tasted lizardmen alcohols, he’s found them either too sweet and juice-like or too dry and earthy.
The stew is perfect, however. The taste of the meat is unmistakable, close to that of the venison he would have eaten as the rare locally sourced game during a campaign, so it likely comes from marshland deer, a breed not too dissimilar from his own homeland’s
reh . But what really improves the taste are the large chunks of the yellowish root the lizardmen call
“papa.” He had once been untrusting of the tubercule, having seen the lumpy roots covered in mud and dirt being pulled from the ground by farmstead-attempting settlers.
Now? Well, he can say that he’s a big fan of the soft but slight firmness of the earthy ingredient, specially with how starchy and thick it makes the rest of the stew, and how the salt and herbs in turn soak into the unpeeled chunks.
And he is not the only one, considering how much settlers at Sudburg have taken to incorporating into meals, or how he keeps hearing of more and more lords in the Old World introducing -often by force- their peasants to the farming of it. According to a few Kislevite mercenaries who’ve used the portuary colony as their supply depots, their people have even started using it as the main ingredient of their vodka in replacement of the usual grains.
While he is not exactly sure of why his visibly carnivorous hosts would farm them, he is certainly not one to complain. The meal is so filling that it keeps his mood relatively high despite the general views he is subject to.
While their deep rumbling music and dancing are large components of how the lizardmen seem to celebrate -truly not too different from the drunken singing he can hear from his men on their galleys if he focuses enough- it is not the only one.
The reptiles eat a lot, and they do so messily. The ceramic-wear cauldrons they use might be filled with simmering stews, but they are greatly outnumbered by fires upon which sticks, skewers and entire branches are used to hoist clumsily butchered prey, from small fish, rodents and birds to animals large enough that he could use their glistening ribcages as a tub.
A lot of them are braising and roasting. But… even more seem to just be closeby to the fires to keep them warm, as the lizardmen tear at the raw flesh. Some even go to the skinks once they are done, so the smaller lizardmen may use stone-and-pestle-like implements to expertly snap and crack the bones to make the marrow quickly accessible.
Although others, like a saurus nearby, are content just using their own teeth and clubs to leverage massive femurs and other pieces still covered in speckles of flesh until they crack.
The more he is, the more glad he is about having decided not to take escorts. Most of his men do not have the nerves to calmly eat a meal with such things being done around them. But he does, by Sigmar he does and he hates whoever cursed him with the destiny of having to make use of the ability.
Still, it will all soon be over. As the Herald explained earlier on the morning, his appearance is a perfunctory one as one of the “jaw’s teeth” as he had described leadership within a lizardmen army. He is not exactly sure that his blunt and squat teeth fit in with the lizardmen’s own dagger-like fangs, but taking part in a feast is quite literally the least dangerous or head-ache inducing component of the entire venture so far.
He spies said Herald among the crowd after he leans down to grab his bowl again, getting in a good spoonful as he recognizes both old and new details. The Herald remains tall and strong, that much is obvious, a trait emphasized by his standing by the side of his sister, the siblings sharing what looks like a bowl of small and deeply charred pieces of meat… Odds are, they are eating some kind of bug or grub.
But where “Welser-Nakor” usually is decorated with colorful paints across his entire body, covered in the glinting gold of trinkets and tools… The young adult instead has gone for an extremely simple garb, a brown skirt and little else, with no halberd to be seen. Siegmund guesses that his usual attire may be getting cleaned by some servant-skink, as he did note it being as grimy and filthy as any other fighter’s during the aforementioned encounter early in the day.
But then the sister notices his staring, and points at him with inaudible words from within the crowd. The Herald’s sight follows, and with a nod the siblings separate, disappearing into the crowd in opposing directions under the shifting bonfire shadows.
Siegmund doesn’t need to wait long before one, the brother of course, reappears. Followed by two saurus carrying massive and tightly woven baskets. The reptiles lay the containers at his feet as he gets up, leaving his almost finished bowl on his “seat” and making himself presentable by adjusting his cuirass and the clothing under it.
Two sights almost make his eyes bug out and a gasp leaves his stew-smelling lips. One, the first one, is that he catches a glimpse of the baskets’ contents. Each is as large as a barrel and filled to the brim with ornamental pieces of silver and gold. More than enough to… To… He can’t even think of all the ways in which he, his men or Sudburg could spend that much gold!
But then, the second creates questions. Questions he will not ask, but questions nonetheless. Because the Herald -who usually has his skin decorated with either menageries of painted images or a mix of sweat, faded paint, grime and blood after combat- in his simple and undecorated dressage…
Looks like a daemon. His skin coated in a thick layer of matte and sooty blackness, painted on with none of the finesse usually seen. The paint employs the shape of bones in a vaguely patterned shape, with the upper arm being not decorated with one, but a ring of long bones meant to simulate the humerus. His face is painted as well, with a black skull that looks like that of a lizardman, creating a strange illusion when drawn on a mostly flat face. A massive gash of red paint covers his chest and belly, covering where the painted ribs, sternum and backbone should be. The young man’s eyes shine with that gold-ringed blue of them. They
literally shine, like those of a nocturnal predator peeking out of the shadows.
“A supplementary form of
payment for you and your men. My sister has informed me that while you agreed to looted goods and slaves as recompense for your services… The amount obtained of the former has been barely worth your efforts, and the latter of questionable quality. This here is for you and your soldiers to share in whatever proportion you may see as fitting. I hope that it shows my lord’s commitment to fostering our mutually beneficial relationship in the long term.” The Herald bows, a flick of his wrist dismissing the two saurus as the words leave his black-painted lips.
Siegmund bows back, clearly understanding both the stated and unstated meanings.
“Then, I hope you will translate my most effusive gratitude for this gift. And that my intent is to carry out and enable further collaboration between our honorable polities.” His own hidden diplomatic message is shared too.
“Grandiose, your fleet was truly key to the
containment of the disease, we could not have afforded for any higher level of spillage… I trust your men will keep any confidential information to themselves.” The Herald offers his arm.
“You can trust them to brag for as long as they have cocks, but you can also trust that they cannot share what they do not know. To them, we were there to raid a pirate haven collapsing due to a rogue imperial deserter's arrival and attempted takeover. That is what they will boast about.” Siegmund takes the offered hand, relaxing as he sees the Herald barely contain his laugh.
“Splendid… Now come, I sadly must leave to honor fallen friends, but my sister wishes to entertain you with our kin’s foods and arts before you two must leave for Sudburg come morning. Your payment will be there once you are escorted back to your moored ships.”
“Oh, jolly…” Siegmund takes a deep breath.
A breath full of not rancid air, but the smell of food.
At least on that front, the Settler’s Cove has seen marked improvement.
The Geomantic Web, Everywhere and Nowhere at Once
26th of Nachgeheim, 2538 IC // 40.0.9.14.0 13 Ajaw 13 Mol
“Reporting success. Objectives have been achieved.” Speaks across the roiling Whill of Order a voice of Shifting Ash And Dying Coals.
“Congratulations.” Answers the sound of Tectonic Plates Scraping Against Each Other And Mountain Ranges Rising From The World Pond.
“The sickly Anathema has been extirpated?” Questions A Million Newts Swimming In A Million Streams.
“To an absolute degree.” Comes the answer, making the previous voice unfathomably proud for a millisecond of emotion.
“How many rearable individuals have been collected?” Asks the Asker Of The Three Questions.
“Toll cannot be taken until final arrival.” The first voice once more answers, sharing at the same time a billion probabilistic estimations.
“Shall the next phase begin?” Asks the Meeter Of The Fourth Race.
The vote tally is taken. By a margin of 0.75, the will of The Old Ones is made clear.
