Or were they? As | attempted to get my bearings, | saw the smaller 
one, its contents spilled around it. Wincing, | went and began to 
gather them. | recognized some of the things | had packed in the 
larger satchel among them, but the larger satchel itself, and the 
carefully wrapped scroll | had placed in it last, were nowhere to be 
found. 


| heard a cry behind me, and turned to see Monsieur Mariette, 
precariously standing in a small skiff and waving his arms at me. | 
waved back and called out in return, and soon found myself 
wrapped in a blanket, and provided with a sip from a flask of 
whiskey, to ‘settle my nerves’. 


“Ah, we thought you were lost! When we returned to the Museum, 
and found all those creatures, and the doors smashed in.” Monsieur 
shuddered. "It was dreadful to contemplate." 


“I’m fine.” | started to laugh wildly. “My Uncle Alec, where—?” 


“He is resting somewhat uncomfortably in the Shephard Hotel. And 
near frantic about you. My child, what happened?” 


Even in my somewhat disoriented state, | knew better than to start 
speaking of colossal crocodilian saviors. “I wasn’t able to make it 
upstairs before the doors were smashed in. | climbed back up to the 
top of the ladder, thinking maybe | could use the remnants of the 
scaffolding to get to the roof. | started to, but then | saw a boat. It 
must have been washed from its moorings by the flood. | hung the 
satchels from the scaffolding and swam for it, and then went back 
and got them. | almost got to that little island, but the boat was 
flooding, and fell apart under me. I’m sorry, Monsieur. About the 
satchel with your scroll and the translation work. | thought | had it, 
but it must have been washed away with the boat.” | felt my face 
burning with shame at this last part. It was not a lie, exactly, for | 


truly did not know what had happened, but nonetheless... 


He shook his head. “Scroll? | haven’t done translation work on a 
scroll for months.” 


| stared at him. “Your Prize? From the Sobeknefru pyramid in 
Mazguna?” 


He looked over my head at the others in the boat. “Poor child. She 
has had an ordeal.” He looked back at me. “I spoke to you of Sobek, 
yes, and Sobeknefru, when | gave you that pendant. But certainly 
not of a pyramid. She did work, indeed, on her father’s tomb, which 
is why we know her, | spoke of this. But there are no pyramids in 
Mazguna.” 


He patted my shoulder and began to tell me that he would take me 
to Uncle Alec at once, but | fear | tuned him out. Was my ‘lie’ the 
actual truth, or close to it, and my memories a fevered dream 
caused by fear and exhaustion? | looked back at the small sandy 
island where | had awoken. There before it was raised the head of 
an enormous crocodile, with what appeared to be a leather strap, 
like one found on a satchel, dangling from its jaws. It looked at me, 
and then sank beneath the waters of the Nile. 


As soon as | was assured that Uncle Alec was recuperating, and 
assured him that | was well, | arranged for a Sister in good standing 
to Witness me, so that | could report to the Chapterhouses. Even 
now, my memories of the experience have begun to blur, but if | can 
spread my tale far enough, even if only fragments remain, the story 
can be recreated. | cannot blame Sobek. He gave me my life, 
though he could not help himself from taking something. And so, 
one more thing is lost, even to memory. But it is his nature, after all. 


The Good Captain Pt. 3: The Cyclical Child 


« Pt. 2: The Lycon Crevice 


Around the room were scattered a variety of crayons, toys, and 
other such things as general mess. The child sat in the middle amid 
it all, doing something for some reason, which was about as much 
as he knew. There, in the room that was in fact nowhere and at no 
specific when, he had set about... making something. It may or may 
not have been with his own hands, if he even had hands. Maybe 
they were his own, or someone else’s. Perhaps hands were involved 
in no way, being a rather arbitrary object to be involved in anything. 


There he sat, cross-legged on the floor, thinking as he always did, 
about nothing substantial. His thoughts were valueless and dull, 
those that children normally thought, exacerbated by the fact that he 
had been in this room literally forever since a few years ago. There 
was nothing exciting here: the toys and clothes which littered the 
room, the utensils, the necessities normally found in a child’s room, 
the empty space and the bodies. There were a number of bodies, 
that much could be certainly ascertained, but it was by no means 
definite. This was, in fact, the place where all the bodies of those 
who ever lived here piled up, and the exact amount of people who 
lived here was not yet determined. But that was boring, possibly the 
most boring thing in the room. 


The crayons might capture more interest. Oh, there were so many 
colours: red ones and pink ones and orange ones and white ones 
and black ones and a few that didn’t reflect visible light, not to 
mention the one or two that object or abstract-coloured ones. The 
necessary tools of such a craftsman as this man- well, | do say man. 
Man is perhaps inappropriate, despite his age. He was and always 
will be a child, as grown as he may be, until the next one came to 
continue the cycle. That’s why he was here. To continue this 
recurring little function of the world’s, this little nuance formed from a 
slight fracture of reality. 


The child, or god if you refuse to hold sanctity in such a position, 
was Certainly a curiosity. For one, he was, among being here, still a 
young boy at some point elsewhere, in addition to being one of the 
remains about him. This was another of those places which held 
little respect for physical convention. 


The name was perhaps the most important part of the whole affair, 
unless one chose to draw a distinction between it and the children it 
was given to. Always repeating, always the same, the name was 
certainly significant. So strange, then, that this boy should forget it. 
The note was nice, but it should have been purely supplementary, 
not necessary at all. Oh well. It’s not as if that was the most glaring 
error. 


As the boy drew out the words, he did so with satisfaction, that 
which he’d felt when the gifts had arrived at his door. Indeed, as the 
fanciful vision of that puerile joy skipped merrily on his mind, he was 
allowed, for a little while, to recall that wonderful time, a time which 
he could revisit now only vicariously. He knew, as the boy held the 
toy, that he’d feel that splendorous feeling he could vaguely recall. 
He thought of this in rather simpler terms of course. 


And so it continued. Eric set about, indefectibly, working on the next 
project. All to accomplish absolutely nothing. No-one cared about 
him, really. 


The Day of the Dragon 


Grand Karcist Bumaro felt a great relief. For ages he had felt nothing 
but anger, hatred, desperation and a deep embedded shame. But as 
he placed his claw-like hands upon the small piece of clockwork, as 
the turning gears burned against his skin, he felt almost hopeful. 


He would have laughed and even wept, but his mouths with sharp 
teeth would only produce unholy sounds, and his eyes were those of 
a beast. So he walked, down the path of brass that he had never 
fathomed that he would walk again. Every cell of his body screamed 
rejection as the clockwork clicked rhythmically in his hands, but he 
held it as if it were something holy and divine. 


It was indeed divine, for it was the last piece of the Mekhane lost on 
this mortal coil - The Heart of God, ripped from the very chest of lon, 
the treacherous leader of the Church of the Broken God. His body 
lay scattered, no longer able to sustain itself with the power of 
Mekhane taken away from him. Bumaro had resented him for the 
longest time, but this time, he didn’t bother to look back. He merely 
gazed forward. 


Before him, a tremendous machine twisted and turned, emitting a 
voiceless tune; behind him, the Archons had silently gathered, their 
eyes fixed on the smaller piece of machine in Bumaro’s claws. The 
horrifying angels merely watched Yaldabaoth's appointed servant 
approaching the god to be remade. 


As Bumaro walked closer, the burning sensation reached through 
his skin and into his bones, but he paid it no attention. The piece of 
clockwork began to vibrate, and its sound started to fall in tune with 
the one made by the greater machine. Bumaro had been in 
complete control of his body for centuries, but by this time his heart 
pounded uncontrollably. It was the same sound he heard thousands 
of years ago, the calling of God that made his breath heavy and his 
blood boil. Even though this time, the calling was not meant for him. 


It didn’t start like this, of course. As he looked upon the godly 
machine, its ever-moving gears and its smooth reflective surface, 
Bumaro would recall a different time, when he was a different man. 
He had a different face back then, one not of twisted flesh, not of 
hollow eyes, not of gaping mouths full of fangs, but one augmented 
with brass and iron, with eyes that spoke his faith to god and mouth 
that muttered holy prayers of clockwork. 


It was some thousand years ago, back when he was a simple, 
devout Mekhanite, who knew nothing but to devote his life to bring 
the Broken God back to his throne. He would get rid of his limbs and 
organs, replacing them with the simple mechanical structures they 
could make back then, and thought of it as rebuilding oneself in 
god’s image. Looking back it was a mere crude imitation of 
Mekhane’s manifestations, but to the Mekhanites, it was holy and 
honorable. 


He never expected any great task to fall on his shoulders, and did 
not think about even witnessing a holy relic. AS much as he made it 
his lifetime goal, the reconstruction of god seemed so far away from 
him. There were many great masters, all experienced Mekhanites 
with minds of clockwork and hearts for god. And his life consisted 
only of studying, praying and peaceful meditation, which he thought 
would last forever. 


But then there was lon. A slave of the Daevites who stumbled upon 
a piece of god and saw it as a great opportunity. It was not long 
before he gathered followers among the oppressed, and started his 
own version of the Mekhane religion, not to be god’s loyal servant, 
but to take advantage of its pieces. Nobody knew how he wielded 
that power, but lon successfully fused himself with the relic, and 
became the God’s master. Mekhane was then tainted. 


The Daevites soon fell, and a clockwork empire grew. But the 
machines they built were not beautiful and harmonious, but instead, 
destructive and monstrous. Sharp grindings had filled the ears and 
black steams had covered the sky. Entire mountains would be 
consumed by giant structures, only for them to grow like cancer. The 
Mekhanites did not agree with them, so they fell as well. 


It all went down fast. The Church of the Broken God harnessed the 


very same power the Mekhanites used, and knew no boundaries. 
Mekhanites, who were few in numbers, were hunted down like 
animals as lon’s four saints sent out iron beasts after them. Their 
sharp claws would twist brass and their pale fangs would chew 
down any remaining flesh. 


For Bumaro, it was horror and desperation. He watched his temple 
burned, saw his mentors and fellow believers ripped to pieces, and 
witnessed machines that he could only imagine in his wildest 
nightmares. By then, the only monstrous thing he could think of 
would be the Flesh, and he only perceived machines as elegant and 
delicate. But he was proven wrong as huge grinding gears crushed 
his legs, as sharp metallic screams pierced through his ears. He 
realized then that the Broken God was being corrupted, and this was 
its unholy form. 


He was dying, and had no hope. His remaining flesh parts were 
twisted and his blood streamed away, his metal parts were being 
consumed by lon's ungodly beasts. In desperation, and maybe deep 
hidden anger and resentment, Bumaro prayed. For once in his life, 
he prayed for power to change all things. But it was another god 
who answered him. 


It was almost surreal, as the whispers came not from monstrous 
angels descended from the skies, but from within him. They were 
promises of power, promises of vengeance, and promises of the 
God to be remade. At first Bumaro was confused, and thought that 
he was merely hallucinating. But as the whispers turned into images, 
scenes not of this world and should never be of this world, Bumaro 
realized where the call came from. 


It was the call of the Flesh, coming from the remaining mortal parts 
of his body, as the heritage of Yaldabaoth was buried in each and 
every person. In his dying dream, Bumaro saw a world of flesh, with 
large chucks of meat spreading in unnatural forms; he saw the six 
horrid beasts, of great power and ever-watching eyes; and he saw 
the most monstrous and most beautiful thing of them all, the Dragon 
in the Great Brass Cage, calling for her sons and daughters to set 
her free. And he understood what they wanted from him. 


It was hard to tell which was better and which was worse: The 


monstrous machines or the monstrous flesh? But Bumaro made his 
decision. Perhaps it was because he was dying and desperate, 
perhaps it was because he considered lon a bigger threat, or 
perhaps he simply could not stand to see Mekhane being corrupted 
and used as lifeless tools. Nevertheless, he let the whispers in and 
accepted their terms. 


New life sprouted from his torn body, as the beasts in his dream 
laughed and the Dragon chuckled at his obedience in her prison. 
The mechanical monsters were startled as they watched the man 
become a beast. The mechanical parts he was once so proud of fell 
from his body as his trimmed flesh grew like cancer. Clockwork 
nailed into his bones was expelled, cogs and gears that were once 
part of him were abandoned, and limbs he no longer possessed 
grew back with more appendages. 


It was painful, and it was brief. By the time his newly revived flesh 
stopped twisting and Bumaro was able to think properly again, the 
battle was already over. The iron beasts that slaughtered his 
teachers and friends were torn to shreds, their sharp grinding 
sounds ceased. Their remains were mixed with the shining brass 
pieces shed from Bumaro's body. The fire at the temple burned 
brighter and Bumaro stood to realize that it was his claws that ripped 
down the machine monsters’ heads, his bone spears that pushed 
through their iron skins, and his mouths that emitted beastly howls. 


To battle the unholy, he had become the unclean. 


On that day, he was no longer a Mekhanite, but Grand Karcist 
Bumaro, the Holy Priest of Yaldabaoth. As he offered the Dragon his 
servitude, the very thing he should have fought against according to 
the holy books of the Mekhanites, his life became another cycle. He 
would gather followers, preaching to them words he himself didn’t 
believe in, and offer them the power to become beasts. Leading the 
things he was disgusted of, he would set out to battle another 
monstrosity, in the slim hope that he could save his god from a 
horrible fate. 


But it was not his god anymore, not really, as he was no longer able 
to hear its call like he used to and no longer able to see the beauty 
in machines. Life had become a torment and he had become numb. 


He would watch his plans fail and watch his followers perish and did 
not care. He would just start over, adhering to every word the 
Archons had whispered to him.