D
Draugvan
Guest
Original poster
Shift-sand whipped and seared like smouldering ashes. In the distance dunes broke from a glassy surface of shimmering sun. A pair of Azilids arch their necks in anticipation. Azilids – rusted colossi of metal and grease. Joints groaned, cables sang under tension as they kicked to life. A long leg lifted from the shift-sand – WHAAAAAAM – and as it cleared level ground sand poured back down mixed with glinting scrap – WHUMPH – a foot crashed down in a fine mist of sand. These Azilids, guided by a plurality of twirling fans that dressed their tall necks, turned into the wind and north-east, where another storm peeked over the horizon to threaten Old Wellington.
If one wanted, and one was outfitted with a magnetic harness, one could mount the colossus using metal panes and flaking rust as hand holds. One would time their movement between each shaking step so as not to be thrown off. One could make their way through the ribcage amid a screech of flywheels and moving parts toward the neck, where one would risk life and limb to reach the skull of this aching metal creature. At the peak were canisters of azoth, a thick silver liquid that slowly turned black, that if one were outfitted with a siphon tool and a dead cell, one could bring the azoth back to Old Wellington to service Ancients. Azilids strode into storms such as that peeking, drawing violent discharge from high above the shift-sand in order to revert azoth from black into silver, because if an Azilid ever allowed all its azoth to go black it would cease to seek storms, like a lame.
One reviewed the Azilids, the storm beyond, and the misting shift-sand, patting the magnetic harness at its belt and shouldering the dead cell at its back. One cricketed into the shift-sand and a host of spindle-limbed things echoed back. Three more sped forward in formation, breaking in and out on sand-sharks, undulating like the moving dunes themselves.
Beyond the Azilids, but much closer, excited whooping and a strangled purr announced a band of gravids coming from the north-east. They straddled lames which carried them forth at great speed – faster than a sand-shark. A gravid was altogether too heavy to stand on shift-sand and was reliant on their lame to harass the plain around Old Wellington and further. It appeared they had seen the pair of Azilids come to life and sought azoth for their lames. One would wonder how long the gravids had been roving away from the plateau. With luck, the sand would take them without conflict and return silence to the plain. Silence, wind, and the sound of cricketing.
If one wanted, and one was outfitted with a magnetic harness, one could mount the colossus using metal panes and flaking rust as hand holds. One would time their movement between each shaking step so as not to be thrown off. One could make their way through the ribcage amid a screech of flywheels and moving parts toward the neck, where one would risk life and limb to reach the skull of this aching metal creature. At the peak were canisters of azoth, a thick silver liquid that slowly turned black, that if one were outfitted with a siphon tool and a dead cell, one could bring the azoth back to Old Wellington to service Ancients. Azilids strode into storms such as that peeking, drawing violent discharge from high above the shift-sand in order to revert azoth from black into silver, because if an Azilid ever allowed all its azoth to go black it would cease to seek storms, like a lame.
One reviewed the Azilids, the storm beyond, and the misting shift-sand, patting the magnetic harness at its belt and shouldering the dead cell at its back. One cricketed into the shift-sand and a host of spindle-limbed things echoed back. Three more sped forward in formation, breaking in and out on sand-sharks, undulating like the moving dunes themselves.
Beyond the Azilids, but much closer, excited whooping and a strangled purr announced a band of gravids coming from the north-east. They straddled lames which carried them forth at great speed – faster than a sand-shark. A gravid was altogether too heavy to stand on shift-sand and was reliant on their lame to harass the plain around Old Wellington and further. It appeared they had seen the pair of Azilids come to life and sought azoth for their lames. One would wonder how long the gravids had been roving away from the plateau. With luck, the sand would take them without conflict and return silence to the plain. Silence, wind, and the sound of cricketing.
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