8th Transmission:
In this edition:
Our continuing interview series with Crimento of the Dissident Sanctum! We discuss dragon theory and the latent potential of convoluted thought!
Regional Manticore behavior, and what a tale spine can tell you.
And as always, check our interplanar travel companion to find newly emergent or exiled worlds!
* Back issue of the Knight’s Almanac
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“What is it you fiddle with upon my grand shell?”
They bore the unmistakably countenance of a tortoise, especially so in better light. Their jutting limbs in methodic movement held the rocky hillock of their shell in a polite equilibrium. I scampered atop them, pinning seed pods from my bag into crevices where I could, stem first, to best expose them to the reverberant heat of Accretio’s insides. Moss grew on the tallest and craggiest formations of them. Sand and small grasses at the lowest.
“I’m drying seeds on your back. They would just rot inside this sack.” We Cut diagonal across the land, the coast to our left.
We cut down and across the steppes, approaching the coast. I saw a great deal of creatures and critters keeping a clear cut radius of caution around Accretio. It seemed their rumbling made most things skittish. Birds cast little shadows along them as they circled in interest far above.
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“Do you wish to see these seeds grow? I can support such things in time, if this is to be among the lasting things of this place.” They spoke slowly in a way that highlighted their contemplative disposition. The slow cadence let them mull over a sentence as they spoke it.
I spoke back, quick and clipped.
“I think I’d like to leave decisions out of whatever this is.” The stark contrast in our voices leaves me fixating on what I’ve said. Other words that could have been said and the things that I may have implied. This was new.
He responded, “There is a force of will to be found within the pursuit of the arbitrary, yes. We may collect and amass what befalls us and discover what might thrive upon my large body. As this world crumbles further, those who are clever and wish to survive are likely to find us in desperation, and will attempt to put forth compelling arguments.”
The world is ending, but not all of it, I suppose. Sitting atop this beast -- this steward of apocalypse -- I would see it before it did.
“Do you have any preference? Anything you’re looking to keep?” I asked.
We had stopped. Accretio had waded midway through the river that had followed us until now. Little rivulets of steam broke free in the stilled waters about his shell. It was growing dark again. The seeds I’d pinned, some now submerged, drifted a soft orange glow about me.
“It is my charge simply to keep going.” The lack of that constant rocking heave of movement dizzied me as we sat there. Only a light thrumming of satisfaction, perhaps from the cool touch of the river, came from Accretio now.
“Mine is a life born from necessity, and my glimpses toward life at this scale are fleeting. I will bear the Elk of the Ashen Wake across these lands. I am not a creature of choice.”
The glow of the drying seeds deepened as night fell. The water’s light babbling muffled most noise from my ears, creating its own sort of silence. The orange glow allowed some glimpse into what the night held beyond. It wasn’t much, until beady eyes -- sets and sets of them that skulked low in the grass -- shone back menacing white dots ringing our spot in the river. Glints of sharp steel, pointed ears and loose knit linen strobed through the blades of grass that hid them as they strafed. It seemed the night brought menace with it everywhere it went.