text: [Themes: grimdark fantasy, serious]
  
  You walk in silence, eyes trained on the foreboding structures in the distance. The jagged buildings begin to remind you of a mouth full of sharp fangs, jutting upwards into the sky, as if some hideous creature were just underneath the surface with its mouth open.
  
  The city looms larger as you continue towards it. You begin to count your breaths again as panic rises in your breast. As you get closer, you can make out more details of the towering, hostile-looking metropolis.
  
  The buildings are gargantuan, and not fashioned out of any material you're familiar with; they look as if they were fashioned from a single piece of black iron. There are strange outcroppings on the sides of the buildings that resemble metal tree branches. As you get closer, you can see, for the first time, the people suspended from the branches.
  
  Dozens, if not hundreds of people are strung from them. Men, women, and children have all been gutted and hanged by their entrails. Each unfortunate victim is still alive. The city is alive with the weeping and wailing of the damned.
  
  In the distance, you hear the telltale crack-BANG! of a flintlock being discharged. You rush forward, and cross over the crest of a hill. Stitcher, Tor, John Boy and Frye stand with their backs to each other. They are surrounded on all sides by baying, sneering, naked men, their bodies emaciated and their skin calcified. You estimate the ghoulish horde to be around fifteen or twenty. They carry cruel, makeshift weapons; hooked poles, chains, cudgels with nails through them. A few don't carry weapons, but instead appear to have gnawed their fingers down to sharpened points.
  
  Frye fires again. The horde flinches, and backs away a few paces. You can see him holster his last, spent pistol. A few of the creatures turn, and look at you. With their attention divided, you guess that you have a few seconds to act.
  
  > cast a Single, Powerful Spell (alone)
  You draw your grandfather's skull, close your eyes, and try to draw from your reservoir
  
  of concentration. You can hear panting and mad laughter as they draw nearer.
  
  "Lad!" Frye shouts a warning. You open your eyes. They're inches away. You throw yourself backwards and channel as much magical energy through the skull as you're capable of. Magic courses through your body. Every hair on your neck stands up. Your teeth itch.
  
  You open your eyes, half-expecting to see the face of a blood-crazed ghoul sinking a knife into your belly. Instead, the pack is seemingly frozen in place. Before you and your assailants lies a shimmering triangle of yellow light. Unearthly energies blow through like a cold wind through an open window.
  
  The ghouls stand there, wild-eyed and shaking. You can smell the sea and hear chirping birds, in the distance. You stare into the triangle and catch a glimpse of the ocean. An instant later, the ghouls are sucked through and the portal closes.
  
  The exertion makes you weak. You pass out a second later. The last thing you see is approaching footsteps.
  
  > wake up in the Dirt
  You wake up a second later, gasping for breath. You feel awful, as if you've just been resurrected from the dead with the worst hangover imaginable.
  
  "Fuckin' magic," Stitcher says. A small smile crosses her lips as you sit up. "The lordling's alive."
  
  "Starting to think this one might be invincible!" Frye says excitedly. He approaches you as he reloads his pistols with practiced ease.
  
  "Don't feel invincible," you say, "I feel like I just died."
  
  "Catch your breath for a minute, lad, then I'll tell you about my plan to get us out of here," Frye says. He stuffs his last pistol into its holster, claps a hand on your shoulder, and sits down alongside you. For a moment, the two of you stare at the city in silence.
  
  Tor winces in pain as Stitcher seals a gash on his cheek. He rubs the new scar in grateful admiration. John Boy reloads his crossbow and retrieves his bloodied knife from the dirt. You wonder if they can survive another encounter like that.
  
  "What's this plan, then?" you ask.
  
  "John Boy, tell him what you saw," says Frye.
  
  John Boy walks over as he wipes his hunting dagger on a filthy sleeve. "Frye sent me out. Couple hours ago."
  
  "How is that possible? I came over as soon as we arrived," you say.
  
  He shrugs. "Nothing works right, here. Whole place seems to be designed around funneling stragglers into the city."
  
  "That's where those spider-things are taking the people?"
  
  "Right. Saw something else, too. Two sentries on patrol. They wore hoods, weird masks. Carried rifles. Overheard their conversation. Didn't recognize some words, thought you might. Talking about planes, captives, other realms. Also talked a lot about some kind of machine."
  
  You reach into your knapsack and pull out a well-worn volume: Sacred Geometries of the Yellow Order.
  
  "Are you planning on reading us out of here?" Tor asks, walking over. He leans heavily on his harpoon.
  
  John Boy shakes his head at Tor. "That's intel."
  
  You open it to a dog-eared page. "The Yellow Order were a third-century post-Harvest order of mystics. Their leader, Francisco Al-Wahad, disappeared after claiming to unlock the secret of interdimensional travel. Some of their practical magic still gets taught, but the more esoteric stuff has fallen out of favour."
  
  "Interdimensional travel..." Frye begins.
  
  "Or, like Tor heard, travel between planes. It means the same thing. The denizens of this plane clearly know how to cross over, using that black stone we saw."
  
  "Why would that blasted Mayor turn us over to these people?"
  
  You ponder this for a moment. "They're clearly very advanced. Some of their magic is beyond anything we're capable of. Perhaps they gave him something in return? And he offers up tributes?"
  
  "What does a mayor have to gain from striking a deal with fiends from beyond?" Stitcher asks.
  
  "Think about it. What village that you know of has green grass? What about healthy cattle?" you say.
  
  "I knew there was something foul about that village," Stitcher says.
  
  "Exactly. I'd need to look at this machine to know more, but bet it runs off human tribute. In return, maybe they offer their magic to the village?"
  
  "That's how d'Harcourt doesn't get his lair destroyed by angry villagers. Few of them go missing each year. They think it's just his feeding habits. Don't realize that they wind up here."
  
  You look at Frye. "So what's the plan, here?"
  
  He ponders this, for a moment. "We try to ambush a patrol. We take them by surprise, hold them up for information. Then, we try to push forward into the city and look for the exit."
  
  You swallow your fear as best you can as you move towards the city. The screams of the damned grow louder. The inhuman metropolis comes more to life as you get closer. In addition to human screaming, you can also hear the wail of distant beasts; you recognize barking dogs and squawking chickens, and hear strange, exotic noises as well. It is surrounded by a smooth, featureless wall, formed from the same metal as the gargantuan buildings. The wall is dotted by regular guardhouses, every half a mile.
  
  Patrolling soldiers move in and out of the city. They wear leather masks that cover their entire face, with two large glass eye-plates set in brass. In place of a mouth they have a circular valve, connected by a hose to a backpack that resembles a blacksmith's bellows. The bellows wheeze and contract, pumping air into the lungs of the bearer.
  
  You circle around the city in silence, until you come across a guardhouse that seems the most remote. The guardhouse is an upraised, rectangular building set into the side of the wall. The wall facing out of the city has a section carved out, perhaps for sentries to shoot out of.
  
  Next to the guardhouse is a sort of gate, formed from rigid metal spikes that interlock with each other. You guess that the mechanism to unlock them is held inside.
  
  You circle together outside the walls and discuss a plan of attack.
  
  "Two inside. Will call for help," John Boy says.
  
  You nod. "We need to take them by surprise, and take them down fast."
  
  Tor takes his harpoon from his back and raps the head against his palm. "I'm ready."
  
  Frye shakes his head. "You'll alert them. Lord Winter, can you hold a man fast without him screaming?"
  
  You nod. "Easily."
  
  "Good. You and John Boy will slip in and clear the way."
  
  You look over to John Boy. He nods.
  
  "Hold a minute," Stitcher says as you turn to leave. She reaches down and grabs a fistful of dirt. Before you say a word, she sprinkles it over your head.
  
  "Do you swear to do good, forsake evil, and honour the gods?" she asks.
  
  You think about it for a second. "I suppose."
  
  "Congratulations, you're baptized," she says, slapping you on the shoulder.
  
  With the matter of your eternal soul out of the way, you turn your attention to the task at hand. You and John Boy crouch down low and approach the guardhouse, leaving the others a safe distance behind. You approach stealthily, crawling on your stomachs up to the firing slit.
  
  He presses his lips to your ear, then whispers: "I kill the one on the left. You hold the one on the right."
  
  You silently nod. He counts you down on one hand from three. When one finger remains, you both leap to your feet. The two sentries are taken wholly unawares. John Boy, never one to miss his mark, hits one square in the eye with a bolt. The eye-plate is instantly shattered as the bolt enters its brain, and the guard limply falls to the ground.
  
  Before the other can scream for its fallen comrade, you reach out with your mind and encase it in a field of telekinetic energy. You hurl it against the ceiling, dashing its head so hard that it loses consciousness, before dropping it against the floor.
  
  The danger gone, you wave your compatriots over to the gatehouse. For a moment, you stand outside the spike-gate, contemplating how to get in. The wall is smooth and featureless, and likely difficult to scale. The firing slit is too small to fit through.
  
  "Stand aside," Tor says as he steps forward. He grabs one of the spikes and pulls ferociously. At first, he strains fruitlessly. Then, slowly, it begins to retract. He grits his teeth in frustration and plants his feet. The mechanism breaks with a great metallic noise, and the spike easily slides back into its slot. He does the same for the other five spikes, breaking off their locking mechanisms and slamming them back into place.
  
  When his task is complete, he sits down and pants in exhaustion. Every inch of his body is covered in sweat.
  
  "This is why," he wipes the sweat from his brow, "you must always travel with a great hero."
  
  With Tor resting, you turn your attention to the task of interrogating the prisoner. As you enter the guardhouse, it is rousing from unconsciousness and reaching for its rifle. You kick it from its hands, then stomp on its hand. Underneath its mask, you hear a muffled whimper.
  
  Frye grabs it by the shoulders and hauls it to a sitting position. He presses a pistol against the guard's stomach.
  
  "What's your name?"
  
  It chatters in an alien tongue.
  
  Stitcher enters, mace in hand. "Let me end this quickly."
  
  John Boy enters the room. He says nothing, and lurks in the corner. His eyes are trained on the captive.
  
  "What's your fucking name?" Frye asks. He jams the pistol into the guard's stomach.
  
  The guard continues to speak. There's a desperation to its foreign words as its tempo increases.
  
  "It's holding out," John Boy says, breaking his silence.
  
  "What do you mean?" you ask.
  
  "Heard them talking. They speak our language."
  
  The guard raises its hands, guiltily. "I had to try."
  
  A moment of silence passes. Frye cracks a smile, then he begins to laugh. "That's a good one," he admits, before he throws the guard on the ground and begins to pummel its head with the barrel of his gun.
  
  "Stop, stop!" the guard begs. Their voice is somewhere between a man and a woman.
  
  "Start talking or I'll rip those fucking bellows off your back," Frye hisses.
  
  The guard moans pitiably. "I can show you the Machine and tell you everything, just spare my life!"
  
  Frye holsters the pistol and smiles diplomatically. "That was all I wanted. No reason we can't all be reasonable, here."
  
  The guard sits up. "This one is Rashid Ptah-Gad. To understand, properly, you need to understand the history of all the Ptah-Gad..."
  
  > listen to Story
  "In the beginning, in the Time Before Time, we were, — how do you say — born, from the seeds planted by another race. They were the Far Travelers, they came from beyond the stars, and created us with their magic. We were created without the annah-ptah, though; the, thing, the..." they trail off, searching for the right word.
  
  "Soul?" you offer.
  
  "Soul, right, yes, the soul. You are a learned one, so you know that the soul is what all magic must spring from. Without it, we must rely on the magic of the Far Ones. But the Far Ones do not speak, anymore. Their magic is gone from the world. In their absence, they left us the Machine; it keeps us alive; it processes the annah-ptahim, the souls, of others, and allows us to live," they motion to the bellows on their back, "we breathe them."
  
  "Well that's all well and good, but how does that get us out of here?" Frye asks impatiently.
  
  "The Machine, the life-giver, it is connected to the, how do you say, the door that brought you here. If you can enter, and you have one who can read the maps, you can leave."
  
  Frye turns to you. "Do we have someone who can read the maps?"
  
  You answer truthfully: "I don't know."
  
  "It will have to do," Frye pulls a pistol and levels it at the creature's head. "You've been most helpful; make peace with whoever you will."
  
  "Wait!" they hiss, "the Machine will reject you!"
  
  "What do you mean?" Frye asks, finger tightening on the trigger.
  
  "It knows you do not have souls. It will not open for you. You need someone to let you in. One of my kind."
  
  Stitcher taps her mace against her hand. "Kill this freak."
  
  "I do not want to be stuck in this unholy place," Tor says.
  
  "Easy, easy," you say, "I don't think this thing is lying."
  
  "Alright, you're coming with us. One false move, and I rip that thing off your back and see what happens," Frye says.
  
  "A most charitable act," the guard says. "I am most grateful and—"
  
  "No one asked your fucking feelings," Stitcher says, raising her fist in the air. The creature flinches and raises its hands defensively.
  
  "Mercy!" Rashid-Ptah-Gad cries.
  
  "Should get a move on," John Boy says, "bound to be more soon."
  
  > Moving Through the City / The Wailing Cathedral
  Moving through the city is a disquieting affair. Superficially, it bears the form of a regular metropolis; it has buildings and streets, arranged in the familiar way. The buildings are far too large, though, and loom over you like the oldest pines in a shadowed, ancient wood. Every building has at least a dozen victims strung from it; their screams and wretched gurgles blend together in a symphony of pain. The streets are slick with blood and tears that fall to the ground.
  
  Rashid-Ptah-Gad leads you through the city. They move quickly, beckoning you follow with quick gestures and nervous glances. Every now and then, a patrol will pass, and they will dive into an alley.
  
  "Why do you hang your victims?" you ask them as you walk.
  
  "Their pain, it... resonates, with the machine. Keeps us alive," they say.
  
  Stitcher grimaces. "This is no place for us."
  
  After a few more minutes, it becomes clear that you're being led to the centre of the city. One building, larger than the rest, begins to stand out; it is a gargantuan metal dome, covered in spikes, with hundreds of writhing victims mounted on it. The black iron is painted red and brown by a thick coat of festering gore. As you grow nearer, the screams grow louder, into a never-ending crescendo of misery.
  
  "Is this Machine in there?" Frye asks.
  
  Your guide enthusiastically nods. "The doors will open for me. I will allow you to pass through, and then you will allow me to leave?"
  
  Frye nods.
  
  "You are lucky, thing. I would snap your neck if it were up to me," Tor says. Stitcher murmurs in agreement.
  
  You lurk in the shadows as a column of masked soldiers goes by. Rashid-Ptah-Gad stiffens, as if preparing to warn them, but John Boy gently presses his knife to their breathing-tube until the soldiers pass.
  
  The strange being scurries across the street, beckoning you follow. They lead you to the steps of the cathedral. The screams are overwhelmingly loud, and you smell the stench of rot for the first time. The hapless fools pasted to the walls are decomposing for eternity; they are festering, bleeding, wailing, forever dying but never dead.
  
  You stand in front of the cathedral, now. It is an architectural marvel, built by insane hands for a purpose you can scarcely comprehend.
  
  Rashid-Ptah-Gad scurries over to the cathedral's entrance: two colossal stone doors, locked by a gargantuan stone seal. The seal is a perfectly circular stone, and every inch of it is inscribed with geometric forms that hum with foreign magic. You recognize a few of them from Sacred Geometries of the Yellow Order. Did the author travel to this blasted place? If so, he must have returned somehow. You take comfort in this.
  
  "You know how to open this?" Frye says suspiciously. Your hostage nods enthusiastically. "Then fucking open it."
  
  The creature closes their eyes and presses a hand against the seal. The figures on the seal light up. The seal rolls to the side; as it does, you hear a hissing sound as a wispy green gas escapes the cathedral. You hypothesize that it's the same chemical breathed by the strange denizens of this place.
  
  "The door is open, your path is clear," Rashid-Ptah-Gad says. "Am I free to go, mighty ones?"
  
  "Kill it," Stitcher says.
  
  "The gods hate an oathbreaker..." Tor says nervously.
  
  John Boy shrugs and grunts.
  
  Frye turns to you. "What say you, lad?"
  
  > kill It
  You conjure a flame inside the creature's skull. Their brain boils like an egg and wordlessly slumps to the floor. Their goggles crack and shatter as their head burns. Boiled brain matter seeps onto the floor through their ruined eye sockets.
  
  "I suppose that settles the matter," Frye says as you enter the cathedral. You step over Rashid-Ptah-Gad's ruined carcass without a second thought.
  
  > The Writhing Cathedral
  When you cross the threshold into the building, it feels as if you have entered into a world of madness and despair. The floors are slick with blood. Every available surface is covered in human sacrifices, gruesomely nailed in place with gargantuan iron nailed. Every victim is still alive; each one writhes in agony, fruitlessly trying to free themselves from their eternal torment.
  
  Their screams and groans echo off the stone floor, reverberating like a choir of the damned. There are dozens, perhaps hundreds of people nailed in this way. Their blood drips to the floor like a steady rainfall.
  
  You conjure a flame to light the way forward. You move in silence through a narrow corridor, surrounded on all sides by a writhing, twisting tapestry of human agony. It feels like hours, but you walk only for a few minutes. No one speaks as you move slowly down the corridor, which feels as if it's slowly beginning to constrict around you.
  
  Something grabs your hair. You scream, and realize that one of the victims attached to the wall has latched onto you in desperation. Frye draws his sword and lops the poor soul's arm off in one smooth motion.
  
  "Help me..." they moan softly.
  
  You shake your head and move on. You come to a gargantuan central chamber. The domed ceiling stretches high above you. High above you, the seething, convulsing mass of tortured bodies seems to blend into one dreadful tapestry; it is a tapestry woven by an unknown intellect, for mad purposes.
  
  In the centre of the chamber lies the Machine. It is a gargantuan thing, composed of shifting angles and strange materials. Its movements are hypnotic; a strange dance of clicking, sliding, grinding, mechanical parts. Your grandfather's teeth begin to chatter uncontrollably.
  
  "This is wrong," Tor says. His voice cracks. "This is wrong, this is wrong, this is all wrong."
  
  "Easy, man," Stitcher says.
  
  "Can you... turn it on?" Frye asks. You can hear his courage failing in his weak voice. You can feel your own courage failing, every second you linger in this place.
  
  "I can try," you say. You pull Sacred Geometries of the Yellow Order from your pack, and flip to the dictionary of symbols. With the book in your left hand, and your grandfather's skull in your right, you approach the insane thing that lies before you. Your eyes water. You can feel your mind straining to make sense of what lies before you.
  
  You chant the sacred words. You picture the sacred symbols in your mind's eye, as vividly as you can. Your grandfather's eyes begin to emit a cone of white light into the shimmering aura of the machine.
  
  Behind you, Tor wails incoherently. The others try to comfort him.
  
  You reach out with your mind, touching the dreadful intellect that lies in the Machine.
  
  You float. You are in total darkness. The screams are muted; here, they are little more than underwater echoes.
  
  "A soul touches the Machine," a voice tells you. The voice is impossibly deep. It comes from everywhere at once, cascading through this strange corridor of unreality. "Why?"
  
  "We were trapped in this place," you explain, "and were told that you were our way out."
  
  "What place?" the voice has a ponderous, bemused quality to it.
  
  "A place where strange beings torture mortals. They say that it's to feed you."
  
  "I see. You met the Soulless Ones. They are the most primitive of the children."
  
  "The children?"
  
  "The children of the Far Ones, of course. When they left on their journey, I was left to keep track of the races they begat."
  
  "I see."
  
  "No, you do not. You cannot see, for you do not have the eyes. What is the purpose of this audience?"
  
  You think on this, for a brief instant. "I've come to ask for a favour, I suppose."
  
  "You are not the first."
  
  "Who was?"
  
  "One called Francisco Al-Wahad. He came from your land."
  
  "What became of him?"
  
  "He cast off his human form, and has learned much."
  
  "Could I do the same?"
  
  "If you so desire."
  
  > say "I wish to ascend, and meet the Far Ones..."
  "So be it."
  
  You are cast out of the strange, inky netherworld and back into your body. The screams are loud, once again. They no longer disturb you. You turn to your comrades. Tor is laying on the floor, his body wracked with sobs. The sight of the Machine has shattered his mind into a thousand pieces.
  
  "I'm afraid you'll have to find your own way out," you say. Smugness creeps into your voice. Why should these uneducated barbarians be given salvation off your hard work?
  
  Before they can curse you, you drop dead.
  
  Your soul is ripped from your body with startling force. You are pulled through the roof of the cathedral. As you continue to ascend, the whole city pulls into view. You ascend even further, and begin to see the curvature of the planet.
  
  You are being pulled through the cosmos at breathtaking speed, now. Strange glittering clouds and bizarre formations abound. You can sense strange intelligences turning ancient gazes to you as you hurtle through their domains.
  
  You can sense the Far Ones, now.
  
  Awe fills your soul as your creators draw near. As you gaze upon them for the first time, you realize the truth. To them, past and future and future are nothing. They know the fates of all their children. They know all things.
  
  They are reaching out to you.
  
  You can feel your mind slipping away as you merge with their sublime intellect. Terrible and wondrous knowledge fills the vessel of your mind, pushing out everything else; humanity, ambition, love, these are paltry things compared with the great didactical bounty presented before you.
  
  The Far Ones speak to you, now.
  
  You know everything.