text: In The Service of Father Brain A Telling Place Short Story Solemnly I trudge through the winding streets of Estersa. I am pressed into a sea of Conscripted, all of us draped in white wool robes lacquered with Wax tithed from the denizens of our home Ward. Burning ceaselessly atop its cyclopean Wax pillar at the center of the city, the MindFlame radiates its amber glow and warms our backs as we march, pressing us in our thousands towards the pervasive blackness manifesting in District 13. My standard-issue MindTorch hangs from a cord tied around my waist. Its basic form is a metal rod no longer than my forearm with a small brass crucible affixed to one end. A depression on the MindTorch’s pitted surface containing a small thorn allows me to prick my finger and become one with the weapon, effectively binding my consciousness with the TorchSpirit that resides within its core. While bound to the weapon, I’m able to extend the length of the MindTorch as well as channel my will into its crucible to manifest a minor gout of MindFlame potent enough to return a minor Darkling to the Ink. A Conscripted’s MindTorch, our thin, Wax-laquered armor, and the holy charms affixed to us are our only protection against what lurks in the shadows at the fringes of the city, and in its dark crevices. The ground rumbles as Battle Organs crusted with scores of dripping candles sail through the sea of conscripts on overlarge carriage wheels, creating furrows in the powdery WaxSlag that coats the ground. Crews scurry about on the decks of the wood and brass behemoths, pulling levers and turning cranks to manipulate the mechanical limbs affixed to the side of each contraption. They’re orchestrated by an Organ Grinder, a misshapen creature draped in formless black robes with a torso elongated to fit as many arms as possible, which sprout from it at various angles and always seem to be at work doing something or other. The strange creature gesticulates this way and that, droning orders at Conscripted in its sonorous language while one of its appendages rhythmically turns a heavy crank connected to an ornately carved box housing a series of studded tubes and small metal tines that plonk ponderously with an eerie melody. A massive stack of conical tubes welded together at the aft of the vessel broadcasts the noise out over us in heavy waves and the force of it causes my diaphragm to vibrate. Gargoyles, monstrous winged machines of leather and brass patrol walkways and flit between the tightly packed spires above us. Their powerful claws find easy footholds in the soft BuildingWax of the sprawling metropolis, and where there are none, they soar on leathery wings courtesy of the updraft created by our procession. We are flanked on either side by a long row of holy TorchBearers. They steady themselves with hand-over-hand grips clasped to MindTorches resembling long poles topped with a crucible from which their MindFlame burns. They’re hunched over from the weight of the heavy chain bound tomes they bear on their backs. The large books are splayed open, displaying wax-sealed pages covered in artistic renderings detailing the history of Estersa and scripture espousing the holy deeds of Father Brain. With faces obscured by gauze coated in holy Wax, they’re blind in the conventional sense; guided only by the soft glow of the MindFlame they’ve pledged their life in service to. Pressing on, we begin to see signs of Darkling infestation as we move closer to our destination. These manifest first as shadows cast by our passing that begin to take on an oily viscosity which tugs at our footwraps. Soon, we see the dreaded sludge coating the walls of structures and dripping from Torch fixtures along the street that have long since gone out. Trailing incense from censers hung about their necks, TorchBearers raise their MindTorches in reverence, driving back the foul ichor, and relighting the extinguished fixtures. Bathed in the gentle sepia glow of the flames around us, our resolve is strengthened and our pace quickens in anticipation of the coming purge we’re soon to be embroiled in. This feeling of protection abates however, as we cross a bridge under which we can see a river flowing with fathomless darkness. Anguished faces peer out from the murky sludge, and then are stretched and twisted as rows of desiccated hands reach out for us, disturbing the mire in the process. Overhead, a honeycomb of sinewy obsidian lattice stretches tautly between structures and threatens to blot out the life-giving glow of the MindFlame like a hastily constructed shroud. I grip my humble MindTorch and shudder at my surroundings, withdrawing inwardly to prepare myself for the coming battle. I focus on the soul-thumping melody generated by the droning of the Battle Grinders mixed with the holy chanting of my brethren and slip into a meditative state to steel myself for the coming battle. I am not long in my trance before the sounds of war bring me to my senses. The world I open my eyes to is a vast black abyss, crawling with creatures from nightmare. Darklings rush forth like a wave from the seemingly endless blackness. A tide of chopping teeth and wailing mouths, they crawl and trudge forward with various forms of locomotion, gibbering and screeching. The sound alone threatens to corrupt our very HeartWicks and drive us mad. And corrupt us it would, were it not for the righteous blare of our war implements keeping the auditory assault at bay. The outside ranks of our dirge respond to the onrushing tide of horror by channeling their willpower into their MindTorches. Great walls of flame erupt on all sides of us, and the first waves of Darklings caught attempting to pass through them are immolated. The larger ones fall to the ground flaking to black ash as they come undone. The heat we generate is immense, and I begin to feel it permeate the layers of my protective robes. Nevertheless, we press forward in our advance like a great flame-wreathed serpent slithering blindly through a dark cavern. Despite this show of force, the more clever Darklings are able to slip through the cracks in our defense and begin wreaking havoc in our ranks. Dread builds in my chest as a severed hand trailing mangled sinew skitters across the ground. I extend my mind torch and strike out with the pointed end, skewering the foul creature to the ground just as it is about to leap for me. Its mottled skin flakes and begins to turn to ash as I shake its remains from my weapon and scramble to assume a defensive position. Our tightly pressed ranks undulate from the persistent Darkling assault like an organism being swarmed by small insects and finding itself powerless to shake them off. Battle Grinders belch flames into the endless darkness, while crews of Conscripted battle to hold their broad decks now teeming with monstrosities. At one point I’m pressed so tightly amongst my comrades that my feet are unable to touch the ground, and I drift along helplessly until the pressure subsides, and I fall to the ground, finally able to stand on my own and rise to my feet. Looking around I see Conscripts begin to scatter and I catch dark shapes sailing through the din above us. I’m showered with something wet and look down with surprise to see that my robes are spattered with warm blood. A mangled arm propelled through the air lands with a wet smack on the gore slicked ground. I watch in revulsion as it is quickly snatched up by the dexterous mechanical appendage of a nearby Battle Grinder, ensuring that no Wax goes to waste. Gargoyles dive like falling meteors into the fray all around us, some never to rise again, others victoriously snatching up large Darklings before shredding and torching them in the void above. The remains of these unfortunate creatures drift down to us as soft black ash before being swept away in the churning chaos. Shuffling Conscripts scramble to mount themselves into a defensive position, and it isn't long before I see why. A hulking figure stalks toward us. Its ugly porcine features twisted in a rictus of glee as it hews down Concripts by the handful with powerful arms ending in jagged metal fragments. Its forearms rotate in bursts, pulping any unfortunate souls standing in their destructive path and showering the surrounding area with hot viscera. The crowd bucks and sways in an effort to create distance from the remorseless killing machine and I’m pressed into bodies so snugly that the air escapes my lungs. Agonizing seconds tick past until once again the crowd heaves and I’m pushed forward with such force that instinct alone throws out my arms and saves me from meeting the ground face first. I lose my grip on my MindTorch and it drops into the muck with a sucking sound. I frantically reach to retrieve it when a cloven foot descends on my hand with enough force to smash it free of my wrist. I scream and the world goes black for a second, stars dancing across my vision. My breathing quickens, and I clutch my shattered stump. I look up and am face to face with my executioner. Its beady eyes shine with malicious glee and it squeals triumphantly in my face before rearing back to deliver the killing blow. Its powerful blending arms begin to whirr and before they are plunged into me, pulverizing my abdomen and splitting me in two, I glimpse the creature in its full glory. It stands and I see that it is an arm’s length taller than me and at least three times as broad. Chains hooked through weeping flesh spread from one point to another across its ash gray skin, the trophies hanging from them forming a macabre latticework of grotesque oddities. Its engorged sex organs drag the ground, leaking fetid purple fluid that wafts over me as the creature shifts position. Then comes the pain. I am quickly torn asunder as the beast plunges both of its hellish arms into me. Briefly, I feel my flesh being churned apart before I realize with horror that my legs are now separated from my body. Reality takes on a dreamlike quality, and I watch with waning lucidity as the beast steps forward to claim its piece of me when a strange weightlessness takes hold. The ground begins to recede and I am pulled out of reach of the monster, now petulantly squealing at being denied its prize. A second later, the world lurches and gravity returns. A sense of weightlessness and the churning gears of the Battle grinder are the last things I recall before the end.