Size / Zoom
The Iron Eels

“Of course, sir,” I said automatically, my mouth forming the words as though I were back on the front, back in uniform, at war. I was not. This was my home, these my people—my wife, my daughter. I was no longer a soldier. But one does not say no to a magiteknician. Especially not one on edge, already struck by a tainted man; his eyes sunken but bright with paranoia.

The dangers my comrades and I had faced in assembling and disassembling the arcane engines of the Magiteknique were the result. Explosions. Unnatural sicknesses. Twistings of organ and bone. Wild magic.
That August Song

At dawn, the might of Yneska mobilizes. Twenty vanquishers, thirty-nine pilots. The vanquishers are at their full height, in their various shapes. Some are draped in elongated eyes down their throats and spines; others have slit pupils clustered on their temples. Six-limbed, four-limbed, eight-limbed. As much variation between them as there is between their pilots, who stand in their carapace armor, sleek and jointed.

Sanenya studies the planes of the pilot-priest's face, this conquering creature, this realization of hypotheses and endless toil.
From the Archives:
The Motor, the Mirror, the Mind
Whether we see visions in mirrors or hear voices in warbling electrical static, we must always interpret, extrapolate, confabulate.