Sunday, November 30, 2014

wet machines

I was born a butcher’s son. I could lay open and rend into meat a hog before I was eight years old. I saw the inside of many things. I had patience and a steady hand.

When I was apprenticed to a barber surgeon, I saw the inside of men. Hogs and men are not as different as you might like them to be.

Animals are wet machines.

The much feared Necromancer taught me little before I grew weary of his ignorance. How could such a powerful fool have existed?

He was a machine. I tossed a rod into the gears, and he no longer functioned.

Then all his books were mine. I did not leach my power from the books like that pile of musty bones. I turned them towards my own machinations. I leveraged new strengths from their pages and my own meticulous research.

Insects give me the most trouble. Do you know how complex and varied are their forms? It has taken me ages to ponder through their workings.

Now the staff is completed. I have my final batch of subjects. This grimoire will be my penultimate gift to this ridiculous world. I pen it even as the first queen gestates.


Andron Comutus 

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