![]() That, combined with the ease with which it folds underneath you, stays your hand for long enough to get a look at it. The voice comes from behind you, slippery and slick, all sibilants, but it chokes off at the end when you spin and slam its owner back against the craggy ground, squeezing your fingers down on its neck. "You need to press them in the right order." ![]() Something about the sounds itches at the inside of your brain. You press each impression in turn, and each makes a slightly different sound. It fades so quickly you are unsure if you truly heard it. You press your palm against one.Ī low tone pulses out from within the stone. Instead, you find a row of rounded impressions arrayed in a fan-like shape at shoulder height. It looks like it could almost be naturally occurring, as if the supersaturated atmosphere has given the rock a mind of its own, like a Dominus. Stepping into the shadow of the rock face, you see the outline of a gate. You are still a long way from a last resort. You could fly over it, but that would announce our presence to the entire sphere, which you've been told to avoid, when possible. ![]() You could climb it, but that would take time. Geth's fortress is visible beyond the next rise, but the path is blocked by a sheer cliff of shining black rock. You face little opposition as you pick our way across the landscape, breathing in corrosive air as you go, giving the glowing pools a wide berth.īefore long, your advance is halted. Your words to Atraxa were not hubris-you have felled every creature that has ever stood against you. Not when you have the serenity of the Fair Basilica to compare to the rest.įortunately, you expect this will be a short trip. You know that every sphere has its purpose in the perfect unity of New Phyrexia, but you can't help your disgust. Humped, crude structures of black-gilded bone break up the horizon. The landscape is shallow, pockmarked with glowing pools of liquid necrogen, shining bright and poisonous. You locate a bit of high ground, which is easier said than done-this sphere is called the Dross Pits for a reason. It's something beyond loyalty, beyond the just desire to spread the Machine Orthodoxy across the Multiverse. Her fingertips caress your cheek, and you feel a brief flare of something inside you, where a lesser creature's heart might be. "You wouldn't, would you? You are my most perfect creation."Ītraxa reaches for you, and you quickly drop your eyes back to the bloody red of the carpet. "I foresee no difficulties."Ītraxa makes a slippery noise in the back of her throat. "It will be done," you say, intoning the words. "I ask that you boil that number down to six. "Geth is one of the seven Steel Thanes of the Dross Pits, a sphere that has already caused us considerable annoyance," Atraxa says, her voice as brisk as a whip. Instead, you kneel before Atraxa, the Grand Unifier, and the reason for which you draw breath. The seat is empty without the demands of a council meeting, Elesh Norn, Mother of Machines, retires to her contemplation. You raise your eyes slowly from the floor.Ībove you is the throne, a dais crowned with a coruscating confection of bone and porcelain, pure Phyrexian workmanship. ![]() Everyone knows of the lich, the tainted Phyrexian with the incompleat head. It is not a question that needs an answer. You bow your head and say nothing, the marble cold beneath your knees. Back to where your superior waits for news of your success. You smell the spill of their fluids as it rains down to the sphere below. Nothing challenges you, though a couple skitterlings clinging to the slick walls turn to you with rumbling growls that quickly become pathetic screams as you separate their heads from their bodies with a sweep of your spear. A few flaps are enough to propel you up into the shaft, splitting the necrogen clouds, leaving a trail in your wake. You spread your wings, relishing the pull in your shoulders as your body does what it is made for. ![]()
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