When in ancient days the black-headed retreated from the world, when, after days of war, the carrion birds circled, when graves were filled with the caskets, when the lone orphan plowed the barley. Or if you really wish for her to die, let me kill her properly. Move her to a larger chamber, give her room to stretch. My dearest Oracca has become ill no matter what I dream for her, she remains listless. Should they ever be returned to the sea, I do not expect they will look favorably upon us. The High Priestess may not remember what they once were, but the histories do. But kuliltu do not age or die, so there they remain to this day, watching, and waiting. At the time, this was thought a good omen, and the kuliltu, resembling the Old Machines, sent into the care of the priesthood.

We are going upstream - to the Filter, or whatever lies beyond - for answers.Ī dozen generations ago, kuliltu battled in the sea above, and the High Priestess rung in the storm, leaving them to spill upon the plains. Whatever happened here was catastrophic, the ramifications extending to everyone. To whomever finds this: Sudra is miraculous - the fact that I've been healed attests to that - but it is too dangerous to bring this technology back to Earth. It is the suffering that brings our salvation. It is reparation of the sea and the stars. It was not until the sky ocean was torn asunder, the last crop turned to dust, the last brick of the last home shattered, and the last warrior and the last demon lie dying, that the people understood their sin.Īnd so the arms of the apocalypse were sealed, the masters of patterns castrated, the old machines returned to slumber. In those far remote days, it was a time of war, of battles between angry demons and angry men, when roaring storms of fire and darkness were cast like stones between combatants. It must not be forgotten, the legacy of Sudra.

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