Tick had known that none of them would join him, of course. No matter. His will alone would see the great forge cleansed.
Tick trudged through the Grottwald, weaving through the ancient timber. Occasionally his path was blocked, and he had to spend some time cutting through trees in all likelihood as old as he was, but eventually he emerged from the primordial forest into the Hills of Mist. The clouds could not obscure his path, for he Knew the way. The beasts of darkness scattered as he passed Krator's Rest, though Tick could see them sizing him up even as they cowered- no doubt gods had passed this way before who were so weak as to become prey of even such small fry. He made good time through the Highwald, or rather, he made haste through it, for the unnatural flesh-trees disturbed him- he would have to see about having the entire forest felled, some day.
So it was that Tick arrived on the slopes of the Anvil of Moros, a trail of broken gears and twisted metal in his wake. Tick could feel the being within, could hear the prayers of its twisted followers. Now was not the Time to meddle with it. The second hand of the third face struck two: now was the Time for rebirth.
Calling upon the souls of his fallen followers, Tick remembered their mortal forms. Delving into the earth at the foot of the volcano, Tick summoned fire and iron to him. Disgorging the animals he had collected from the Hills of Mist, and the flesh harvested from the Highwald, he began to craft.
Tick's memory was perfect, obviously. Unfortunately, his materials were not. That was his excuse, anyway. As he stitched and hammered flesh and iron, the shapes taking form certainly resembled the mortals he had once known. With two legs and two arms- mostly- and a head with all the right features- give or take one or two-, it could be possible, from a distance, in the dark, to mistake them for human. Alas, their (partially) furry skin, mismatched limbs, and parts made entirely of metal (which, Tick thought, he wasn't actually entirely sure was usual for living mortals) made them clearly a distinct race. As Tick transferred souls from his Periapt into their new bodies, he realised that unfortunately, for reasons beyond his control, some were incapable of life. Biology was a tricky pursuit, and Tick never truly understood the necessity of all the various organs.
Nevertheless, most of the souls managed to connect, and dozens of Makeshift mortals spluttered to life. They rose to their feet, observed their surroundings, and then observed themselves- and without exception, decried their own forms. Not an hour after their birth, the Makeshift were taking apart their failed brethren, performing surgery upon themselves to replace the parts they disliked with more suitable ones.
Act (from Periapt): Create the Makeshift, living mortals made up of a mishmash of parts, remarkably resilient, and ever driven to improve their own bodies, a feat they are perfectly capable of.
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Topic: Gotterdammerung IC Turn 2: Loyalty Rewarded (Read 3629 times)