The Blue Robes are a group of exclusive aristocrats that manage the temples to the Creators. Translated to common sense, it means that they are a hedonistic group of lazy bastards that collect wealth to waste in an attempt to bar everyone else from accessing the Creator’s shrine. Never trust a Blue Robe. 

I may make some jokes about it, under the guise of praising the Two Creators, but it takes a real piece of work to not praise the Creators in everything they have given us. In spite of that, those bastards use the Creators’ work as an excuse to do nothing but sit around all day and drink wine.

-Excerpt from Ductur Eaner’s Journal, 1215 P.C.

*=====*

Fara grumbled as she sat up in her bed. Her brain felt as if it were bouncing around her skull. Her muscles felt as if they were pulled apart and restrung on her bones. Her bones felt as if they were falling. Despite that, she felt great. After a few months of not picking any new Traits, the new, powerful changes were almost intoxicating. Once the worst of the grogginess subsided, she shot out of bed and stood in the center of her new bedroom with her fists out in front of her. Throwing a few punches forward, she was extremely satisfied by the cutting wind that came from her blows and the lack of difference in weight on her arms. 

She was thankful for [Reduced Gravity IV]; if she did not have it, her muscle mass would shatter her bones under their weight and she would break every piece of furniture she used. Relaxing her stance, she tried to feel around her mind for her other new Trait. At its core, she discovered, it was an extension of her own predictive analysis, supplementing her own experiences with mathematical vagueness —an idea that seemed counterintuitive to her mechanical-focused mind— and gave her a similarly vague sense of what should happen should a scenario occur. 

Basic questions like ‘Would this device withstand being dropped from the roof of a building?’ or ‘Would two gears be able to function at peak efficiency for over 5 years?’ gave her nearly clear answers, vagueness coming from every little variable that could come into play. Complicated questions like ‘Which military force would win in a battle?’ came back as vaguely defined feelings that swam around her head and muddled any real consideration with what if’s.

Shaking the lingering drowsiness from her head, she opened the door to her room and headed up to the dining room. In the room, she found the mantis-lizardman undead, Mokan, Norta, Mori, and Zubov all around a cluster of tables pushed together to act like one large table. Zubov was still drinking his tea, savoring every tiny sip he drank while Mokan and Norta were eating a modest breakfast of fuga bug jerky and water. Mori was sitting across from them, her head face-down on Unio. The seven mantis-lizardmen were each standing in front of the table, their modified legs unable to use chairs.

Two of them were reading from Mori’s book, one of them looking over the other two’s shoulders, one of them was examining a rusty revolver, one of them was off to the side, seemingly practicing using its spike-arms, and the last two were, somehow, having an argument that she could understand, “Why!? It just doesn’t make sense! Why would you want to go out there now!? It’s mid-morning —they’ll see you!” the first said in a male voice.

The second stared at him for a moment, eyes seemingly boring holes into his soul, “Fury, look,” she said, gesturing around to the dining hall, “We have to figure stuff out, for gods’ sake. The mistress is obviously under the weather and we have to make up for it,” she stated, tapping a spiked leg on the metal floor.

“I can hear you, you know,” Mori called out, muffled by Unio’s body. The two undead turned to her while she pulled her head from Unio’s red body, “I-Oh, hey Fara,” she said. The seven undead, Mokan, Norta, and Zubov all turned to her. 

She smiled guiltily, “Ah, sorry about that. I didn’t think I would be so tired. So… when did you get a bunch of talking undead, Mori?” she asked slightly concerned.

The lich rested her head on a bony palm, using her gauntlet-covered hand to gesture to the undead, “I had this idea from a bunch of mana-types in that book over there,” she said, pointing to her book that the two undead were using, “And decided to try a spell I came up with. I added some stuff from that thing I told you about, added a bunch of other mana, and voila: talking zombies. I named their Variant the ‘pyrausta’ because it reminds me of something. Though, doing this kind of gave me a headache, so I’m out of it.”

Aerolat then condensed next to Mori, looking like an attractive orcish man that, were Fara to be attracted to men, would have stunned her with his beauty, and patted her shoulder. He nodded to Fara, “After the mistress gifted us intellect, we decided on names for the lesser pyraustas. In order,” he said, pointing to the pyraustas, “they are Idle, Pride, Fury, Desire, Avarice, Crave, and Jealous.”

She looked at each pyrausta, all of which having some sort of subtle quirk that corresponded with their name, and slowly nodded, “Okay then… Well, we need to get the Kharon into the mod dock today, so I have to go to the quartermaster, like, now. I’ll be back in a bit,” she said. 

Mori mumbled a farewell and sunk her head back into Unio while Zubov, Mokan, and Norta all waved. The pyraustas went back to their own interests, except for one. Desire rushed up to Fara and bowed her head, “Can I come with you?” she hurriedly asked.

Fara turned to the anxious undead and noticed how she seemed desperate, “Well, I guess,” she said, earning a freakish smile from Desire, “But why do you want to?” She walked out the door, beckoning for the undead to follow. Desire looked back to Mori, as if asking for permission, and rushed to follow as the lich raised a thumb.

Desire carefully closed the door and fell into step with Fara, “Why do I want to come with you?” she asked, “Well, I like people.”

“You like people?” Fara repeated with a raised brow.

She nodded, “Yep! I mean, people are so interesting and they change so much every moment, so why wouldn’t I want to be around them?” she asked innocently.

Fara chuckled as they descended the gangplank, noting with amusement the stares that darted to Desire, “I guess that makes sense, but why not be around the other undead? Wouldn’t that be just as interesting?” she asked.

Desire shook her head as she followed Fara through the parting crowds, “No, not at all! We’re siblings, in a way, and I find new people interesting, so it’s a lot different for me to befriend the living.”

“I see…” Fara said as they approached the quartermaster’s workshop. She looked up to the sky, seeing it to be late morning, and nodded. She opened the door and made a beeline for Olga’s workstation. The four-armed orc was busy with some sort of small device, the same one as when Fara walked in, but turned just as she approached the bench.

The orc woman smiled at Fara, but raised an eyebrow at seeing the pyrausta following her, “Fara, good to see you. Is that… um…” she fumbled.

Desire giggled, “Yes, I am an undead,” she said, “Desire. May I know your name?”

Olga shot Fara a questioning glance, but she shrugged, “Olga Smith… You’re a friend of Fara’s, then?”

“Close, but not entirely correct,” Desire laughed, “Miss Fara allowed me to accompany her while my mistress is… indisposed.”

“So… you’re not going to slaughter everyone here, then?” Olga asked.

Desire pouted, “No, I would never! The living are too interesting to slaughter wholesale. Besides, it would be rude.”

“Describing death as being ‘rude’ is a bit of an understatement, don’t you think?” Olga asked. Desire used a spike-arm to gesture to her body, “Point taken,” Olga said flatly.

Fara coughed to get their attention, “As much as it is entertaining to watch, I was wondering where our mod dock is.”

Olga smiled, pulling out a binder and flipping through it. After a few moments, she nodded to herself, “Got it. Yours is Dock 3-A. I’ll have a few of the guards show you there, alright?” Fara nodded, saying her farewells and letting Desire do the same, and left the workshop, quickly making her way back to the Kharon. Desire went back to the dining hall while she took the wheel of the skiff. A small patrol skiff broke off from the dock and came up beside hers, the captain waving at her. She shot a thumb’s up at him and he nodded, leading her around the Docks and past them. After a leisurely cruise, they arrived at the back end of the governmental district in the east of the city where the walls matched the outer walls in height. The guards led her through a massive gate and through some canals of sand until they reached a row of massive warehouses. She knew what to do from there, driving the Kharon into the warehouse and letting the numerous mod-claws grab the sides of the ship and hoist it up half a dozen feet. 

Fara sighed as she examined the mod-dock area, a skiff-sized warehouse with clocksteel claws lining the walls and ready to be controlled. Around the skiff, a large amount of sturdy scaffolding reached up to the deck level. She stepped away from the wheel and knew that she could not ignore the first step any longer: she had to begin planning the modifications to the skiff. It was the most boring part of the process, shortly followed by obtaining the actual materials, but it was a necessary part of the design process. Before she could lament her fate any longer, Mori stepped through the cabin doors, still nursing her head but seemingly much more determined. Before Fara could even speak a word, Mori spoke, “Alright, we have to go to the Shrine,” she said.

Fara, slightly taken aback, narrowed her eyes, “Right now? You seemed keen on putting it off just a little while ago, so what gives?” 

Mori shrugged, “I finally got myself together enough to do something, so I decided to go talk to the gods and get out money from the bounty. And you’re coming with me. Let’s go,” she said as she began setting up the gangplank.

Fara lifted an eyebrow, “That headache really that bad?” she asked.

Mori nodded, “It is. Really. Really annoying. It’s nothing compared to death, but… it’s like someone is constantly punching me in the soul and it’s annoying.”

Fara, not wanting to know what someone, who felt having her soul falling apart around her, considered ‘annoying,’ just nodded, “Huh. You usually don’t just drag me along for stuff, so you seemed like you were in a rush,” Fara stated.

Mori simply nodded, finally placing the gangplank on the scaffolding, and walked from the skiff with Fara following her. After a few moments, Mori sighed, “Where’s the door?” she asked. 

Chuckling, Fara pointed to an alcove at the far end of the warehouse. She followed as Mori walked through the doors, left the warehouse, and entered the clean streets of the governmental district, following the large spire rising into the sky with her cloak pulled up, “Hey, who did you leave to make sure no one steals anything?” Fara asked with concern as the thought struck her. 

“Aerolat,” Mori replied, waving a hand as Fara grew concerned, “No matter what level Mokan and Norta are, they can’t beat seven pyraustas, a cursed blood mist, a blood slime, and a bunch of zombies with their bare hands. Besides, we’ll be back soon,” she said, obviously trying to soothe Fara’s distrust of the siblings. While her words did not give her more confidence in the siblings, they did soothe her worries about theft; after all, Zubov, the only one who could likely fight against the undead, would have no need for the money they had on board at his level. 

After a short, scenic walk past the smooth sandstone buildings, they reached the temple. It was just as needlessly vain as she was told, with golden accents lining the corners of the building and guards wearing silver-adorned helmets standing vigilant. They guarded the front door with their lances crossed in front of it and shields at their sides. Mori paid them no mind as she ascended the stairs. Just as they were about to reach the top, one of  the guards spoke, “Halt,” he said in a strong voice, “Have you been invited to the Shrine of the Creators?” he asked.

Mori sneered at him, “Invited by who?” she asked in her usual husky voice.

The guard sneered back in response, “By who, you ask? By the Blue Robes, obviously.”

“I’ve never met a Blue Robe,” Mori said.

“Then you are not welcome,” he said.

Fara could almost feel the contempt the guards held for them, for the dismissiveness that led them to think that barring them from the Shrine was a good idea. Fara could also almost feel the annoyance radiating off of Mori as she lowered her hood. Her eye-flames were flickering at an eerily calm rhythm as she watched the guards stare at her, “I will only say this once: Let. Me. In.”

In lieu of responding, the guard thrust his spear into Mori’s skull, piercing it and causing bone fragments to fall. The man pulled back, smug confidence radiating off of him like a bad smell, and laughed, “As if a mere skeleton could fool us, rogue,” he said, “You will make a good example.” He began to close in on Fara, but she was far from worried. 

A shot rang out and a clang of metal sounded. The guard fell on the ground. Mori, regrowing the cracks in her skull, sighed, “Why does everyone think that cleaving my skull will kill me?” she complained, “Every single one.” The guards began to surround them, obviously ready to fight. Mori raised her revolver and stood with her back to Fara, “What level do you think these guys are?”

Fara shrugged, “Twenty at best? Usually, only those who actually go out and challenge themselves get to higher levels. These ‘paladins’ hardly do that.” The guards, a mix of humans and orcs, growled at her provocations. Just as they were about to charge, runes flared on the door of the temple. A mix of white, black, green, blue, purple, yellow, and red glowed on the door as it swung open. The guards stumbled back as a wave of air, smelling of death and flesh and ocean waves and age, blew past them. 

Mori sighed, “Looks like they’re getting impatient. Come on, Fara,” she said as she walked into the temple. Fara, not wanting to either keep the Creators waiting or be left with the guards, quickly followed. The interior of the temple was just as, if not more needlessly vain and disgustingly rich as the outside. Gold not only lined the walls and ceiling, but was incorporated into almost every piece of furniture, pottery, and decoration that lined the polished sandstone hallways. Light came from every gap in the stone, undoubtedly wasting so much mana that Fara felt sick from seeing it. The smell of the Creators brought them deep into the temple and through its many corridors. There were scores of guards that tried to block their path, but none could get close. It was as if they were standing at the edge of the world, shaking in their boots and too fearful to even consider approaching. 

“The Creators won’t accept any other alternative, will they?” Fara asked.

“Hardly,” Mori chuckled lowly. Soon, they reached a massive door with just as many glowing runes on it as the front door. It swung open for them, slowly creaking, and led to what could only be called a paradise. Flowing water snaked through the open-air garden and around grass and flowerbeds. A few short, healthy trees dotted the garden, surrounded by bushes. In the center, a tall, thick obelisk with two shrines at its base stood. One shrine was adorned by images of the sea, of skulls, and of gravestones. The other was decorated with images of wolves, of dragons, of otherworldly beasts that Fara could hardly describe. And it was all glowing, as if inviting them to kneel, to pray. 

Mori did not hesitate, walking to the Shrine and kneeling, hands on her knees. Fara, unsure of what to do, followed suit. As she emulated Mori’s posture, she felt more and more power come from the Shrine. If it was mana, she had never felt something so thick, so viscous, as what radiated from the Shrine. With a flash of light, she was no longer in the opulent garden. She was floating in a void with a skeleton next to her. Then reality faded back into focus. The walls of the room were made of bone-white stone, accented by deep, red veins. In spite of the odd stone, or the basic carvings in the walls, or the oddly comfortable stone chairs they sat on, there was only one thing running through her mind. ‘They are the Creators…’

In front of them, a skeleton of water, shrouded in darkness sat next to a woman-shaped mass of writing meat and flesh and bone. “Welcome, you two!” the mass of flesh said, “It’s about time! I was getting worried that you two wouldn’t come to visit! Now, let’s get down to business.”