Hersheus, Reesh, Tuks…

  Absolute caballons. The rust has rendered them spineless.

  The Words are clear about what we are supposed to do with a dimyonaut: restore it and deliver it to Rathaph. Then the process of Lehitadam can be inoculated. It is OUR right to return to Euzoth. No one else’s.

  Yet the rotten eggs are still here! We are supposed to be rid of them after our mutualism ends. Their stench has stained most of my brethren on this ship with cowardice. Hersheus especially. Fitting. That gray Reyengre killed his father through subterfuge. He isn’t a warrior, despite wielding that featherweight club. I could break it like a femur with my teeth alone! He is just a doctor trying to claim for himself the right to his crown.

  His neck is malnourished without war. It cannot bear the weight of a true Reyengre.

  Reesh and Tuks are no better. Neither half-brother has lifted a spear in their lives. They inherited doctorates from their fathers’ fragility. They inherited the mockery of their shared whore of a fabincilla. Relying on poison instead of strength… Pathetic surgeons. What Peqan lives without the blood of war sliding against their tongue? I say none if they wish to have a place in the world. These doctors are just cowards disguising themselves as “too important to fight”.

  No wonder they recoil in fear like a stupid colt when seeing a famar for the first time. Like those useless sacks of suet, the Eggmen rely far too much on their appearance. Their eggshell is a fragile thing…

  I could crush them with my bare hands! Any Peqan worth the strength of his hands would!

  As much as I want to devour those cowards and the eggs, I cannot do so, despite my hunger and thirst! It has been so long since I last tasted the flesh of my foes! No. The Words are… True. I would have the same fragrance as the doctors if I favored taste over sense. I am a true warrior of Rathaph’s Words, unlike those cabilos. No killing of superior officers during normal operations. Nor are we allowed to kill Eggmen at all. Rathaph is clear about being “courteous” to those eggs.

  I never grasped why we don’t just hunt them down, given the poison in the yolks. But I won’t break the tenets for what they are. Everything else is glorious. The succession, when rightfully earned, proves your worth. To do battle is to perform righteousness! We have no room for the velveteen families of the sheep! Let them be soft! We are strong! And those who refuse are food!

  I have already sent word to the Excazajor. Soon, the Sata Protocol will activate. Then the rest of us whose sense has not eroded into rust or hemlock will hunt down those floral idiots and banish the black eggs. Out of “courtesy”. So I eagerly await the command. These surgeons are preparing themselves into a fine main course. That is all they are worth.

  ...

  I am a horse… Oh Jesus… They turned me into a horse…

  My thoughts raced with what I witnessed in my reflection. The shock perforated through me, despite my knowing of the transformation. However, I was given little time to reflect on this fractured state of mine.

  The gray Peqan before me commanded, “Muvhe arahnd, Mustaang. Geet usedh tu dah bahdhy. Needh tah see eef dah restahrahteahn wahrked.”

  Despite the accent, I was able to comprehend enough to do as he told, as I still remembered the terror of the surgery. Walking was a great ordeal, given that I had spent all my life on two legs. Relearning with four was a chore and a half. After stumbling and tripping on myself for several minutes, I got more used to it until I was able to properly walk upon the tiles. The clack of my hooves pricked my horse ears at the top of my head. The sensation of such movement trickled a light chill down my spine, and I shivered with the neural idiosyncrasy. My massive head and jaws moved with great friction, taking much more effort to nod my head or clench my teeth. I shadowboxed the air in front of me, recognizing the weight and strength within them; I knew they were the kind of arms to lift entire mountains.

  “Guudh! Restahrahteahn successfuhl. Lahve tah seeh eet!” The gray Peqan flamboyantly celebrated another transfiguration, before further ordering, “Speakh, Mustaang.”

  I considered what I would say to him. I wanted to curse this damn centaur for converting me into a monster. I wanted to joke about his relatively thin neck. Oh, how I really wanted to say nothing at all and sock him right on his dumb, long face. But I needed to get my bearings first. Getting out of this demon ship would require more than brute force. I knew that much. So, I complied once more, feigning some level of allegiance:

  “Ahy-…” I attempted, but a coughing fit swiftly ceased this new trial. Speaking without the ability to breathe through my mouth is like attempting to use a snorkel whose tube is blocked by an acorn. After composing myself, I tried again and slowly uttered, “Ahy… Dahn’t… Uhndehrstaandh…” This voice was not mine. It was much deeper, ancient, guttural, like a sewer. My lungs trembled like gongs with each deliberate utterance.

  The crown grinned widely, “Ah, dat ees Maghnus! Dat meanhs Ahy havhe trulhy dahne dah eempahsahble! Brahght a legendh backh tah layfhe! Weeth thees, Ahy havhe beecahme dah farhemahst dahctahr. Yah agrhee, dahn’t yah?”

  I squinted my eyes at him, unconvinced of his rather unplaced arrogance. Whoever this “Maghnus” is, I am definitely not him. I am still a human soul trapped inside this monster’s ivory-colored body… I responded, “Ahy… Ahm… Nah-” Another bout of wheezing followed my struggle.

  The gray Peqan pivoted behind me and slapped me on my extremely muscular back a few times, with each slap colliding with a deep, meaty thud. He chuckled a bit and stated, “Ahy knawh yah arnt. Whaht mahtters ees that yah arh ahlahyve, Mustaang. Ahy havhe dahne dah Surgeecal Apus! Ah, Ahy ahm mahgneefecehnt!”

  Was he insane? Yes, of course, all these Peqans were insane! They just converted a man into a centaur! It's inherently sacriligious… What the Hell have they done to me… What am I anymore…

  My dread was distracted by another voice, slightly higher in pitch than the gray Peqan’s, “Hersheus, wee dahn’t havhe tah tyme. Wee needh tah transferh heem ahver.” The remaining chestnut Peqan, who now appeared more like a burnt mustard coloration, entered the chamber from the left side of the hallway shortly after, his hooves clicking on the ground softer than those of others of his kind.

  “Camhe nahw, Reesh! Dey cahn—” Hersheus stopped as soon as another, much smaller figure came into view, following Reesh. An Eggman, but not the goose egg this time. This one was an octopus egg, rice-shaped and translucent. He was only three feet tall, yet he carried a presence as if he were seven times that. The Crown corrected himself, “Ahe… But yees! Wee weell breengh heem tah dah shahrtly. Juhst a fewh mahre pahrts tah dah chekhup.”

  The octopus egg shifted his face towards Hersheus. His translucent black skin glowed with the now gray yolk bubbling within. He was like a sentient lava lamp; blobs of yolk sporadically floated around in his vile interior. It took me some time to find the eyes and mouth of the noseless imp. The eyes were minuscule dots no larger than a dime, while a tiny, inverted beak was a slack opening of a maw, one that was incapable of shutting the door to its internal waste.

  The jawless imp strolled to Hersheus and reminded him, “Keeeppphhh taaahhh iittt… An’ weeeeeh prumiiissse seeets attt Yolm’s si’e. Breeekh eehht, an’ yaaah sha’ beeeh Vrael fuud. Un’er’an’?

  This was pathetic. The damn egg could barely form comprehensible words without invoking defilement. Every word he spoke sent me into minuscule states of nausea. I briefly considered stomping the damn egg into a pile of shells and guts, but I recalled what the goose egg did. I was not taking chances in ignorance.

  Hersheus nodded his head carefully before performing a few examinations on me. He grabbed his tablet and opened a blank page, checking off different boxes with each “examination”. After several checks, he returned to the front of me and used two fingers to part my eyelids, peering into what lay behind them. He appeared stunned, and after swiftly repeating this analysis, he froze.

  “Dat’s naht rayght… Whye arhe hees eyes stel blue?! Maghnus’s eyes arhe greenh! Dees wahs ah flawhlees ahperateahn! Sah… Whaht happehned?” Hersheus appeared baffled by his ego being insulted by my eyes. I couldn’t help but sneak a sly smile onto my face. For what he did to me? Have to take pleasure in the little victories when I can.

  The octopus egg snapped his slimy, calcium left hand and hovered to my face to examine my eyes himself. Dear God, his stench… One of the worst you can fathom. It was like ammonia, iron, burnt sugar, fish, and dog waste were churned in a crock pot, before being blended with water straight from the polluted Ganges. I would have vomited if I could, but Peqans, like actual horses, don’t have a gag reflex. His fingers, each ending in jagged nails, stabbed into my eyelids as he pried them open far beyond their normal bounds, before rapidly releasing them. The dots that were his eyes faded into the skin of the yolk before returning as curved, V-shapes.

  The egg erupted, “Dah’mit! Khai’vazh’na brokh th’ough! The Flylor’ ‘as righ’! For’et de oth’r che’ups. Weee need taah trans’ort ‘em now!”

  Hersheus and Reesh affirmed, and they quickly chained me in fetters constructed from ankle bones and rodent-sized rib cages. A collar made from serpentine spinal cords was placed around my neck, while Reesh handed a leash made of snake fangs to the Eggman. To force me along like a slave being sold at an auction…

  Oh, please no… If this were just the beginning of this torment, imagine what Hell I would find in the company of those damn Eggmen! I tried to turn to Casimir’s words for guidance, but there was nothing that would quell the ever-present anxiety. What horrible, twisted fate lay before me?

  In the midst of my internal crises, a siren blared from the bowels of the ship, sounding like the bellows of an elephant spoken through the constant cheers of a sparrow. After a few seconds, doors from the left and right sides of the hallway could be heard shutting with heavy, collapsing thuds.

  Hersheus recognized this situation almost immediately, “Dah Sata Prahtahcahl… Sheht! Damnh Garruz! Shahd havhe keeled heem whehn Ahy hadh dah chahnce… Stel, Mardehs was een ahn thees schehme, wahsn’t he? Then whyhe dedh he…”

  The Eggman, vexed, gazed around his conspirators and exclaimed, “Datt stu’id jackass! Of cou’se he chan’ed hees min’.” He tossed the leash into the air and remarked, “Well, yoooou twoh arrrre faqe’d. Me an’ mah bwethen arrr ou’ o’ here, b’fore an’than’ geeets tooooo spicy.” Before any of us could respond, the octopus egg vanished into thin air, presumably teleporting to the and leaving the excision-ship entirely.

  Reesh and Hersheus gazed at each other's now pale complexions before Reesh asked his boss, “Hersheus! Whaht dah weee havhe een heere?”

  “Nahteeng! Whaht, yah wahnt tah try andh beat Garruz tah death weeth dat clubh?” He pointed his hand towards the club on the wall, which was still slick with the other chestnut’s blood, alongside that of my former body. Trauma repeated for what the goose made me devour… Hersheus rambled on, “We’re surgeahns, naht warreahrs! Yah caballons fahrgeet hahw weakh weee arh wheenh wee arh cahnstantly hahndleeng lehssers lahke dah sheepe!”

  Before Reesh could retort, the clacking of heavy hooves blasted like an enraged xylophone down from the right side of the hallway. Guttural yells, blood-soaked screams, and indulgent cackles temporarily drowned out the sirens while they marched, despite the heavy doors between us and the fighting.

  A bloodbath performed like a macabre symphony danced on the other side of those doors… And its maestro was bringing Guernica upon his traitorous brethren.

  …

  Useless contraption… Of course, Hersheus tampered with this! He wanted to prevent communications… Where do these arteries go? And what about this chitinous membrane? I don’t have the time to try and find… Wait, it is working! Come on. Come on. Start up you damn thing! Booting complete… Make contact… Link… Missed? Rathaph already tried to contact me? No matter. Link… Transfigured.

  -Excazajor! My comms were sabotaged! We need to…-

  -Garruz, before that. What body was used for the dimyonaut’s restoration?-

  -Does it matter? The stench of roses devours the honor of this vessel like locusts upon grain. We need to act, do we not?-

  -Answer my question.-

  -I don’t understand. The Protocol has to be activated... The dimyonaut is a scalpel for us! If we are to return to Euzoth, then we must reclaim him from the hands of these traitors!-

  -Enough. You are acting like a ciefan with your carelessness. Do as I, the Excazajor, wish, and you will get what you want. Verify the identity of the body. Am I clear on this? I will not ask again.-

  -As you will it, Rathaph. Let me skim through the surgical logs. The body used was… Wait. Rathaph… Tuks is dead and was… The rotten egg devoured him… The dimyonaut was fed the heart… This is… They used… Maghnus’s body?! Heresy! Maghnus is a holy artifact designated for Peqani restoration! His recycling wasn’t complete either! Hersheus has compromised all of this!-

  -By the skin of Ran-Stiig… That egocentric moron! I told him to— No, it doesn’t matter. This complicates things… Fine, let it be this way. Go, Garruz. The Sata Protocol is yours. “Queflar” shall make the Dreaton… Scream.-

  -Protocol… Engaged. Their flesh will be consumed with the siren’s call. We will purify this vessel in your name! You will have your dimyonaut. I promise you that…-

  -Yes, yes… Enough with the pleasantries. Go. You have work to do. Contact me once the purge is complete.-

  By your sharpest teeth, I know your desire. I shall sprint with the diligence of thousands of legions!

  Comms have bled dry. That will cost precious time… More of an inconvenience than anything, but still. Treachery!

  Will deal with this later, I need to find my… Where is… Oh, that damn cemier janitor… I will have that munchkin’s head on a spike! Where did he put my spear and rotella?! Hersheus predicted this, the spineless wretch. No matter! Excuses are the plaque that renders our fangs into rot. For these treacherous, small-bodied comilos? My hands alone are all I need to tear them apart!

  Looks like there are others on the ship who are also warriors of faith; a special exclusion list for the purge was listed within the database. Good to see some of these names. Balyeahn. Xanthum. Ahrius. Buchahlan. Glorious men to aid me in this purge against the unrighteous! They shall together cleanse the disease of the rest of the , while I will…

  This fragrance… It is a chamomile fog. The aromatic caballons are already pursuing me. Wondrous! I won’t have to relent my hunger for much longer.

  -Is that all they sent to me? You insult me! There are only forty-nine of you!

  -Garruz! You are outnumbered. You cannot kill all of us.-

  -Outnumbered? You broken wishbones… All I see are forty-nine appetizers dressed up in balsamic cowardice. Ride forth, all of you!

  I shall feast on your bones, floral fools.

  This one’s skull was the bulbous membrane of a Slough-squid; it exploded like a filled bladder to the pyre. Mere moments to a grave cry into what is the rumbling gray matter PULP. Ah! I have missed this! .

  How loose are they with their grips so their weapons tremble so quickly? Such weak wills! Some of you have a sordid aftertaste. Is this hemlock? Suicidal milksops. You deserve this more than I thought. .

  Their pathetic weapons shatter upon me. Who forged these toothpicks? They are tree branches snapping under my hooves. Their own bodies are sharper. Their fragile shields bow in severance to the might of my hands and hooves. Who grafted these dinner plates? They are bone-clay pottery meeting a hailstorm. My arms are thicker. .

  Femur clubs break these soft-backs so easily. Ribs crack their heads as omelettes. The fangs of their decapitated heads carve from them sinew trees. I never thought this Protocol would take so little effort… .

  My maw clutches onto their shoulders, arms, chests, and faces; I on them as camels do on cacti. How delectable! .

  Yelp and scream like sheep toddlers as you want! Run like Slough-deer being chased by gorehounds! You cannot escape. !

  The siren’s blare is your only peace away from me. The doors are shut. The is mine. Your flesh is mine. But your souls are his. Be deservedly dishonored as fabincillas in the next lives. .

  Iron fills these gray halls. How wonderful a scent, yet lingering with the dwindling portions. You all disappoint me with your… WEAKNESS. This isn’t nearly enough… I AM STARVING. .

  The restoration chamber is on the other side. Hersheus and Reesh are there… No doubt the cowardly egg has run by now. Let those filthy ovums buzz off to suckle on their master’s neck-flaps. They will have their day to fry under a scorching sun.

  I can taste Hersheus’s rust from here.

  His crown is mine.

  …

  I was six years old, sleeping soundly in my dinosaur bed after another successful Saturday of comic books and tossing baseballs with Dad. My sentry, daffodil light defied the darkness of that winter night, yet its glory did not cross into sonar lands. The blanket-obscured outside siphoned through the window the piercing waves of a white bellbird’s constant cries. In their muffled journey to the nearest cross-bound nest, the cries warped in their transference through the glass, and further so transfigured once they reached my ears. I had heard the cries before, but this night my imagination twisted them into a horror.

  A giant white whale with barbed mandibles, screeching in pain as it descended further and further down from its perch within a distant red star.

  I was seven years old, sitting around a campfire with my Dad and uncle in the wilderness of summer Oklahoma. Lawson, with his odd sense of humor, tempted his younger family members with a story of one of the many bumps in the night. My father groaned with the onset of a story he had heard thousands of times and only believed once. Destiny repeated in the tides of inheritance. Lawson described a group of shapeshifting witches called “stikini”, vile women who appeared like Seminoles under the light of the Sun. Under the cover of night or illuminated by slivers of moonlight, their true forms ruffle into being, with great white feathers rising with several skipping pops of punctured skin, while piercing shrieks erupted from the mouths of the harpies. Their truest forms were those of humanoid barn owls that walked like wolves, who also contained within the voids of their eye sockets mere shimmers of gray irises. They were cannibalistic beasts who so favored tormenting their prey. Inducing insanity, paralysis, or hypnosis to contort their meals into puppets for their amusement. And if the self-orchestrated drama was entertaining enough? Oh, how they would guffaw hysterically into the night, before tearing apart their hopeless victims with their beaks and talons.

  I did not sleep. I kept imagining those same witches waiting in ambush in the dense deciduous broadleaves on the hiking trail. All to torment me, not even to kill me. At least, not until I had no longer entertained those deranged stikini. But, as was tradition, I slept soundly in that wilderness the days after that, regardless of the other horrors Uncle Lawson brought to my ears. Those albino harpies were nothing but the expression of a story and not the truth. A truth so evident by what my eyes could see.

  I was… Ten… You already know what happened to my fortress. I am not boarding that damn carousel this time… The pain is still there…

  Trade for me the demon, and I would face down a thousand of those pallor horrors made true in the darkness of our thoughts. The demon was real. The demoness became real. The blood was real. Those beasts of our imagination? Mere black fog in the wind. Shadowboxing the products of imagination would render me weaker than toddlers first learning to walk. Thus, those fears would do nothing once I knew they were nothing.

  But what if you saw the products of imagination brought into reality, truly, and they were not just products of the mind? Would they do nothing to you once you saw them? Curious of you to claim dominion over your calm thoughts, when fear itself preys upon the unexpected.

  Fear is not something that is so easily silenced with ignorant exposure from the stories of others. To conquer it, one must face it down themselves. In many ways, I was lucky.

  I became a nightmare, myself.

  The door opened, with chunks of sinew and bones splashing upon the tiles below. When I heard the glacial xylophone claps, each step ploping from the pools of blood, I wasn’t afraid. I felt relieved, if anything. The Eggmen waddled out of the ship, and my two living tormentors were scrambling around to fashion makeshift barricades from the flesh-computers and keratin tables. Futile. That golden horseman could lift a thousand of those barriers if he so wanted. The door shut, crushing bones and popping intestines.

  Ironic that the butcher I saw emerge from that archway was exactly my sigil of bloodstained hope, cauterized by the scent of sterile iodine and iron. There he was, in all his savage glory, adorned with a black dorsal mantle woven from the finest silk, which was emblazoned with a gray and gold spiral. He was dragging with his left hand the corpse of a seven-foot-tall, sabino Peqan, who had massive bite marks ravaging his body like bubons on a plague-bearer; his skull leaked muted baby blue-tinged bundles of pustule brain matter.

  And I was larger and stronger than the gold peqan was with this new form of mine. I naturally wondered what I would be like if I walked the path he had? If he was able to do all this so easily… Then it would be even easier for me, wouldn’t it?

  He had the biggest, shit-eating grin on his face, as what I remembered were violet strings of muscle fibers stuck in his many fangs. Yet now, with my protanopia, purples were dark blues or muted blues or grays. Despite the horse head, the lips parted like a lion’s, spreading halfway down the horse head into a great snarling maw. He loved every moment of this.

  Would I?

  My contemplations were interrupted by the gold one’s words, which resonated like a tiger’s growls in the midst of his future feast, “Breethraan. Yah haavhe madh yahrseelves hahllahw. Reehkingh ahv dah paihsahn ahv yahr cahnceerahs leeneahges. Yahr rust weell beh purghed.” The gold Peqan continued to march slowly towards his quarry. Hersheus collapsed to the ground and crawled backwards wildly towards the distant wall, which had remained unclean from the blood that was once mine. Reesh saw an opportunity to flee, but the gold Peqan flung the dead soldier’s body directly into Reesh’s head, instantly crushing his skull.

  I was too dumbstruck to react vocally. My relief faded immediately once I observed this casual killing. This was absurd! What kind of horrible demon was I watching hunting down members of his own people? Such savagery… It intrigued me as a morbid curiosity. For after all, did my tormentors not deserve this fate? How many others had they converted into monsters? Hundreds, thousands, millions? This was karma. Not at all justice, I knew that. But this was a godless culture. Things were bound to be different from what I had understood. With that golden centaur’s grin? He was . This was fun to him…

  Would it be for me?

  Hersheus attempted to bargain, “Garruuze! Enaufe! Yah caanh haave dah damnh crahwn! Takhe eet! Juuste let mee leavhe!”

  Garruz’s grin shrank to an unamused frown, “Byhe Rathaph’s maynhe, yah’re pathehteec! Ahye eckpekhteed yah tah bee a flahregeen, bhut dees? Nah wahndeer ahur cahmpaygnhs havhe stahlled fahr ceenturees!” The gold Peqan scrunched his eyes and placed his right hand between them, pinching a wrinkle in the space between in annoyed frustration. He then jerked his head upward, as a horrific idea arose in his head. He turned around, walked towards the distant wall, and, with his left hand, grabbed the club still oozing with Peqan blood. He then trotted to me and offered it, “Nahme?”

  Confused and partially frightened of the implication, I dumbly asked, “Whaht?”

  His gray eyes squinted, and he casually punched my chest twice in rebuttal, “Nay-meh?”

  I remembered Casimir’s words. My actual name was lost to me, with only my symbolic calling as a suitable reference. So, I responded, “Pahle.”

  Garruz tilted his head back in disappointment, “Whaht a terreeblhe cahlleeng… Hahte it. Ahy’ll cahlle yah Maghnus, geeven dah bodhy yah ahrn’t sahppahsed tah havhe.” He rolled his head forward and offered the club, “Takhe eet.” He gestured his head towards Hersheus to his right as he did so.

  I was horrified, “Nah, nah, nah! Dees ees… Ahy ayn’t onhe ahv yah—”

  The gold Peqan slapped me with force that reverberated through my body with so little physical effect as to render it a mere strong wind. But the emotional damage was a freight train, as he swiftly demanded, “Yah arhn’t a sheepe anhymahre, fuul! Yah ahre a Peqan! Andh dees ees anh hahnahr dat yah shant reefuse. Eet es eat ahr bee eatenh.” He sensed the spiraling doubt in my blue eyes, recognizing their unfamiliarity within Maghnus’s form. He shook his head, glaring momentarily at the cowering gray Peqan, before he wrapped his right arm around my neck. As blood dripped from his body onto mine, he advised, “Leezen, ‘Pahle’... Agh, hawh blaspheemahs… Dah laste theeng mah fatheer taughte mee beefure Ahy slewh heem was dees:

  Ahr hahweveer yah sheepe wahuld saye eet. Yah eytheyr daye weeth purpahse en yah heart, ahr yah daye weeth regreets. Wheech dah yah chahse?”

  Don’t you dare go hollow…

  I wasn’t going to leave this place without a fight. These beasts only know one language:

  Violence.

  Only one way to learn it.

  I nodded to Garruz as he offered the club again. I grasped it, its weight no more than a dandelion, with this body’s strength. This was used against me… I observed it and then swiftly tossed it outside the room.

  Hersheus wasn’t worth the irony.

  As I approached the doctorate Peqan, Garruz chuckled under his breath, admiring our complementary methodologies. I grasped the gray Peqan’s throat and raised him high; his weight was nothing with the support of my residual hatred of him.

  |This wasn’t right…|

  I ignored it.

  He desperately pleaded with me to release him, as his screams echoed through the entire excision-ship.

  |No, seriously. This really isn’t what you should be doing.|

  I ignored it.

  I glared into his white eyes as I clenched harder and harder upon his throat, his wheezing growing more and more desperate.

  |Please… This isn’t how you should save yourself. Not with this hatred and desire for blood.|

  I ignored it.

  Twist and snap. Crack and pop. He died instantly. It was so easy…

  |By God, what have I done…|

  It was satisfying. Not enjoyable, but certainly cathartic. I felt... Relieved.

  I killed a person, even if they were vile…

  No, this was a demon! I am a demon! Human morality doesn’t apply to me anymore. I am a Peqan, not a man… Not… Anymore…

  I am a human soul. That hasn’t changed.

  I was triumphant, yet this was such a horrific failure.

  There is no glory along this path I walk now. Excuses and hypocrisy grow like weeds along the grove. Let them sprout the Cuscuta upward from the dirt instead of downward from the trees. Bridges to a new forest demand that I become wayward again. I was being blinded again…

  I could still stop this… No, I couldn’t. I can’t walk away from this. Strong as I am now, I appeared as a Peqan. I would be a Peqan.

  And thus I am to become a Peqan. I was human in that moment. After enough time… I thought I wouldn’t be.

  The icterine parasite within me wanted to grow fat on sanguine. Its charm was the whisper of a succubus tempting Solomon with another wife from his enemies. And with every enemy of God, Lilith commands:

  …

  Impressive. Most sheep are far too stupid to listen to the undeniable logic. This “Pahle” is already better than all of them have ever been.

  Bah. What soft-brained imbecile names their son “Pahle”? Was he wishing for his failure with such a useless badge of heresy? Good thing he is not lowering himself to that comatose standard.

  He even rejected using the club. So he isn’t ignorant of what Maghnus truly is. Though he went for a quick snap of the neck on Hersheus. I would have personally torn him apart, but all colts begin as virgins to this art. Besides, he is a sheep-soul. They huff on lilies and roses far too much. That will take time to cleanse from his soul. Peace is never an option. It atrophies us all. With his first kill, Maghnus is on his way to a glorious transformation…

  What is he doing standing still? Ah, right. He’s doing that contemplation thing that floral races do once they first take a life. He’ll get over it soon, given that he is in Maghnus’s body. I forget myself. Hersheus didn’t recycle him properly. We’ll deal with the side effects if they come. Symptoms of the rot can be cured in the Caldron.

  Hersheus’s neck was far too thin for this crown. It shall be a glorious sigil for my promotion. Now this is how you usurp, you dumb gray! Poison was cowardice! You are supposed to fight, not scheme…

  Yet I didn’t kill you, did I? The Mustang did… He is stronger, faster, and smarter than I ever could be, albeit completely ignorant of how to use it properly. I have conquered all the foes I have come across. This sheep-soul? If I can hone him right, he would make a powerful Reyengre.

  This breaks the Words, I know. But if it means our people are stronger? I will gladly sip on this bile.

  I feel guilty for this. I have never once ruptured a single one of the Words, so the weight of this is far more than I would expect.

  But I love my people, and I cannot stand the infection spreading from the rust and hemlock stench. This will be worth it.

  He shall honor me as I honored my own father, and he his father. How fortunate that all my sons failed over the centuries. I still remember their collective taste of disappointment. Maghnus will not fail. He will be our pride.

  I shall bear this crown of spines.

  For now, we have a discussion to make. And waste to clear.

  -Maghnus. Maghnus… Your ears stuffed or something? Maghnus!

  -Agh! What do you want?

  -Never utter ‘Pahle’ to another of our kind. Understand?

  -Why? Is it forbidden?

  -Like bile on the ground. The utmost sickness to us.

  -What is this obsession with bile?

  -You sheep-spawn and other races can vomit out your bile. We cannot. To vomit is to dishonor Rathaph.

  -Who is this Rathaph, and why is bile so dishonorable?

  -Rathaph is our god and origin. All the Peqani ancestors joined him in a holy transformation. They became Peqans, such as with the old warrior you have the body of. Rathaph detests bile. Waste of that which we consume. You dejes do it constantly when sick. Such a gluttonous race the sheep are…

  -are gluttonous? The Eggmen are far gluttonous!

  -Gluttony is not hunger. It is waste. Besides, the Albumen are far worse than gluttonous.

  -Guess we share in our hatred of them, don’t we?

  -Yes. Enough talk. Let us eat.

  -Eat? Eat… What, exactly?

  -The cowards, obviously! What other food is there? You slew one yourself! By the Words of Rathaph, Hersheus’s body is yours to devour. I am willing to share my bounty with you if you hunger for it. I have more than enough to sate myself for a few days. Cannot let any of this go to waste. It would disgrace Rathaph.

  -You are joking.

  -We do not play with our food, unlike you liricons. EAT.

  -Fuck… No, this is… I can’t!

  -You want to be force-fed again?

  -You… You know about that?

  -I saw it within the surgical logs. I worked security on the . Tuks’ heart was a glorious offering. I have to complement the rotten egg with that choice. Once in a kidney stone for them. Sheep-forms are deserving of so much worse, given their weakness and cowardice…

  -You keep calling humans “sheep”. We aren’t animals, you bastard. We are people, just like you. Even if you are demonic.

  -Start. Eating.

  -Fuck you… Oh, God… This tastes awful. Like bleach mixed with piss and rotten chicken fat. This texture… It’s like sandpaper and shoe leather… Dear Jesus… My hands are shaking as if they were exposed to the blizzards back home…

  -You’ll get used to it, huba.

  -I… This damn texture! Can we cook this, at least?

  -Cooking bodies changes their fiber. It transfigures the sinew into that which was not the living life. They die cowards, you will eat them as the cowards they are.

  -You call these Peqans “cowards”. Why would you not want to dishonor them?

  -You would abuse Rathaph’s right?

  -What?

  -Peqani souls are his. They will be recycled as they are supposed to be: honored, desecrated, doomed, or ascended. Our brethren will be operated on as the cowards they are. Cook, and you change what their legacy is.

  -Their legacy is nothing. They were cowards in your culture… They are damned anyway! Ah, I hate this! How could you eat any of this?

  -With respect for the Words. Ah, Reesh tastes as wonderfully as I expected. His skin is crunchy, though. Interesting. You should be more ravenous! I am already halfway done with Reesh, here! We’ll make it a competition once you can keep up, so no worries. Savor Hersheus! Your shift into Peqani is in phases. The more and more you adjust, the easier it will be.

  -This is insane… Oh, God…

  -Who is this “God” you keep mentioning?

  -God… As in, the Almighty?

  -Oh, you mean Mazhivada? I thought the Pantheon was devoured on Euzoth. Not the religion us Peqani follow, but we share its locus.

  A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

  -No, you dumb brute. The Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit. The Father in Heaven, Jesus Christ, and the Dove?

  -The Fool? Bah! Have the descendants of Noah continued to be misled by his passivity?

  -Take it back, you damn horse.

  -Take back, sheep-spawn?

  -Renounce Him being a “fool”. There is no one wiser than He.

  -Your breath reeks of sugar lilies. Why would you ever follow a divine that feeds you lies and leaves you to rot? The other gods are proactive. They journey with us. They work with us towards greater battles. Greater feasts. The Fool? He allows you sheep to waste away in constant cycles of waste and war. Why do you think you were swallowed whole? You will not be vomited out. You are Peqan now. The remnants of your sheepishness will be digested within the stomach of Hazgaia. I can guide you towards something better than being just another charred piece of mutton for that Fool in Heaven.

  -You will regret these words.

  -Indulge or expel the truth as you will, reality does not change.

  -Command that to your reflection, defiler.

  -I am only trying to help you, Mustang.

  -All that talking has slowed you down. I am catching up.

  -So it a competition? Good.

  …

  My priestess has seduced Israel with my wonders by straying the king away towards one of my many faces. The bread of this nation’s devotion became mine to suckle on. Such an intoxicating feeling to steal away that which is His! That pest of a prophet spoiled much of what I wished for the charlatan couple to do, especially that whore of a king. At the very least, she did enough to gestate Israel towards my flame before she glorified me one final time. How the dogs gobbled her up was a masterpiece!

  Ben’s subjects should be besieging Samaria by now. Let me check on how they are enjoying themselves…

  Ha! Now that is an indulgence for certain! Eighty sheckels for an ass’s head? Five for a piece of dove dung? How exquisite! If nothing else, this is already a decent refrection.

  Oh? Do my eyes see right? Oh, yes! Child cannibalism! In the presence of my own self? Ah! How wonderfully ignorant! How bold of them to assume that Joram would keep me away from their dinner table. I am still there whenever such violations occur. It is what I am. Violation is my skin, and child sacrifice is my heart.

  Amusing reaction, Joram. And yet you want to behead the prophet instead of revealing your own incompetence? You are the worst qualities of my priestess and the whore. Enough nerve to turn me away superficially, yet not enough to discard me completely. Like trapping a lion within the city’s deepest dungeon, when there is no locked cage to keep him from leaving. I have been buried before, and I already reign from the third darkest pit. What does he hope to achieve when he buried me in such luminous depths?

  He looks ridiculous in those undergarments! Was he prepared to mourn? Over what, the fact that his city is in a famine that would make Dagon hesitate? Marvelous hypocrisy to my ears! Go on, continue to hate on the prophet who will no doubt give another morsel of hope to the masses. Let me guess, the son of Shaphat will foretell that affordable food will be coming to the stalls soon?

  Flour and barley at the gate for hardly anything… What recipe are you attempting to follow, Aravat? I guess it matters not; I will allow it. Joram’s performance has dulled the luster of the Samaritans. What a shame…

  What’s that noise? Like chariots, war cries, and fleeing fools? Oh, Aravat, now I see what you are doing. Here come four of Samaria’s lepers to gather the flour and barley from the Aramean camp to sell at the gate. And after that, Ben’s armies scattered to the wind. So ends the siege. So ends my feast.

  On the bright side, the Samaritans resorted to cannibalism a few times. How beautiful…

  I need something more sustainable than this. I am still craving so much more. I miss the Pantheon’s abundance. How I grew fat from it… Say, why don’t we concoct that scheme again? Given what Aravat is planning? We may be able to use this to our advantage… Dagon and Beelzebub would know better than I on how to do that…

  Yet, is there a point to that, knowing that we will eventually fall? Perhaps I do need to change my outlook. Savor the defilements that come, so the next appetizers will taste better… Such a terrible dilemma to be in.

  It just isn’t the same. It will never be the same.

  That is, unless Mazhivada swallows Aravat whole. If that were the case?

  I would dine on the suffering of all forevermore! Fatter than the Flylord’s gut! Hungrier than the Locust’s bottomless stomach! I would be eternally happy; I would drink from Zagan’s fountain of youth, which splashes with the droplets of saffron wine, as endless vineyards of icterine berries marvel at the festivities of foreverafter!

  It is but a wayward dream. It is but a wayward dream.

  …

  I had successfully eaten a horse. It was the most disgusting, most vulgar, most depraved abomination I had done to that point.

  Cannibalism, and so casually, too.

  To eat is to pray. To devour is to sacrifice. To fight is to study Scripture. That was the way Peqans worked. I was understanding that, clearly.

  And I was learning quickly.

  “Shahl we cahnteenya?” Garruz asked with Reesh’s blood dripping from his sawtooth mouth. “We havhe pleenty mahre bahdees to geet thrah.”

  I huffed the butchered Iodine air coursing throughout the ship, wondering just how quickly this infection would spread. Would this Kuru burrowing into my head become my new autonomous driver? Would I become a vehicle for its twisted game? Ataxia, dysarthria, pneumonia. The path to a metaphysical death. Was this to be my fate?

  I didn’t change it then. I didn’t believe I could change it.

  Relapse my brain into carnage.

  I rose from the remaining blood staining the surgical tiles below, as I followed Garruz into the hallway. He picked up the remains of the sabino Peqan and offered it to me, “Ay’ll take dah ahther ahne dah dahr. Eet’s stell a cahmpeteteon.”

  I grimaced at him, taking the dead Peqan by the scruff of his nape, “Whaht du Ay geet eef Ay ween?”

  Garruz stopped and glared back at me, confused, “Whaht du yah mean?”

  Noticing the amused bewilderment of a cultural unknown, I elaborated, “Layke a reewardh? Eef Ay ween, Ay geet… Cahmpeensateon?”

  “Ah… Layke dah rayghts to a fabeenceelah. Ay see, ay see… Aren’t yah greedy?”

  I raised my eyebrow as both my ears twitched in different directions, “Fabeenceelah? Dahn’t knahw whaht dat ees…”

  The gold Peqan approached me, dipping his head side to side momentarily while doing so. He pat my right shoulder with his left hand, explaining, “Yah’ll see. Eet ees buht ahne ahv dah hayghest hahnahrs any Peqan can bee grantedh.” He paused a moment and considered my logic, before he figured, “Ah! Ay knawh! My spear! Devahr mahre bahdees dan mee and eet’s yahrs!”

  He turned back to his next meal, which lay beyond the closed door before him. He walked with a reserved confidence, before I reflexively wondered aloud, “And waht du yah want?”

  He briefly considered my conjecture, albeit not seriously. The competition was what mattered to him, in truth. He dismissively answered, “Dat… Shell yah was tryeeng tah wearh as a hat.”

  What shell… Oh, yeah, the crab. Forgotten about my cauldron for my first meager meal in Hazgaia, amidst all these massive courses before me. Not to mention everything else... I didn’t see it or anything else in the surgery room when I awoke from the palace.

  “Whaht happenedh tah everytheeng else Ahy was weareeng?”

  “Wee burnedh whaht was naht flesh, seenew, ahr bahne. As are dah Wahrds, dat wheech ees naht ahv meat es heresy to use ahr wear ahr eat. Dah hat was dee ahnly theeng naht usedh fahr ather means.”

  My rosary… His rosary… These bastards, they… No. It was still on my actual body back on Earth. It wasn’t actually gone, but… Not having it here, around my neck, makes me feel… Alone.

  Who will watch over me without it?

  The conversation ended then, as the door opened once more with the sound of sandpaper gliding on leather. The hat was all I could have as a relic of my past, even if in this dream. It is all I have left.

  I welcome all the viscera I must if it means I can adorn that shell again.

  Several hours passed. The competition was neck and neck. Twenty-three to twenty-three. There were three bodies left, both of us on two different ones. Whoever got to the third one would be the victor. Talking had ceased between us, given the stakes on my part. That shell is mine, not his! And I get his spear for the trouble as well? Oh, how I feasted truly upon the marrow and muscles of my brethren!

  Never did I feel the implosive pressure of satiety. It was a constant hunger. More and more and more!

  I wanted more! I would have more than my rival did!

  We both finished our final appetizers mere seconds apart, as we both scrambled to the main course. I was closer, but he was faster. I rushed the corpse with all the might my legs could muster, and as he closed the distance, mere inches away from the corpse:

  I took the first bite. Twenty-five to twenty-four.

  My fellow Peqan grinned widely at his defeat, ecstatic about my enthusiasm, “Well dahne, Maghnus! Nahw that was hahw yuu cahmpete! Suppahse yuu sheep can fight, afterall. Perhaps this will wahrk aht in the end.” I was too busy feasting on the final dead Peqan to discuss anything, at first. He chuckled, “Enjahy yahr meal, my friend. Let me gah find my spear and that shell yuu didn’t want me tu have…”

  I stopped, noticing his implication, “Yuu tricked me.”

  He chuffed and snorted, “Why wuldn’t I? Yuu sheep-spawn are predictable. I have wahrked with thahsands ahv yah befure restahrahteahn. Sahme ahbjects are so impahrtent tu yuu.”

  I snarled at him, annoyed with this horse’s cunning, “Yuu weren’t gahing tu take it at all, were yuu?”

  He only shook his head, with that blood-soaked smirk on his face. Bastard. He walked away after that, while I reluctantly devoured the remains of the corpse.

  Twenty-five corpses I consumed, skin, bones, organs, and all. All to preserve a fucking shell.

  I belongin the center of hypocrisy, to be constantly humiliated alongside Antichrists.

  Contemplation was set aside at the onset of new noises. Grinding molars shifted wildly along the wool carpet. Cracking bone fragmented onto the surface of the floor and the scaled walls. Broken chitin shards shattered like glass and embedded themselves in the surrounding furniture and the wool.

  “DAMN THAT FLAHRIGEN CEMIER! WHERE DID HE PUT THEM!?” Garruz screamed out in frustration as he bolted out of his room towards other parts of the ship, seeking his quarry. His voice reverberated down the hall, a command intoxicated with fury, “Where is that damnable midget?!”

  Alone once more since my time on the desert planet, I rose from the deep blue puddle below and entered his ramshackle chambers. Even amidst all the chaos strewn in the massive room, Peqani design philosophy was quite apparent. Each of the four walls was decorated with gray scales, large and triangular, from a large, reptilian beast. The ceiling was a series of four trays that gradually rose higher and higher, beginning with twenty-two feet and ascending by two more feet with each tray until the final tray’s elevation of thirty feet. The texture, color, and composition of the ceiling were most similar to that of dried burnt fat; the faint smell, appropriately, was most similar to that of coal after a Saturday night barbecue. Within each tray were four bands of urine-yellow lights, each of which washed the giant bedroom in a putrid, warm glow.

  The wreckage of the furniture was monumental. Sternum bookshelves and tables lay splintered and shattered. Bioluminescent thorax-lamps were cracked on the floor, oozing their green, phosphorescent fluid onto the blue wool carpet. Translucent blue and green chitin fragments littered the walls and the floor like seashells on the beach. The couch at the center of the room had been overturned multiple times. Its surface had folded on itself like three layers of fat. The modestly decorated, gray & blue couch was massive, easily able to hold the weight of the Peqan that slumbered upon it.

  I continued to wander around, observing the fragmented spoils of Garruz’s chambers. Amongst the rubble, on a lone table of keratin, was my crab hat, appearing just as it did when I found it. I lifted the shell and observed it. With my greater size, the shell appeared more proportional to that of an actual horseshoe crab. I then noticed a few straps of black silk that had some kind of interlocking buckle, which itself appeared to be constructed from small fish bones… Did Garruz craft this? Why would he bother making this shell into an actual hat that could be worn? Honor? Curiosity? Amusement? Or perhaps this was another way for him to corral me into his desired role for me? I didn't know what that golden bastard was thinking.

  Observing the shell further, I also noticed that Garruz had cut a couple of grooves into what would have been the compound eyes of the crab. Aligning the hat correctly upon my head, I discovered that these grooves were meant for Peqani horse ears to pop through. I buckled the four straps around my head and secured them firmly. The rounded carapace passed just a few inches past the back of my head, while the abdomen stretched a few inches past the front of my snout.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I caught a sparkle of a dull yellow glint. I approached it and saw that the light was reflecting from a gray-yellow chitin-wrapped rib functioning as a door handle. The door looked to be constructed from a sheet of laminated scales, colored in grays and muted blues. I turned the handle, finding it to be Garruz’s restroom, which had the hint of the aroma of duck fat if it were bleach. At the end of the rectangular chamber was a colossal, chitinous, gray, circular shaft in the floor. Next to it was a pedal built from a massive shoulder blade. Within the shaft was a needle-like protrusion, dripping with liquid, presumably water. After a few moments, I realized that this was a Peqani toilet, complete with a bidet.

  I peered away from the toilet and noticed my reflection to the left of me. The mirror was similar to the door in that it was a single laminated sheet of scales; in this case, it was hundreds of tiny fish-like scales, each perfectly reflective of my ivory stature. My musculature was unmatched within any sense of human capability, while my fur and skin were perfectly radiant in their white and deep-gray coloration. My black mane was majestic in its length and shimmering quality, while my eyes… Were still blue. I then noticed that I was wearing a similar dorsal mantle to what Garruz was wearing, though this was a light blue with no emblem on it. The sink, colored the same as the toilet, had a faucet that was a hollowed rib, while the singular handle was a modest rodent’s malleable spine. Next to the sink were two giant squeeze bottles, which appeared to be grafted from smaller, hollowed-out ribs and femers. I squeezed both of them; one was a hand soap like lard with the scent of ambergris, while the other was a face wash with the scent of castoreum. Compared to the taste of Peqans themselves, these scents were that of a garden of spearmint.

  From the hallway, I began hearing the rhythmic clops of multiple sets of hooves, along with scarred leather being dragged. I exited the rooms to meet the Peqans outside, expecting stragglers from the previous massacre. But I noticed Garruz was amongst them, alongside one other, much smaller, horselion, which was being dragged along the tiles by the furthest left Peqan. That, relatively, tiny Peqan appeared more like a zebra than a horse, with his muted gray & black stripes and bristled mane. All of them were smaller than their gold-furred leader. Three of them were around ten feet tall, while the one on the farthest to my right was nine feet tall. Every one of them also wore dorsal mantles that matched Garruz. The zebra wore nothing, presumably to humiliate him.

  Garruz noticed me and pointed, “Ah, there he is! Thahght he might have wandered ahff! This is the sheep in Maghnus’s bahdy. Tahld yu he catches ahn quickly.”

  Despite their leader’s sentiment, the other Peqans weren’t so easily convinced. The furthest one to the left, of pitch black fur with a white stripe on his face, argued, “That’s the dimyahnaut? Garruz, with all respect due to yuu, he is a sheep-spawn. It's an anchor that may keep him from cahnquest! What du yu see in him that is sah different from any ahther of thahse liricons?” He swayed the zebra carelessly, causing him to wince in agony. Garruz grunted to him, and the black Peqan halted immediately.

  The one directly to their leader’s right, dappled white and black, supported this doubt, “Regardless ahv the glahry ahv his bahnes, their race prides itself on its capacity for decadent starvatiahn.”

  A dark khaki horse with a black mane, who was to Garruz’s left, retorted, “Buchalan, Balyeahn! Du yah fahrget why the Sata Prutucahl was ahrdered? A dimyahnaut is Rathaph’s sahle authahrity. Nah ahne else’s. The Wahrds are explicit in this.”

  The remaining, smaller Peqan, a midnight blue with a black mane and fiery yellow eyes, furthest right, remarked, “All yahr logics are as sahft as dahve feathers! If he can fight, then his steel will be pruven!” That same Peqan then charged me as if he were a territorial rhino. Before I could react to his challenge, Garruz gripped the fiery Peqan by his mane and slammed him into the ground, dismembering many of the bloodstained scales below in a shower of white and gray granules.

  “Ahrius, yu cabulle! Having the strength ahv a Peqan is naht the same as fighting like ahne! After he is taught by the rest ahv yuu, he will learn fahr himself in the Caldrahn like every ahther cahnvert.” Garruz relinquished Ahrius once he understood. He stood and turned his head to look at Buchalan. He gestured him to release their tiny prisoner. Once the prisoner was tossed in front of the group, Garruz glared down at his adversary and roared a bellowing, nasal neigh that even I felt in my lungs. The injured zebra immediately rose, shrieking due to his injuries, and pointed towards his room. The rest of us followed him, where he displayed something on the left wall. I squinted, as did the rest of my compatriots, but we couldn’t spot anything.

  Ahrius snorted in annoyance and inquired, “Xanthum, yahr eyes are guud. Yu see anything?”

  The khaki horse, shook his head and commanded, “Rahme, dahn’t waste time. Press the damn bahttahn. I have seen this trickery befahre.”

  The zebra hesitantly did so, and a series of cracked knuckles, squishing pants, and clacking teeth reverberated within the wall. Soon after, the scales of the wall shifted and expanded, revealing a walk-in closet brimming with all sorts of giant weapons. Battleaxes constructed from shoulder blades and femurs, claymores pieced together from ulnas and radii, warhammers crafted from skulls and humeri, spears sewn from sternums and spines, and even firearms forged with ribcages and finger bones. An entire armory, locked away from Peqani sight. I smirked, amused but also intrigued by this abuse of Peqani cecity for red. Or at least, most Peqans.

  But why could the zebra see red?

  Garruz was furious with this colorblind cunning, but he calmed himself swiftly after, ordering, “Mardis-spawn, leave. Nahw.” The zebra did so, fleeing as far as his wounded stated could. Once Rahme had departed the room, Garruz sighed, “Buchahlan, he’s yurs.”

  “Gladly, my crahwn,” the black Peqan departed, giving chase to the zebra. A few moments later, the pathetic cries of the small Peqan were stomped out by Buchahlan’s triumphant laughter. With his death, the sirens that I had long since grown used to had ceased. The Sata Protocol had ended. A drifting silence consumed the .

  Garruz grumbled as the silence festered. He walked to a keratin table at the end of the sterile white, chitin-walled armory. Upon that table was a decorated spear and a massive, round shield. The three-foot-wide shield appeared to be carved from a colossal creature’s vertebral column, given the discoloration from the spinal cord. He quickly wrapped the shield around his left forearm. After this, Buchalan returned with deep blue rivulets staining his lips.

  Garruz then clutched the spear, raised it above his head, and spun the armament with his fingers like a middle-schooler with a pencil, paying special reverence to the heft and weight of it; it was a carving chiseled from a single, massive femur. Fifteen feet long, each foot of the ossuary shaft was decorated with a circular band of green and gray chitin and adorned with twenty-six iridescent feathers. The tip of the spear was most peculiar of all. It was shaped like a spiral, almost like a digging drill, and was two feet long; each groove of the spiral sternum was painted gray, while the main drill itself was gold, appearing the same as the emblem upon his back.

  Garruz approached me, “Beautiful, isn’t it? This is what we Peqans are suppahsed tu be. Mighty are we few whu carry ahn the truth ahv ahur legacy.” He placed his closed fist at my eye level with his knuckles towards the sky, and finished, “We will make things right.” He dropped the spear, and I caught it, taking special care to caress its ancient texture. A weapon that has tasted the flesh of potentially millions of lifeforms. Beast, people, perhaps even divine. Fantasy tropes would demand a name for such an artifact, but would Peqani?

  Curious as ever, I asked, “Garruz, dahs this spear have a name?”

  All my brethren stared at me for a moment, wondering if I had truly asked something so stupid. Garruz and the other Peqans, except Ahrius, chortled recklessly once they realized I had said such a thing. Garruz responded, “Weapahns are weapahns, my friend, even for ancient artifacts like that wahne. Names belahng tu the living, naht the cahnsumed.” I squinted my eyes in annoyance, but didn’t respond otherwise. Garruz returned to the back of the room, while the other Peqans observed the many other weapons on display.

  Ahrius immediately snatched a giant mace with the head of a massive bird-like creature. Xanthum briefly considered the options before he picked up a claymore with massive, crocodilian-like teeth arrayed along the entire blade, similar to an Aztec Macuahuitl. Buchahlan glared around the room, as if annoyed at what he perceived as a limited arsenal, before he settled on two bone axes. Balyeahn carefully observed the array of weapons with consideration, patiently evaluating which would suit his desires the best; he eventually picked up a scoped rifle with a bayonet that extended past the barrel by about a yard. They each left the armory and Garruz’s quarters, awaiting further instructions within the hallway. I began to follow them initially, but then another weapon caught my eye. It was some kind of gun, though I initially wasn’t sure what kind.

  I reflexively grabbed it, along with what I presumed was ammo for it, and observed it further. It appeared to be assembled from an orca-like skull. The canines were each six inches long and were honed to perfect sharpness. Wrapped around the underbarrel-jaw was a black leather brace, which I presumed was purely decorative. What would be the blowhole of the creature functioned as a magazine slot. Each magazine was a foot-long tube filled with a dark gray plasma, which shimmered like water reflecting the midnight moon. The handle was within the negative space of the mandible, while the trigger hung down from where the uvula would have been. Even at my current size, the skull-weapon consumed half of my right arm while I held it.

  When I dropped my arm down, the rest of the skull followed the drift of gravity. Confused by this, I raised my arm to the sky, and the skull drifted to the other side, following gravity like a zealot to his god. I pumped my arm to test a thought and, sure enough, the action went up and down; the mandible opened and shut with it. This was a shotgun.

  Let me tell you, the temporary giddiness I felt was like the rush of dopamine to the addict. But it faded just as quickly, as I remembered where I was.

  “Skull-cannahn caught yur eye?”

  I met Garruz’s gaze, “Ah, yeah. That’s what yuu call this?”

  Garruz nodded, and then he noticed how I was holding both weapons at once, “Having yahr hands full is inefficient. Hahld ahn a mahment.” He grasped the cannon, and I relinquished it. He turned it around and expanded a ossuary half-ring from the back, which resonated with a click within the armory. He gazed around for a few seconds before finding a black strap woven from silk-like hair follicles. He looped the strap around the half-ring of the cannon and then wrapped the strap around me. He gave a slight smile before he strapped a two-sided spear holster to my back and placed my spear to my left. He then grabbed a fur-sewn bandolier and buckled the bone clips around my chest, stuffing the many pockets with the ammo I grabbed. Before I could comment, he added, “Maghnus, Peqans can use bahth ahv their hands. Adaptability is ahur greatest strength in war.”

  He had the bravado, yet he was wrong. I wasn’t ambidextrous. I could certainly use my left hand better than I used to as a human, but I certainly couldn’t write with it. Discarding the thought, I shifted the spear to my right holster and shuffled my bandolier to a more comfortable position. We both left the armory and met with the others. We all followed Garruz for several minutes, passing by increasingly more sterile and gray chambers. Minimalistic bedrooms with drab, olive couches. A dining hall with massive, thirty-foot-tall, walk-in refrigerators. Bathrooms whose alkaline scent was so pungent that it rendered my iodine blood hydrochloric by comparison; within were gigantic, open showers with no curtains and drains that were…. Of convenient sizes and shapes (Peqans are centaurs, after all)...

  Garruz stopped and turned to the showers, “Get clean. The deck’s machinery reacts like slag tu water if they smell ahr blud.” My brethren began removing their silk mantles and tossed them into a giant basin almost five feet wide, which seemed to double as a dryer, given the fan blade that resided within it. They placed their holsters, weapons, and other items on ossified tables on the wall next to the main entrance. I did the same, taking special care with my shell hat, though with the intent of averting my gaze from my fellow Peqans as much as possible. There was a mirror behind the basin, which displayed my nakedness. I walked around the basin to further examine myself, and was once again faced with the obvious when I looked down:

  I am a horse.

  “Mustang! Start the washer, will ya? Make sure yuu put in sahme lard. We are bludy, but we aren’t like the Beel, with their ahpen flatulence.” Ahrius’s voice boomed from the right corner of the league of showers.

  “If I can figure aht hahw…” I affirmed, before stepping towards the basin. I then noticed the word he used, “Whu are the ‘Beel’?”

  Ahrius answered as I examined the washer, “Massive, fat flies. Yuu can smell ‘em frum the vacuum. Nah idea hahw.” I found a bar of lard, conveniently segmented out per load, and plopped one onto the mantles. I couldn’t read a single lick of the Peqani on the control panel, though. Ahrius sensed my confusion and commented, “Blue buttahn.”

  I pressed it, and the washer started with a screech akin to a suction-cup gliding on the floor. I entered the nearest shower, whose closet stallmate was Xanthum three stalls to my right, while Garruz was seventh in the same direction. I briefly observed the ulna-like handle, noticing a semi-circle groove that was split into two colors. Yellow on the right, blue on the left. Assuming yellow was warm water, I swiveled the handle in that direction. I was proven right, though the opaque liquid was disappointingly lukewarm. The taste and smell of the liquid were that of saltwater, yet with a discernible hint of iron. Wanting to gather information, I continued the discussion, “Fat flies, huh? Sahunds like sahme peeple I knahw.””

  Ahrius remarked, “Naht like these buggers. There’s fat, there’s ahbese, and then there’s the Beel. Every fuld and wrinkle ahv their flesh is rahten, with entire cahlahnies of vermin feasting ahn them. Never cleaned, their senses decay into the pits of their ahwn skin flaps.”

  I began washing my mane with lard that smelled of spiced fish oil, “Hahw the Hell du they survive, then?”

  Ahrius tapped his hooves a few times before uttering, “Billahns of slaves. Labur ahv an empire whuse greatest expahrt is the most debauched sexual fantasies.”

  Garruz chimed in, “Maghnus, they are the mahst pathetic peeple. Atrahphied, smuuth-brained, driven by unending depravity, cahwardly. They are senselessly glued tu their blasphemy machines, like ra’chis studying their mothers. Desires unearned from glahry stahlen frahm the slaves. They are sah lethargic that they created the Eggmen just tu du their wahrk fur them.”

  I paused, my hands and mane full of green-yellow suds, “The Eggmen? What exactly are thahse rahtten imps?”

  The voice of Buchalan boomed from the middle stall from across the wall, “The Eggmen are tube-spawn. Their magics and strength are naht earned thrahgh trial. Purely biahgenesis. Given everything, stamped with a number and sigil, and mutated through lust fur perversiahns.”

  “What kind ahv perversiahns?” I eyed a face wash that was a muted blue coloration; its scent was that of cooked lobster.

  “Naht anything we wuld du… The kind ahv abominatiahns that make fabincillas luuk like Garruz in comparisahn,” Xanthum added.

  Ahrius chuckled loudly, slapping the scaled wall in front of him six times, “I knew they were depraved, but that ? They get THAT excited frum shame?”

  Balyeahn, his form across from me, clarified, “Most ahv them du, Ahrius. That’s why mahst ahv them dahn’t make it past their first missiahns. The ahlder they get, they mahre sadistic they becahme. The balut within them matures and ferments.”

  My face freshly smelling of seafood, I transitioned to washing my chest with black lard from a massive gallon jug. I smeared it on my hands, and its odor was similar to that of bone broth and fried chicken. I then remarked, “So like the Eggman that fahnd me?”

  He chuffed with affirmation, “That bastard sadist has been arahnd furever. Believe his designatiun is ‘EWS-12’. He was trusted with capturing yuu fur a reasahn, dimyahnaut. The amahnt of wayfarers he has stahlen frum us ahver the millennia is… Unacceptable,” the dappled Peqan sighed just loud enough for me to hear, as my ears twitched slightly in response.

  “Wayfarers?” I had finished rubbing the lard on my right arm.

  The gold Peqan advised, “Wayfarers have their actual flesh with them when they crahss ahver. Yuu, a dimyahnaut, refurmed a bahdy ahn Theia… The desert yuu was wandering.”

  Left arm was done, and I transferred over to my backs. A few bristle brushes with elephant-sized femur helves hung next to the ivory shower haft. I grabbed one and placed the black broth lard onto it, and started on my human back.

  A moment of silence dropped between us, the sounds of six showers filled the air with steam and salt. A brief relapse of memories flooded into me. Gulf Shores, Mom and Dad playing volleyball against another couple underneath the scorching sun, me building the grandest and most intricate of sand castles with a strange girl, said fortress collapsing due to the encroaching tide, me and the girl getting lost, the excruciating pinch of a ghost crab, a few dead jellyfish blobs dotting the shoreline, and the unforgettable scent of her lavender hair. That ever was such a long time ago, though…

  My recollection was violently interrupted by the chortling laughter of Ahrius, “Unna made it fun fur us, having to chase yuu halfway acrahss the galaxy! Hersheus was fuming the entire time! Arrahgant fuul almsahst killed the Eggmen ahnce they bahrded! Even I knahw naht tu du that.”

  Balyeahn added, “EWS, especially.” All the others huffed in agreement.

  That had been bugging me for the entire time. While the Eggmen did escape long before the Sata Protocol trapped them inside the ship, it was clear there was something else going on. Why did some Peqans support the Eggmen while the others did not? Even with so little known about the horse-lions, this was a clear schism.

  Garruz responded, as if reading my mind, “The plagues of the Beel fester in many Peqans. Hersheus, a fahrmer crahwn, had such ahxidized heresy within him. We seek to eradicate this disease befure it cahnsumes us. Befure it infects Rathaph…”

  Buchalan then beckoned, “Garruz, permissahn to speak freely?”

  “Meat dahs naht raht ahn distant cahmets, Buchalan.”

  “Thank yuu, my crahwn. Hersheus’s influence was grand within the cahncil. Many ahv the ahther Reyens were just as cahrrupt as he was. What chance du we have against that? Against restahring ahur peeple tu what we shuld be?! Garruz, shuld we not —”

  “Buchalan. Naht… Anahther… Wahrd… We will speak later.”

  The striped Peqan grunted with the acknowledgement of his transgressions, “My deepest apahahligies…” A Peqan’s genuine remorse. How… Familiar… Perhaps that was why they called me a “sheep-spawn”.

  The pops of Nitrogen reverberated from Xanthum’s neck as he rolled his shoulders. I glanced at him and noticed a blank expression. Not emotionlessness. A poker face of contempt. Contemplation.

  The dappled Peqan expressed, “Buchalan, yuu have a better chance ahv finding the Deviled Witch than overthrahthing that cahncil of ahvscas.”

  Xanthum gruffly advised, “They are the cahncil, fuuls. Their Wahrds are greater than ahurs. And Garruz is but ahne warriahr amahngst them. The Wahrds are CLEAR.”

  My underside was next to be cleaned. And so much blood and salt had rained down over time. It still pooled underneath me, a maelstrom of deep blue sinking into the whirlpool that was the rubber drain.

  Ahrius revitalized the grim atmosphere and commented, “Damn, it has been ages since I learned of the Deviled Witch! An escaped fabincilla rahming the marshes ahn the sauthern cahntinent. Bunch ahv flahrigen sympathizers end up there due tu her seductive ways… I am naht…” He trailed off, as if realizing that he should not proceed with this topic.

  Rightly so.

  Xanthum and Balyeahn finished cleaning themselves first, as the saltwater pattering dwindled to the four remaining stalls. They each traveled to a set of double doors, colored with deep-yellow-green scales, and passed through. Garruz moved to the right of Buchalan’s stall. He whispered something to him that I was unable to discern. He then moved four stalls to his right and whispered to Ahrius as well. As he left, a noticeable gruff of distaste rumbled from Garruz. He knocked on the wall bordering the passageway to the showers across from me. I didn’t respond at first, so he repeated this. I gazed back, and he glared right at me.

  His naked form performed a gesture, where he mimed his left hand crushing his throat. I tilted my head in confusion, which he shook his head at with minor frustration. He put his index finger to his lips. I gave him a nod, and he returned to his stall.

  Several minutes of silence passed, and Buchalan had finished cleaning as well; the pattering had dwindled to three. Like the previous Peqans, he pranced through the double doors. Shortly after, the two other, now perfectly dry, Peqans left wearing clean silk-mantles identical to their previous vestments. After the brothers of Zephyrus grabbed their belongings and departed the bathroom, Garruz knocked on his stall’s left wall and shut off his shower. I did the same and followed him to the locker room.

  As we walked, I naturally asked, “What abaht Ahrius?”

  The old Peqan grumbled and shook his head in disappointment, “Yung cabulle hasn’t had a fabincilla yet, despite his triumphs. He has tu use the drain tu relieve himself. He wahn’t take lahng.”

  The burden of knowledge, sometimes…

  …

  Maghnus knows nothing of subtlety; his thoughts bleed from him like a headless fish. He thinks Xanthum is the problem. Not directly.

  We both follow the Words as our codex to life and truth. It is our passage to our ultimate triumph, after all the sinew & marrow is torn from us, and our souls return to Rathaph. Xanthum, always a true legalist, however, ignores the purpose of the Words. The Words are for the Peqans, not Peqans for the Words. Rathaph is who we need to follow more than the Words… That is the undeniable blister: “Rathaph’s words are law.” You do what he tells you to… Xanthum at least follows these Words to the letter. And yet…

  Something is misaligned. Obtusely so.

  Maghnus’s expression… It was the skeleton key to all this. He, a former sheep-spawn… He what red is supposed to look like. His face was not of surprise but amusement when Rahme pressed that button. The rage has faded. Confusion as set in… Xanthum had seen that cunning before. But Maghnus had just become a Peqan.

  Every restored wayfarer has had their mind wiped of their floral logic, so they wouldn’t have remembered it. And I had never had an opportunity to witness a sheep-spawn see red directly, at least to my knowledge. But with Maghnus… Is it because he is a dimyonaut, which prevented the wipe? Or was it because Maghnus’s body wasn’t ready for recycling? In either case, the chasm of truth is open wide:

  Sheep-spawn can see red…

  I had always been taught that we Peqans, even before the Banishment, never could, and that Mardis’s and his progeny of asses were given that ability for some “innate reason”. It was no special privilege. How and why did they keep it? I would consider the Fool, but then Mardis would have been struck with a tenfold curse compared to the rest, like with his father’s putrid saliva. At least, that’s what I have always been told…

  Why were we stripped of this? How much of Rathaph is truly gray? How much of it is crimson? Violet? Orange or brown, even? I don’t know these colors… No matter what I have heard from other buquedans like Rahme, all the scar tissue appears like blues, yellows, grays, or tans.

  How much gore has been obscured to us because of this… Betrayal? And who amongst us ripped out our eyes and replaced them with these blinded oracles?

  Was it Mardis? He has every incentive. The relation to his father, who has inherent ties to the Beel and Eggmen. But it has been eons since the Banishment. Has Rathaph been keeping Mardis at bay for this long? It’s possible, especially given the Treaty… And yet…

  Rathaph… All the historical records confirm his vermillion coloration. Every statue of his is described as being an exact copy of him, per the records written by other Mardis-spawn. Everything within Ratha-Ran was ordained by him. He knows red. He has always known red. Again, I originally considered this a privilege of our god, but now… If he could always see red, why would he not restore our sight to what we once had?

  And Mardis is but a mite compared to his greatness! Why does he not just stamp out this conspirator and be done with it, by his blood or exile? What reason would he not have, if he were truly the Rathaph that spoke the Words? Clemency with the Monitor and the Dyraqhi? Yolm was raised in the pit without ties to kin. His vileness festers within Gehenna. He is severed from care beyond convenience. And the Hingeman? He is the truest cowardice. A machine lizard emperor who has no crown. Only a halo of waste.

  I have to wonder… Was it mere proximity that made the Vrael assault us? The Massacre of Slough. Millions of us died on that planet. Coated violet in oceans of our blood, yet most of us see the oceans of Euzoth instead. We know of the carnage, not the full truth. The Vrael had every chance to wipe us away, like vermin in the gardens. Why didn’t they? Why did they stop?

  Something is misaligned… What… Is… It?

  -How do we dry ourselves, Garruz? …Garruz? You in there?

  -Ah… Go into one of the chambers. Switch the lever, and the fans will dry you from above and below. It won’t take long.

  -What is—

  -No. Not yet.

  Suppose I bleed like a headless fish as well, at times…

  The healing warmth of this air… Not “pahle”, as that would be an infection to our bodies. But, time to consider. Time to contemplate. Time to… Doubt. Just how much needs to be repaired? Or perhaps, if the thought would be given, how much was already poisoned the moment Mardis became the Chilliarch?

  Both of them are red… And no Peqan is known to be of Rathaph’s seed. What a wrinkleless convenience.

  Is this doubt heresy? Guilt does not consume me. Yet, it is there, like skin stuck in the throat.

  I need an informant. I need the truth about why we are blind.

  -AH! I feel MUCH better!

  -Ahrius! Keep your pleasures to yourself.

  -Oh, come on! You're acting like you haven’t used a drain before, Buchalan.

  -Because I never had to. I am not as prolific as Garruz, but I have visited the barns many times. A shame the fabincillas have only granted me ra’chis, so far. No sons to challenge me…

  -Lucky you! I still haven’t had the chance!

  -A “chance”? Ahrius, you are only a couple of centuries old, nor have you properly earned it.

  -Enough, you two chortling cabulles. Get dried and dressed. Reporting to the Excazajor is our priority now. Then we will finally be able to return to Rathaph.

  -Rathaph… So that’s the name of your home, as well?

  -Birthplace for all of us. Not the Peqans themselves. That would be Slough.

  -What are they like?

  -Rathaph is a plain of gray and blue wilderness, with tens of thousands of barns dotting the face of Grasun. At the center is our thoracic cavity, the capital city, also called Rathaph. We settled the planet after Slough was rendered and boiled after the Massacre. Slough is a liquid graveyard due to the Vrael. Bastard foxes…

  -Foxes? Like the ones on Earth?

  -What spit do you speak, Mustang? What is “Earth”?

  -He means Euzoth, Ahrius. That’s what the sheep-spawn call it. Get used to calling it “Euzoth”, Maghnus. It will only cause confusion.

  -Understood, though not sure if that matters.

  -It does. Just keep mentions of “Earth” to yourself… As for the Vrael, they are the people of the second-largest empire within Hazgaia, second only to the Dyraqhi. Giant fox-folk of grand colors, reflecting the visible spectrum. Their talons are sharper than any Peqani spear, while their maws contain sun-breath and teeth to devour the darkest of Father Weaver’s followers. They are pious crusaders who have committed genocide in the name of their despondent Wrath... Curse him!

  -The Wrath?

  -The bastard has gone by many titles, all of which he has sewn unto his thigh. We Peqans call him Khepthra. The Eggmen and Beel sputter Khaivazh’na. But all of us refer to him as the Wrath. Appropriate for the god of truest destruction.

  -I see. Who is—

  -Father Weaver? The one the Wrath killed. That’s the end of it. You’re dry. Put on a mantle, get your things, and wait outside with the others. Buchalan? Go with him.

  -By your command… His questions… Like a colt in the wilds.

  -He’s a dimyonaut. Curiosity is a part of how he got here. Doubt is healthy, after all. The flesh harvests the truest sinew when doubt is grown from it.

  -Aye… When are we—

  -Later. Go.

  Buchalan… A loyal soldier, through and through. Reliable… If not careful with his own speech. He needs to keep his own curiosity to himself. Speaking of curiosity…

  Maghnus doesn’t look convinced. So I was right about what the rotten egg shouted about, even through his weak-willed words and the bloodshed. The Wrath has visited him. No wonder he has blue eyes. I was too harsh on Hersheus. His haste actually SAVED us from worse.

  The Wrath’s will is stronger than any spirit that exists. Maghnus had the strongest will of all Peqans. He faced the impossible trial of that Troa and nearly won. If any Peqan were to resist the temptations of Khepthra’s lies, it would be Maghnus.

  But how long can a beaver dam hold out against a crimson tide?

  -Ahrius! Hurry up!

  -Garruz, I am not even—

  -The stagnant air will do enough. Get dressed. Quickly.

  -By the Excazajor’s hooves… Alright, I have it on.

  -Let’s move.

  Rathaph needs to be told. He MUST be told of this…

  Good. The rest of them are waiting.

  -Come on, you four. Let’s go home.

  -Garruz, you look—

  -Buchalan. I know, but now is not the time. Rathaph is expecting us.

  Glad he caught my intention. Maghnus has caught on as well. Balyeahn's eyes clench upon me like a hunter’s, though. He can’t prove the existence of invisible lesions. We need to be careful.

  -Crown, the doors are locked.

  -That they are… If only the pilots weren’t floral fools themselves… Xanthum, you remember the code?

  -Ah… Yeah, been a while, but I should. 36… 17… 16… After that? Oh yes. 115… 13… 91… There you go. Like severing a liar’s tongue.

  -Why do those…

  -What is it, dimyonaut?

  -Uh… Nevermind. It’s nothing. Shall we?

  -Garruz, after you.

  Such a modest command deck for a ship such as this! The deserves better. We’ll have a lot of work to do…

  -Xanthum, Balyeahn, you have the most experience as ship operators. You will pilot this vessel.

  -What about the rest of us?

  -Ahrius, Buchalan, man the head-cannons. Maghnus? Sit back and learn.

  -As you wish… One question.

  -Yes?

  -What are we about to do?

  -I need to confirm the end of the Sata Protocol with Rathaph. Then, we will be tearing through a follicle from here… Balyeahn, where are we?

  -Just outside of the Atvastan heliopause. Protocol stopped a tear from going to… Jiok?! Why would…

  -Hersheus… Maghnus, did the Eggman mention anything about a “Yolm”?

  -Now that you say that, yeah. Apparently, Hersheus and the others were to have, if I understood that octopus egg correctly, seats at Yolm’s side. Who the Hell is Yolm?

  -The Dyraqhi King, Mardis’s youngest brother… Hersheus, you rust-drowned heathen. What favor was he expecting the Eggmen to give him? The Dyraqhi betray their own subjects constantly. “Seats”? Sure, seats on the buffet line that leads directly into Yolm’s maw! We were the ones who did Hersheus a favor, truly.

  -I see… And I assume we are going to the capital after?

  -Yes. That’s where your training will begin. We’ll talk about that later. Now, to set up this transpondence… There we go! Link transfigured!

  -Rathaph! Finally got that under control.-

  -About damn time, Garruz. Hundreds of fabincillas could have been made pregnant in that span. What took so long?-

  -A buquedan locked the armory behind colorblind trickery. All of our weapons were hidden inside there or destroyed. We had to find the midget so he could reveal it for us. Sata Protocol ended with his death. Rest of us had to clean up and re-dress, as per excision-ship policy.-

  -Fine. Report?-

  -Protocol is a success. All one hundred and twenty-one floral or rusted Peqans have been consumed by the six of us remaining. Eggmen left before the doors shut.-

  -Grand. No problems on that end. Continue.-

  -The will have to be put into quarantine for cleansing. Otherwise? No abnormalities.-

  -Standard operations verified. Well done, Reyengre. The ship is yours, by right. Tear through the follicle at your earliest convenience.-

  -Thank you, Excazajor… But, there is one thing I have to report above all else.-

  -Spit it out.-

  -.-

  -Are you certain?-

  -Yes. His eyes are the key.-

  -By the salt on my brow… How fortunate that Hersheus pursued the Apus after all! Maghnus is the only body that can withstand him for long. You will have everything you need. Excazajor level approval. Convert his mind as quickly as possible. Do whatever you have to. At most, we have a year.-

  -By your might, Excazajor. We will excise this horror from him.-

  -Is that everything, then? I would hope nothing else is of that scale.-

  -No, not even close. Hersheus’s motivations seem to be…-

  -Curses. Something else of urgency has frothed up. We will discuss more later. Get here as quickly as you can. The Scarab will NOT have him.-

  -We will tear through to Rathaph for this glorious act of Lehitadam. We will return soon.-

  -I look forward to it. Oh yes, dimyonaut? I have something for you. Think of it as a precious souvenir…-

  -What are you talking about, Rathaph?-

  -Mind your tongue, boy! You are talking to…-

  -It’s not a problem, Xanthum.-

  -My most sincere apologies, Excazajor-

  -Not a worry, friend. Anyway, I am talking about a little… Morsel for you to chew on, so to speak.-

  -Suppose I don’t have a reason to refuse. Let’s hear it.-

  --