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The Unwoven City
Falling through six stories of ozone-laden mist felt less like falling through air then falling through cold mercury. The great roar of the Loom was muffled and vibrated directly against Rowan's teeth. Shadows of great cast-iron flywheels, great wooden support beams and braided copper cables burned like white hot iron, passed him by. He didn't strike the ground. The great gold geyser of liquid that had erupted from the broken valve had snagged the central harness mid-motion, and halted the massive shuttle of the city's iron track. Thousands of translucent thread lines erupted upward like over-tight harp strings, a glowing, taut web five feet above the lower platform. Rowan slammed bodily into the web, back-first. The copper-silver strands didn't part his leather duster, but engulfed him like a net of liquid fire, taking the impact away from his bones in a high, singing note that echoed in the hollow chambers of the vault. He laid there for a long moment, catching his breath,
Blood On the Loom
The stairwell ended abruptly in the chamber of a cathedral, but not one that any man would have recognized. The Cathedral was an enormous space, its ceiling lost in a thick ceiling of grey, ozonated mist.Here, on the deepest level of the Cathedral, the Great Loom was nestled in the bedrock: an immense mechanical mountain of ancient oak beams, cast iron flywheels, and six story tall brass tension drums. From the ceiling vaults, thousands of translucent silver copper cables hung down to a central, iron bound harness, which clattered and boomed with the rhythmic throb of a great heartbeat.CLACK-CLACK. WHIRR. CLACK-CLACK.With every stroke of the great wooden shuttle against the central iron harness, a blinding shockwave of violet light shot along the cables, sending great echoing vibrations down through the stone floor.On the high catwalk, just above the central harness of the Loom, stood Vesper. Her silver scarred arms were braced against a pair of massive brass levers as she battled
The Phantom Ward
The resonance wave did not roar it's way through the catacombs, but hummed it's way through, vibrating Rowan's fillings until his teeth ached. When Rowan opened his eyes the heavy granite arches of the Ossuary were gone, and the stone sarcophogus Sterling had fallen upon had also vanished, along with the pale powdery bone-dust beneath his knees. Instead now there stretched an endless flat plain of grey slate, as cold as river-ice. He sat up slowly, gasping in air that tasted of nothing. "Sterling?" Rowan rasped, his voice coming out hollow, as if he was shouting into an empty iron drum. Ten yards away a dark coat shifted against the grey slate. Lord Sterling pushed himself up onto his elbows, his tailored charcoal suit torn across the ribs, revealing white silk stained with arterial crimson. His silver pocket-watch lay in the dust beside him, the crystal cracked, it's inner workings frozen mid-revolution. "I'm here," Sterling muttered, wiping a trail of blood from his chin wi
The Secondstrand Drops
The air in the Cathedral of the High Loom smelled of cold frankincense and burning tallow, but in the sweet incense ran the metallic tang of dry blood. Rowan leaned against a towering marble pillar, his breath coming in ragged, shallow gasps, arms bare to the shoulders, his blood-soaked linen sleeves torn away, his golden veins tracing no more fine lines over his skin, but thick, radiant braids that pulsed visible light up and down his arms, casting long, geometric shadows over the fluted stone. Sterling stood ten paces ahead at the very edge of the cathedral, his dark duster dusted in white plaster, the ceiling having fallen in around him in the last few minutes. In his hand he held open his silver pocket watch, watching the hands spin backwards in lazy, rhythmic sweeps. "The Cathedral was built over the First Vault in '04," Sterling said, facing forward as he spoke, his voice devoid of any emotion as he watched the hands continue their backwards progress. "The architects use
What the Void Forgets
The golden mist issuing from the broken pane of the Great Looking-Glass fell in thick tendrils around Rowan’s boots like liquid sun. “Back away from the pane, Rowan,” Sterling said, his silver dagger already sliding free of his belt. “She isn’t behind the glass. She’s bound to the frame.” Vesper laughed, a rich, liquid sound that sent three small mirrors trembling at the far end of the rotunda. “Always the silver tongue, Sterling. Did your father charm the contract from you before he died or did you have to pry it from his cold dead hands to learn the truth about your little earthen estate?” She didn’t wait for him to answer. With a fluid motion, Vesper drove the needle another two inches into the frame of the Great Looking-Glass. The rotunda groaned as the floor of silvered glass beneath their feet liquefied in great, slow sheets of black mirror-water. Rowan stumbled back on his boots as the substance sucked greedily at his boots, engulfing them up to his ankles in the thic
The Court of Broken Mirrors
Rowan went down on his knees on the cellar steps, flinging the match away from him, but the dying ember never touched the damp wood. The cellar was plunged into darkness, save for the fiery, golden thread in the channels that ran up the forearms of young Vance. "Master Vance," he gasped, seizing the old man by the shoulders with shaking hands. Vance was light, positively light, all bone and sinew wrapped in wool, the twin of dry twigs tossed on the fire. Instead of legs, he had a dissolving cloud of the grey Void-ash trailing from his ankles, and the tiny embers that occasionally escaped the clutches of gravity hissed and died on the floorboards. "Don't... don't touch the thread, boy," Vance's milky eyes rolled upwards, blind and unseeing, fixed on the golden glow emanating from the palms of Rowan's hands. He sounded as if there was a shard of copper in his lungs, each ragged breath producing a metallic ring. "They used mirror-water in the shop, unstitched thirty years of my lif
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