Twelfth Architect

Hornet

Master, I have communed with the shrine above. Your learnings are unique, techniques born of cogwork hearts. Their mastery will require some commitment on my part.

Bug-Red, you are the first organic shell to fuse our memories. S-s-s-such behaviour, my line would have believed improbable-impossible.

Still, your broad arsenal did suggest strong affinity with the m-m-m-mechanical craft, enough to allow access to our thought-store.

Hornet

Yours is an impressive skill, Master. I am grateful for the insight.

A fine artefact you carry there, Bug-Red. That broken tool, it is Weaver-make?

Hornet

I believe so, Master. A relic of their old workshop, lost in fetid caves beyond this Citadel.

Hornet

The parts suggest a weapon of thread, one I would attempt to repair myself, had I endless time.

An Architect’s work owes much to the art of the f-f-first children. They set expert standard for the tools and talents of Pharloom eternal.

If you desire-demand, I can remake the tool, though my own mind-directives may produce u-u-u-nique result.

An intricate implement of Pharloom’s first children. I can restore-repair the w-w-weapon, though it will bear some trace of my identity-idiom.

Bug-Red. Do you ask-need our service? We shall create, as is our d-d-directive. To serve, for Pharloom eternal.

My s-s-service to you, Bug-Red... As it concludes, I must speak-confess. Long now I have felt my rotors slow their s-s-spin. My limbs lift weak. An ending is felt, coming, sudden-certain...welcome.

Hornet

Whatever fading you feel has not shown in your craft, Master. You have provided tools of immaculate make.

Hornet

What will follow if you pass? Would another take your place?

One cannot. The skill to construct an Architect... That was taken by t-t-time. I am the last-final. The core remains to sustain the song, but no more Architects to tend-toil or build anew.

S-s-strange... ‘For Pharloom eternal,’ states the d-d-directive-cage. But how can eternity sustain without an Architect to serve? This seems e-e-error. An end? An error... welcome?

Bug-Red. Do you ask-need our services, even n-now? Our duty is l-l-long, but we shall create for you, if you require it...

If Bug-Red could prove their aptitude with our implements, and others like, I would offer my key, to grant access to the chapel-store above.

Hornet

Master, I seek a melody held by your line, one part of a sequence, and key to ascending above the Citadel. Can you teach it to me?

Our melody? I r-r-recall! Yes! There was melody, once, but its sound... that I possess no longer...

T-t-t-too long I have worked. From my mind-vault, the imprint has f-f-faded. With many things it is like this... remembrance, dimmed...

But you m-m-may hear it, still. At the height of our core, there is means-s-s-system, near complete... Constructs old-built to sound our song. They need only be set to functional form.

Are you still to c-c-climb our grand core, Bug-Red? Within you may marvel at the work of Architects, my own, and all those passed b-b-before.

Hornet

My path takes me in many directions, Master, but in due course, I will ascend the core and claim the melody atop it.

What’s this, Bug-Red? Even down here, I d-d-did detect its working... Have you climbed our c-c-core, and woken the voices of my l-l-line?

Hornet

I have, maker. Clearly it was a climb never intended for regular bugs, and fair fortune that the skills gifted within your lands allowed my ascent.

Hornet

The melody, and the voices... both are fine things heard and witnessed. Even in this fading moment, their artistry shines through.

Impressive-industrious... eternal... You have seen a glimpse, Bug-Red, of us-s-s, how once we were. The minds of Architects inspired. What majesty we did create...

Hornet

Master, you seem the lone maker left in this ruined Citadel. Are you my enemy? The other constructs of this place did object aggressively to my presence.

Bug-Red? I am a m-m-maker. Yes. Enemy. No. I am an Architect. Only an Architect. To build-automate, it is our nature-directive-c-c-c-cage.

Why are you here, Bug-Red? The time is late. Do you seek-need service of an Architect? You are weave-type, yes? A first child? Rare-e-e-extinct. Or not it does so seem.

Hornet

You see it true, Master. I bear the lineage of Weavers, along with other strands, equally strange.

Then on your r-r-request, Bug-Red, as directive demands, for Pharloom’s first children, a-a-a-and our kingdom-eternal, I shall c-c-craft.

Hornet

Master, you seem the lone maker left in this Citadel. Are you my enemy? The other constructs of this place object aggressively to my presence.

Bug-Red? I am a m-m-maker. Yes. Enemy. No. I am an Architect. Only an Architect. To build-automate is not choice. It is our nature-directive-c-c-c-cage.

You are weave-type, yes? A first child? Rare-e-e-extinct. Or not it does so seem.

Hornet

You see it true, Master. I bear the lineage of Weavers, along with other strands, equally strange.

Then on your r-r-request, Bug-Red, as directive demands, for Pharloom’s first children, a-a-a-and our kingdom-eternal, I shall serve. I shall c-c-craft.

Twelfth Architect

Tools of my craft. They could be used to improve your own. Make harder, sharper.

A flexible shell-prosthetic. It would enhance a weave-type’s flexibility, allowing evasive options.

You have affinity for such radial blades? I can b-b-build upon the idea-knowledge. Make them retract. Make them force-store.

Acquire {0} more tools to prove aptitude.

Raw materials, for creation. Carry them with you always, that y-y-you may be prepared.

Acquire 1 more tool to prove aptitude.

Those pieces of a h-h-heart-core you carry upon you, how did you acquire-recover an artefact so rare?

Hornet

They were scattered about the Citadel, each seemingly laid with purpose. Someone wished the thing dismantled, but showed respect enough to see it stored safe.

That heart is an inspired form, conceived by the first of my line for a knight of cog and blade.

In it, I see my predecessor’s talent, immense, now lost-forgotten. I could never create-copy a work s-s-so fine.

Hornet

And the knight that once bore the heart? Tell me of them.

A gleaming order, cogwork sentinels, so impressive-majestic in function they were charged-b-b-bound to the highest holy duty.

Long before the c-c-creation of the core, the sentinels ventured, even beyond these walls, to see all bugs brought-forced safe to serve the Citadel.

If the h-h-h-heart were restored within the sentinel’s shell, would it give thanks for the awakening? Or would it grieve those lands now l-l-lost?

Hornet

In time, maker, I may find out...

This band of metal teeth, sharp and light-fine. It could be woven within your red outer layer? A hidden weapon.