The War For The Pallid Throne

The Eye of the Rancid King

I looked into the abyss, and you looked back. My old friend, what is it you always say? An eye for an eye? I traded you mine, and you gave me yours. Now I see women I cannot be, men I cannot have, and children I cannot bear. What hell is this that you have trapped me in? Now I am the abyss, and you no longer look back.

4

Icarus pressed his ear to the ground, listening close for a sound, the gentle drip of thick syrup against the dust. It hadn't rained in a week since killing the last engineer.

He struck the walls of his hive, the soft flesh collapsing beneath his fist, black ichor seeping under his nails.

How was he supposed to complete his masterpiece without paint?

Droughts were not uncommon, but to happen so soon after birth was unfortunate. The turning of the weather forced him to stay in one spot, and it made his spine itch.

Too open, too obvious, too close to the ground; Icarus was a nomad, after all.

Such idle behavior worked against him. Those who knew Icarus best expected him to hide in a drought. There was no need to be afraid of his dune ravagers or colossi. After all, the last of his brood had long since expired and he wouldn't use his emergency stock of clay unless he was certain of the coming rains.

The ephemeral nameless collapsed not long after being shaped; such was the nature of their broods. Design when necessary, shape when ready. That was an engineer's creed.

Only the inexperienced shared life without a plan, their creations dying in the dust without ever touching their enemy's throat.

Sometimes, prudence paid off.

Icarus stood over a pulsing vat of red fluid, dipping his fingers into the solution, which felt like sludge, thick, greasy, and easily rolled in his palm.

With a hiss, he tore open his wrist, peeling back the scales and undoing the stitching.

Drip, drip.

His blood was scarlet red, deeper than the fluid that filled the vats; One, two, three drops, just enough to keep the clay from coagulating. He mixed his blood in with the passing of every full moon.

He glimpsed the moon once or twice while carrying corpses of his most valuable creations into the caves. It hung in the air like a pale blue light that slowly descended from the sky, waxing and waning like a pendulum. The light was never sufficient, serving only to dilate milky white eyes.

The engineers called it the tonsil; that is where the Pallid Throne bloomed. That pale blue structure was strung to the roof of the Overworld by mounds of pink flesh that stretched like rubber, thick and moist.

The tonsil responded to their struggles, descending further with each life taken. Under their mother's rule, the throne was within reach only when the strongest remained.

Icarus's stomach growled as he licked his lips. He could taste it in the soil, that golden nectar, that sweet maple, that thick lacquer. Like the red rain, drops of the Pallid Throne's bounty fell from the skies above, coating the surface world.

Drip, drip, the thick syrup tapped on the mausoleum, waking the names from their slumber.

The nameless were the first to taste the Pallid nectar. After that, the change was aggressive. Docile larvae became vicious, lashing out for another taste, killing their neighbors, and growing stronger.

They are the Domestidae vibriatius, the ones shaped without shapers, the most appropriate vessels for the engineers. Indeed, the greatest among them was sculpted by chaos and entropy, and the oldest names have first pick.