The workshop smelled of spilled chemicals and ozone wards, of dried blood and rotting tissue. It was broken and stained and crooked, with three sets of shelves bent at the middle and two more ripped in half, the bright, blue-white metal supports sheared near shoulder height and the tops tumbled down amongst the refuse of their former contents. The workbench, solid and unflappable, was strewn with bits of broken glass, odd crystals, tools ripped from their wall slots, and the offal left from the ruins of Belmun’s once-extensive collection of preserved organic… samples.Read More
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It was the second “blip” that did it. The first time was terrifying. Poe was not sure what would happen, whether she would die. (Unthinkable.) That countdown was a secret form of torture, in her friend’s voice.
But after a moment of well, discomfort, it was fine. Everything was still in shape. She felt slightly odd, like she was two places at once, stretched but still whole.
The second time something ripped.Read More
Vasedra stood in the open iris of what was formerly her workshop along the outer hull of the Legion warship, the Soul Cleaver, staring in at the spacious room. The blueish tint of the lights turned the bright metal of the walls and workbenches - not felsteel, but an alloy of cobalt and ghost iron and an ore that she harvested on a far distant world - more purple than rose, glinting like sunlight off the ocean from the surfaces of tools and crystals, liquids and even decorations, what few survived intact when the Cleaver was grounded, smashing itself into the shelf of the Mac’Aree landmass. Keepsakes. Resources. Half-finished creations. Salvage.Read More