From The Recordings Html

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In a far-off year in which the people of The Body had fallen on hard times within the main religious and empirical epicenter of Qyo Canyon, an organization of quick and quiet caravans are able to move hidden fulgen and desperate kylyy individuals to the scientific mecca of Zion, an underground city that surpasses the imagination of fables. The leader of a caravan is given a tape to prepare for the oncoming attack. The tape is an old tome, one of the earliest to describe the sight of a geological disaster, a cataclysm that proves that the might of Her Body Incarnate reigns supreme over all walks of life, including that of the Kylyy, their estranged Fulgen neighbors, and the Electric God and their might of the monolithic Colossi.


“Two eyes in orbit, on my hundred-and-eightieth day on the field, in the year 3677 S.C. My mind’s focus has been renovated by a petrified landscape. My heaven-sent beetlesteed and I have walked the frontier on our own for the pursuit of witnessing sentinels, and I have just this morning stumbled upon a site of artistic grace, violently unhinged by nature. As sand becomes dune, so does ash become hell-scape. We have stepped carefully, thanks to Ilyo’s keen sense of the environment ahead, but enchanted metallics are peppered in and under a pyroclastic consequence of this area’s past volcanic activity. The sentinels are disheveled, toppled, and otherwise mummified in a grand and incredible display of statuesque stillness. As of now I have sketched the exterior of three constructs in grand detail. The scene is silent, neither Ilyo nor myself can sense any electric movements or awareness of surveillance, as we previously had at the mouth of a massive mining operation. I feel comfortable in our decision not to brave its contents at this time, but in the presence of this junkyard cemetery, the once-electric dead are perfect models for my studies.

I do not feel afraid around these monoliths, I know The Body has made it safe for me to travel this scene.

While I can’t help but admire the craftsmanship, these constructs are functionally destroyed, thus I am unable to safely explore their inner workings or even revel in personal electrical tinkering. And regrettably, I wish to preserve as much of these audio reels as I can, so my drawings will have to suffice for visual description and observation. But this masterpiece itself has not inspired using one of my last sound reels. While taking a seat on the cold, rock-smothered shoulder of a dirt-covered sentinel, I looked across the sea of ash and found a silent siren, a kylyy kindred of my own, frozen and fossilized, permanently draping the base of an old biological turret. And from that poor soldier, gasping as he suffocated, my eyes were caught by a dull, unrusted weapon pointing at the sky behind him. A woman standing still, petrified, tall and proud, her patriotism sealed forever in a nightmarish, ghastly exhibit.

While I look at the face of this unwavering soldier, I am transported to a different time and place. As I speak now, I can see the Colossi sentinels of the Electric God moving in my mind’s eye. The soldier is crying out from deep within her roots as she had just seen her comrade manning a trebuchet, now blown into all directions by a return fire in the form of a brass warhead. This legionary had lived her entire life preparing to fight the Electric God, on behalf of our Goddess Body and our Kylyy kind. Continuing in this deranged state of mind, I look to the dirty sun rising in the west and see a damaged, luminous construct, balancing on one strong leg but having lost control of its motor faculties. Its head leans dramatically broken to the northeast, but remains intact still. Upon investigation, it is clear that six legionaries had climbed the construct but died of asphyxiation from the volcanic ash. The soldier at the construct’s neck is hacking the wire housing apart with a meteorite hatchet, its elemental origin blessedly sent from The Body’s heavens. The construct is badly injured, but the rage of the volcano I have named Mount Phranco has cast its climactic die, and mummified the entire conflict in its most heated and violent stages.

My perspective has shifted to my present, and as I turn to walk to my desired seat I am astonished to find one last horrific sight. A legionary, face-down in the dirt and thus merged into the molten landscape, has had his brainseed surgically removed. I set my weak sensibilities aside and peer into the cranial cavity, only to find a heat-warped, tool-damaged operation. To the good Goddess herself, I regret that I am not the first of our kindred to visit this grizzly scene, however I am the first to leave it unharmed as I prefer this battleground graveyard photograph. I do not have the authority to fully interpret this landmark, though I hope it remains for many to see. To the Goddess, the Body Incarnate, I admire and fear your grand might. I only wonder of those who travelled here before and illegally reclaimed a legionary brainseed, if they are able to witness more of that ageless day than I have during this pilgrimage of mine.