Werew0lf 12005 Share Posted February 2, 2023 THE DISSONANT SPHERE Forgotten by God istons crank rigidly, splaying into a mirage of broken nails and bolts. The dark fumes of all defected machines billow into the air, combusting into flames or coughing out smoke. It ticks and tocks - a melody heard by forgotten inhabitants of the sphere. Bags form under their eyes; restless men and women unable to sleep from the horrific throng of faulty craftsmanship. Every new day is a reminder of the struggles they would face – lost in the canals of Garumdir’s failures. The sphere is scarce of food, having to ravish the flesh of their comrades in a horrific act of cannibalism, or to find luck in what is thrown away; half of a craftsmen breakfast right before preparing for a new day, or the cadaver of a half-machine half-animal. A world faced with hardship, as mindless craftsmen lose their touch in the arts. It is a location of interest, not out of love or care, but out of fear or embarrassment. Every so often, the cog moves and shifts, but something is settled in the heart of the dissonant sphere. The unspoken truth, of which no man or woman can ever approach - outside of a select few. Garumdir stares very little at the world of failures, his immortal hand discarding broken machinations and components for his masterpiece. It is foretold that when his temper is at its peak, the dissonant sphere reaps burning molten that recycles metal around the outskirts of the sphere. Hemdel, a lonesome craftsman, wandered the harrowing lands of innovation - one feared by all who spoke of it. He did not understand the beauty of creativity; a fraudster who stole blueprints and copied work from other innovators. Hailing from a world of men and women, his world did not know of the timeless machine-god, nor the consequences of his fruitless actions. The man saw it as penance for his crimes, and to make good of his vile acts, he worked. It became difficult to breathe from the odour of smoke and oil, but as time cranked onwards, he adjusted to it. Adorning a broken smithing hammer, and a dulling wrench, he stitched together shattered clockworks and settled it into what he claimed as home; a bundle of metal with a hand-stitched roof of cloth. On his first day, the craftsman was robbed by a group of five inhabitants of the mysterious sphere, who somehow survived through their petty crimes. The machine-bandits wore masks from old clock-faces, with holes replacing the ‘three’ and ‘nine’ roman numerals. Each held metal pipes, likely robbed from another malfunctioned creation. Beaten and bruised, the fraudster was stolen of all items: hammer, wrench and the scarce meat pried from rotten corpses. It tore at his motivation, but the lonesome craftsman wished to survive. As he continued on to regain what was lost, and scavenge at existence, he used cranks and bolts, plates of iron, and nets to form a ‘half-working’ facemask to discard the fumes. The dissonant sphere was large, mirroring the size of a mortal continent, and so exploration was harsh. He walked past crumbling colosseums that were flawed in design, and clock towers that did not have functioning pistons or a working hour-hand. A common theme he saw: bland quality works, burnt or combusted, or flawed and unable to work. Hemdel stopped for the night, and slept without food; an unworking water-wheel that was filled with buckets sated his dry mouth. In the realm of unworking machines, it became impossible to discern night or day; the only source of light being the glint of metal, or the combustion of machines. Hemdel struggled to wake up, before his eyes were met by the fierce light of a burning factory. With each careful step, he dispersed the smoke with a flaunt of his frail arm, having lost weight from starvation. Eventually, the man stood before something that looked half-complete, as if it was built on spare parts borrowed from the machines in the sphere. A church of great standing, windows made of plastered shards, and clocks for door-handles. Inside of this great church, there was a foul stench; death stood at the lectern. Bodies of veiled men and women littered the ungodly citadel - splattered tendons and corpses impaled by clock-arms. The fraudster turned quickly to puke his internals out onto the wall of metal. Regaining his composure, the craftsman ventured further into the halls. He could not seem to rid the smell, and had to use a pair of discarded prongs to clench his nose. “Ergh - unsightly.” Hemdel muttered, though it was mixed with fear and disgust. In his carelessness, the innovator slipped on a mangled hand, and fell down onto the floor with a heavy thud. Dazed for a second, he scrambled to his feet and away from the body in aversion to the blood. Hemdel eventually came before the priestly lectern, and stared down at a tattered parchment. And it is so read in blood. FORGIVE US GOD OF INNOVATION. FATHER OF MACHINES. FREE US... Spoiler Written by: Werew0lf Sources:Garumdir - [!] Clockwork by Philip Clockwork by Twisted Dollface Monochrome by Watchtime 20 Link to post Share on other sites More sharing options...
Songwitch 1438 Share Posted February 2, 2023 Spoiler wow *is swooned and bows 1 Link to post Share on other sites More sharing options...
Jenkins0311 388 Share Posted February 2, 2023 Perhaps I'm looking a bit to deeply into this piece, and if so, then by all means correct me, but this almost seems like a perfect metaphorical synopsis of all the past projects that someone might start and let fall by the wayside. The machines that began construction with the best of intentions but were never finished, or if they were, they were manufactured using the left over of other long forgotten and rotting machines. It's almost like this world is a manifestation of a creators thoughts, being broken and battered no matter if your a veteran or an amateur to your craft; the "robbers" coming in and stealing the characters thing between 9-3 (during the time your working but wish you were creating). Again, perhaps I'm looking to deeply into the underling context, but regardless of whether I'm right or wrong, I feel like you might have stumbled upon a world that many in the LoTC community can relate to. Good work. 1 Link to post Share on other sites More sharing options...
wowj 2744 Share Posted February 2, 2023 +1's the post 1 Link to post Share on other sites More sharing options...
Werew0lf 12005 Author Share Posted February 2, 2023 8 minutes ago, Jenkins0311 said: Perhaps I'm looking a bit to deeply into this piece, and if so, then by all means correct me, but this almost seems like a perfect metaphorical synopsis of all the past projects that someone might start and let fall by the wayside. The machines that began construction with the best of intentions but were never finished, or if they were, they were manufactured using the left over of other long forgotten and rotting machines. It's almost like this world is a manifestation of a creators thoughts, being broken and battered no matter if your a veteran or an amateur to your craft; the "robbers" coming in and stealing the characters thing between 9-3 (during the time your working but wish you were creating). Again, perhaps I'm looking to deeply into the underling context, but regardless of whether I'm right or wrong, I feel like you might have stumbled upon a world that many in the LoTC community can relate to. Good work. This sums up the context for most of the idea behind the sort of 'scrapyard' theme of the dissonant sphere. 2 Link to post Share on other sites More sharing options...
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