Part A1
In Wentalel, Marka stares into her watery reflection on the surface of the park’s pond. The black nerve that writhes across the blue sky frames her face. Or frames those garments that truly frame her face: the antenna-band bearing heraldic insignias above, the horns guarding her antennae’s base, and the antiquated shadowsteel helmet that she wears, visors up.
She likes to think of herself as a modern day knight. There are no knights in the heartlands — haven’t been since the Third Dominion. The alliance that came before, though, had burnished itself with hope and heroism, something reified in the knights envespered. They really thought of vesperbanes as heroes, back then. Idols to admire. Warriors blessed by ancestors and saints. They really thought there were saints, back then.
Marka is yanked from her reverie by a yelp. In the fringe of her vision, she sees the motion: it’s a father wrenching a nymph up and back, his compound eyes staring at her, hard and dark. She can tell by his reaction that he sees the cloth tied between her antennae, bearing a metal plate, revealing what she is. The nymph, though, is looking lower, and not just because it’s smaller.
Down she looks, and Marka sees a dodecahedron of stiff yet flexible fibers. It bounces like a air-filled ball would, but won’t pop when held in raptorial spines. It settles to an uneasy stop less than a body-length beside her.
Even held in the father’s arms, the nymph is reaching out for it. It’s clear what happened: the kid chased after the toy, but got snatched up when he saw the nymph tended closer toward her. Toward the vesperbane.
Her maxillary palps press tight against her mandibles. It’s not good to show her feelings so blatantly — but being here again has loosened her hold on herself.
She crouches down to pick up the kid’s toy, and, holding it, she pauses a moment to let them guess her intention. And guess they fail: she can see the nymph’s face start to fall, and the father’s raptorials clench. She makes a motion like she’s about to throw, and the father braces himself — like she would try to hit him. The nymph, though, perks up, and holds out their raptorials. Marka decided that moment to throw.
She’s a vesperbane. Her throw is competent, landing right in the kid’s legs with velocity low enough it wouldn’t hurt if it wasn’t caught.
The nymph makes an excited noise and waves, toy in spine. But the father takes that moment to turn and leave, without a word of thanks. Marka knows by the way his head is cocked as he departs that he is watching her all the while.
Marka returns her gaze to the still pond and the sky’s black nerve writhing in reflection. But there’s no peace to be found there, anymore. She gets up.
Far across the pond rises an edifice of chiseled stone and carved wood. Timber costs less and has to travel less this far south — a few day’s travel from the great ambrosia woods — but you still didn’t build buildings of the stuff, these days.
(And more than just one grand building is wrought in this expensive style — it’s mirrored, in intent if not quality, by all the ones surrounding, houses and shops alike.)
Peer long enough trying to divine the meaning of all its spear-sharp spires, severe arches, and stones engraved with letters of the Pure Script, and you may realize what’s up.
That vast building, easily as tall as twenty mantids, is Wentalel’s chapter of the Church of Blue Welkin.
And it’s why Marka came back.
She spends a time studying the design. She considers herself a student of history — now. She wasn’t the last time her eyes fell on the Church.
She casts her gaze around. The Church imposes and looms, and she can’t stare long without the urge to look away.
This, where she waits, isn’t an old-town district, not really. Wentalel was here long before the church. But the buildings are made to give that impression anyway, of something ancient that fickle modern times have grown around like a fungus. It’s convincing.
Marka pulls out her watch. The outer case of the timepiece is stamped with the mark of welkin, and when she clicks it open, the thing — a mess of gears, struts, and an enervate core — is crammed with vindicators’ engineering.
She snaps the piece closed and returns it.
It’s not yet noon.
In less than an hour, her appointed time will come. She’ll set foot in the Church once more. Best case, she’ll finally get all the answers she wants. Worst case, she’ll at least, finally, get closure.
Will she catch fire when stepping onto church grounds? As a fifth-instar nymph, the hierophants had pronounced it and she’d known it to be true. As a seventh-instar, she realized it was a lie just like everything else they preached. Now, at the cusp of teneral, several courses of enervate physics in her gut, she wonders once again.
Her raptorials shake. She’s unsteady on her feet. She makes her head turn and her gaze focus on anything else, some distraction. The throngs of people walking the street. One of them wore the all-encompassing robes of a percipient, surrounded by a mini-phalanx of civilians dressed as Wentalel guards. They looked about as appropriate as bunnies guarding a vesperbat.
They marched — except the percipient, whose robes went so low they looked to float — toward the Church.
Marka growls or sighs. Her distraction took her right back to what she hoped to be distracted from.
This was all a formality. A game. A scheduled appointment? For her, at the Church of Wentalel? As if the one she’d come to meet wouldn’t see her name and remember exactly who she was. As if she didn’t have intimate history here, like ink stains on the record-paper.
But this fiction let her pretend this was an impersonal inquiry. If she hewed to the ritual of the appointment, she could be anyone. If her nerves break and she goes now, familiarity could be assumed, of course, and she wouldn’t have to wait. Wasn’t like they could be busy.
Marka starts walking, to clear her head, a quick stride away from the Church. She’ll explore the city.
Not far away from the faux old-town, the architecture becomes more modern. Bleached banestone buildings that can be thrown up in a few days. These particular buildings rise high and brim with occupants like tenements, modular designs stacked on top of each other like nymphs’ toys.
Everywhere, poles and other things to hold stick off the sides of the buildings, fit for climbing or perching. Listless mantids line the faces of the buildings, some of them so unmoving (in sleep?) that they seem like adornments.
The road Marka follows continues under an overhang where a different road crosses above. As she passes under it, she startles at a small mantis swinging down from one of those perch-poles, motions lithe and graceful, landing lightly in front of her. They do not block her path, but she was in danger of clipping them if she kept straight.
“Hullo~” they say. As soon as she hears the high, lilting voice, she mentally corrects the pronoun to ‘he’. The golden yellow mantis stands two thirds her height, and when his antennae rise, she sees their length accentuated with ribbons and setae extentions.
He… His abdomen is covered — ‘covered’ — by a breathable, revealing fishnet dress. Flared sleeves fall over his lower legs, but don’t actually close, meaning some motions free glimpses of bare chitin.
He looks like a courtesan. Or — an unwelcome line of thought continues, cast in her father’s tenor — he looks like a damn whore. The only piece out of place is the cap over his right eye. The eyecap was the sort a grizzled adventurer might have, except his had a floralwen pattern woven into it, and flowing straps integrated it into the rest of his… attire.
A slender dactyl reaches out and touches the upper part of her foreleg. She jumps, but the touch is soft. Her eyes flush. She’s not wearing full armor because the Plains Southern are hot. His digit glides along her chitin, brushing against her setae, and stops at the thickness of her joints, her muscles evident.
“You’re from out of the city? I don’t recognize you. And you seem the type to be… rather distinctive~”
“I did live here, long ago. But I left to pursue, uh, justice and adventure.”
“Mmm, sounds so noble. I think… you’re a vesperbane, are you?”
The question was asked in an unexpected tone — a mix of true curiosity, yet also polite humor like an answer was assumed.
She says, “Yes, I serve the wardens. Countenanced for four years.”
“Heh, that armor really gives it away. Still, even among vesperbane not too many have the brazenness to trot around dressed like a Third Dominion Deathknight.” He withdraws his dactyl, and it goes to rest on his labrum, and his palps run along it.
Marka straightens up, raptorials cleching closed with force that probably wasn’t enough to crush thoraxes. “I am not dressed like a Deathknight! Deathknights had thorax-plates marked with Oosifea’s brand! Their ornamentation was always colored deep green like hemolymph or bloodred; mine is the color of blue welkin! Deathknight armor’s black iron did not reflect the light even when clear of enervate, but this is vindicator shadowsteel!”
“Calm down honey, I believe you. I can see your visor doesn’t have the eight pointed star the Dominion liked so much.” He gives a reasurrant curl of his palps. “I know how the old alliance dressed its warriors, but I also know that most can’t tell the difference. Don’t you?”
“There is a difference.”
“Sure, sure. It’s just — you know it was just a little tease, right? That’s all.” The tarsus of his other foreleg pats her cleched raptorial.
“How does a courtesan know so much about imperial history, anyway?” It strikes her as a rude, untoward quesiton even as she asks. But she really wants to know.
When his palps curl into a smile this time, it’s with maxillae opening, dentation visible. “Oh, but how much entertainment can I be if I can’t carry a stimulating conversation?”
“That’s fair, I suppose,” she responds blankly.
When Marka had fled her family to find a home among the wardens, she had made a point of disagreeing with them on much as possible — embracing Aromethia’s creed, and liberating herself of any influence her family might’ve had on her thinking.
Some things were harder to disagree on than others, though. Few things seemed as impure as a body that was bought and sold like an common object. But Marka had tried to understand — and she saw that the salacious profession was an indictment of the society that allowed it to happen, rather than the tiercel himself, who was a victim forced in by circumstance. By the Dream, it’d be abolished, like the Protected castes were, like debt-bondage will be.
Part of chivalry — Marka’s interpretation of chivalry — was not to curl her palps in disgust at the mantis before her. He had honor, he was still something to be protected like any other male.
She kind of wanted him to touch her again. So she could prove how chivalrous she was and not turn away.
“Soo, what brings you back to Wentalel? Come to make songs of your knightly adventures? I know how to sing as well, you know.”
“It’s — business. Personal stuff. I wouldn’t want to… bore you with it.”
He laughs. “Oh, worry not. I won’t pry.” He affixes her with a significant look. “Hey, do you know the tavern on Wetmoth Street? If later on you need to… unwind, say — I’m sure it gets tiring, being a vesperbane — I always have a room there, and I welcome visitors. Ask the bartender about D.”
“I — I will keep that in mind.”
“Mmm, you’re a handsome lady, and I wouldn’t mind spending some more time with you. But I’ll leave you to your noble business.” The male steps aside, and makes for the tarsholds to climb back up.
“Oh!” he calls, partway up a wall, “just a word of warning — pass it around, if you will? — you should avoid the Fevalel district today. Err, I suppose a vesperbane knight like yourself wouldn’t need it, but — you’re better served away from trouble, no?”
And with that cryptic warning, the courtesan disappears farther up the wall, and Marka continues her walk.
Wentalel has enough sharp turns that you smell the market before you see it. A roasted, baked, seasoned, boiled, fresh, raw smell. It sells things besides food, yes, but it’s rare you go there without wanting it, and rarer to leave without any.
It has sheafs of honeyloaf hot from the oven. It has slowly cooking roasts of beetles and lizards. It has fruits. What catches many eyes was a large region set aside where someone had vanquished a gigantic centipede and displayed the evidence, and its enourmous mass sprawls across several tables. Tagmata are being sold off for sums that even Marka, with her vesperbane stipend, twisted antennae at.
There’s a bright cacophony of mantid voices and their instruments — the ringing hammers from a smithy, the clacks of crates and barrels changing owners — but one sound cuts through the noise, only for a brief moment, which Marka thinks sounds like a cry for help, or protestations of one in pain. She’d heard enough of them in her life.
Her pace quickens to bring her toward the market, and eyes search around. She quickly spots two points of interest.
On one of the walls, a mantis garbed in dark clothes hangs from the poles. Trained, she easily recognizes the form concealed in their robes as a weapon. They climb briskly up that wall, away from the market. Hurried, but not with the clumsy haste of fear.
No, the other mantis is the one who moves as such. Small like a male, antennae covered in an archaic style, he doesn’t look grossly injured, but his modest dress is torn, and you can see a horrible bruise forming on one of his compound eyes. When his head turns at the right angle, you can see his eye is dented. The area beneath is wet and shiny with eye-fluids and hemolymph.
When the moment of screamed intensity has passed, you can see the nearby mantids lurch back into motion like a breath was held. Bugs in the crowd pass by the distraught male, and many glance at him, and then at the rest of crowd, doing nothing, moving on.
It’s not hard to see why little help is forthcoming, even without an entire crowd there to shift the burden of acting onto.
That style of antenna covering? That lack of welkinmark on their forehead, despite the bright blue chitin and wings? It’s a Descendant of Snurratre. And, as told by the massive Church that still looms tall in her thoughts, she realizes this is a community decidedly belonging to the Welkin.
Marka has but a moment to make a decision, now. She could rush after the dark-clad mantis — an obvious suspect — and with her vesperbane’s muscles, catching them is almost foregone as a conclusion. She could run over to the male and make some effort to console him, figure out what happened and why — and who.
But—
Marka is not on duty right now. She came back to Wentalel for a reason. She has matters to attend to. It would be just like her to spend moons working up the courage to come back and confront — and then prance off at the first distraction, the first excuse.
Marka feels the Vindicator-made timepiece in her bag, and feels the clicks of time whirring forward. How rare of a sight are percipients? The Percipiency is something of a chimera. When the laws and institutions that eventually became the Pantheca of Mantiskind were first drafted, the Percipiency was created right along side it, but this was not disclosed to the public, or most syndics. And the Percipiency has been defined by that secrecy for much of its existence. When considered only as rumor and perception, the Percipients are ghastly, alien creatures advancing some malign agenda. They’re something exciting, and scary. And this doesn’t have no basis in reality. But the scope of their duties has expanded over time. It’s not accurate to say that a percipient is commonplace. But a percipient has a place in the common order of things, and many of them act as archivists, secretaries, and investigators. And, in general, as the implicit go-between for the syndic councils, the vindicators’ guild, and the stewartry. It’s a little bit like the ambiguity of the word vesperbane: do you mean a nerve-warped abomination moving like a comet across the countryside hunting defects and monsters? Or would you include the grouter who occasionally spends days repairing cracks in banestone buildings but mostly mops the tavern? The answer ranges from perhaps a few in each province, to thousands. (Put another way, when Marka sees the percipient, her thought is not ‘Ah, something’s up’. She notes there’s something of interest to the brains afoot. But she’s not keen to get dirty with the mess, especially when they may be no mess at all and only awkward glances to find.Apocrypha Given