[NoR] - [20] - Machine Priests

The stench of unwashed masses filled the safety of the dome. The magical shield erected over the settlement to protect from the sudden violence of their weather had thrummed sub-audibly for years now. Many of the inhabitants longed for the days where their world was filled with light and life, before the darkening of the skies. Beggars and Refugees lined the streets, most from distant places whose protections had failed them for one reason or another. Several coughed sickly into their hands, the mucus thick with the oily black smog that choked the air beyond their shields. A cart made its way along the road, piling the freshly dead on to it so that they could be disposed of in a relatively sanitary manner.

A back alleyway held a roped off civil engineering project, the structure half-built and seemingly never to be finished. The exposed struts had begun to rust, while the warnings showed signs of continual re-application. A small room missing most of a wall and ceiling was nevertheless sufficiently hidden from public view to mask the arrival of the Planeswalker. The air in the room shattered, making the sound of a glacier calving. Razel resolved himself into the building, dropping to a crouch and scurrying over to a window. He peered over the edge of the sill, looking for an example to model his attire on.

A sickly old man wobbled into view, leaning harshly on the wall as he fought to stay upright. After a few steps, he gave in, collapsing on the floor. Razel nodded at the old man, silently expressing his condolences. The finer points of the situation escaped him, but suffering was omniversally recognized. The garb containing him was basic and filthy, with subtle patterns showing a history of prior quality that had since been worn and faded from view. The ‘walker placed himself within a robe of similar design, swapping a color here or there and fitting the cut to better reflect his physique. His hands rubbed his face vigorously, leaving behind dark circles beneath his eyes and a haggard, worn appearance. In moments the mage had gone from planeswalker chic to derelicté.

Stepping out from under the partially-constructed building, Razel took note of the flickering energy above. The shields surged as a fierce wind battered it from outside, only just audible over the bustle of the town. He trudged out of the alleyways and toward a main thoroughfare, hoping to get a semblance of direction. Turning a corner, Razel was confronted with the severity of Foundry’s situation. The refugees ignored him entirely, used to the everyday appearance of newcomers left without a home. Families huddled together while priests followed behind the carts, chanting their hymns and swinging their censers.

Razel stepped out of the way of an oncoming cart, bowing his head as they passed. The faint tinge of oil caught his attention as the priest walked past, as did a portion of the Hymn:

“-all will be one. Blessed is the Father of Machines. Blessed is the Grand Cenobite. Blessed is the Augur…“

I would not have stayed as long as I did if every hunt was like the first. The second was much less nebulous; a necromancer sought to leave and become a god, while we made sure he at least got to meet his. The third was an artificer obsessed with creating a machine to destroy entire planar clusters. We shut him down and erased him. In time, I nearly forgot C’Thon.

Rokh never let it affect him. Not that I expected it to. He had been doing this for significantly longer than he would ever admit, and I was certain he had come to terms with whatever qualms he may have once had He never tried to speak of it again after the fact, something I came to see was common with his assignments. Once something was done, it was done, and there was no need to debate it.

My studies were now turned toward that which best assisted me in the hunts, with more time spent in the arena to keep my reflexes sharp. I would be lying if I said I didn’t enjoy the assignments that deserved what we brought them. It was a requirement that we offer each target the opportunity to join us before we eliminated them. Most declined, some violently, but a few took us up on the offer.

My first encounter with a planeswalker from outside the Academy was short. While tracking a potential liability through a series of canyons, Rokh and I spotted the ‘walker far enough out that he did not perceive us. I did as I always had when I was unsure. I asked.

“What is our policy on Planeswalkers outside of the Academy?”

“We have a strict field policy of non-interaction. There are very specific cases where this is waived. In general, if you come across a wild ‘walker, Avoid them. Engaging or contacting them will breach our secrecy. Remember, only those who are a part of it may know of the Academy. Not only that, it may delay or compromise your current assignment, which should always be your priority.”

“So when do we do anything about them?”

“You are only authorized to engage them either in self-defense or if they are between you and your assignment. In both cases, make the offer before you eliminate them.”

Razel scoffed quietly to himself as he entered the small church. A lifetime of Orzhov overcompensation left most other religious structures rather underwhelming. The traditional idols and statuettes had been ignored, instead maintaining a series of reliefs and motifs along the wall, depicting various stages of mechanical evolution. The images were similar enough to ones he had seen before to spur an impulsive flare of panic. The ‘walker shuddered as he considered the circumstances. There had always been the possibility of being wrong. The creature he had glimpsed within Sudaj’s mind could have been any number of things, even if it was oddly versed in interplanar travel. But now, confronted with a living church before him, he could not deny the obvious.

Phyrexia is back…and it is spreading.

Razel limped over to the nearest priest, the cleric’s hands busy polishing a depiction of one of their idols.

“Excuse me…”

The priest raised his head, turning eyes white with cataracts to peer blindly in Razel’s direction.

“Yes, my son?”

“I only recently arrived. I fear I am not as familiar with this place as I would like to be. Are you able to help me?”

The priest smiled, nodding gently as he set down his rag.

“I will take you to our Exarch. He personally oversees each and every inductee from our humble parish. He will be able to help you.”

“Thank you.”

The priest felt his way along the wall, running fingers over the relief and mumbling psalms to himself as he led the guest to a stairwell. The two of them climbed below the church, entering a larger hall beneath. The reliefs began to grow more and more ornate as they approached the personal chambers of the Exarch, clearly delineated by the grand candelabras flanking its doors. The priest waved a hand about gingerly, feeling the heat of the candles and motioning to the door.

“Right inside. He may be busy, as we just finished with a large group from the south, but we always have time for a new piece of the machine.”

Razel patted the priest on the shoulder, limping over to the door and pulling it open. The office beyond is conspicuously devoid of the carvings in the hall, the walls still untreated stone. The man in the habit behind the desk took notice of the newcomer’s interest, answering the question he didn’t need to ask.

“This office is rather new, I am afraid. They haven’t had the time to provide my etchings. I am not surprised, considering the state of things. I am Exarch Kun. What shall I call you, my son?”

Razel stepped fully into the office, closing the door behind him.

“I can’t remember. Whatever took out my home took my memories with it.”

The Exarch bridged his fingers, furrowing his brow in concern. Razel was reminded briefly of the Pontiff within his Basilica.

“This is most unfortunate. It is bad enough the skies have blackened, the ground trembles, and the shields fail. But when what is within is compromised along with what is without…we are lost. You are in the right place, my son. We can help you.”

Razel forced a smile.

“Thank you. How do I go about becoming a part of your…machine?”

The Exarch stood from his chair, walking to his guest and taking him by the shoulder.

“You are a creature of awful luck but wondrous timing. I have just finished preparations for a pilgrimage to the Foundry. If you wish to be reborn as a part of our machine, then all you have to do is one simple thing- follow me.”

Rokh never talked about his home plane. I had long since written out what fleeting memories of my home I could pull, before they faded away. My continued review of them ensured that the memories never truly died, even if they grew to be so unclear that they may as well have been suggestions. I eventually learned of his origin while reviewing a particularly thorough Speciary. The image drawn as an example bore an uncanny resemblance to my mentor, although I feel that may have been due to lack of familiarity with their race. Their home world was described as a plane of living metal, shaped by a mighty hand and left to grow.

I brought up the description, blatantly confronting him about his past. This was one of the few times I saw him agitated, as though he were just as uncomfortable talking about his source as he was the Eldrazi.

“I don’t remember much about it. I have vague memories of a glimmering sea of steel, but…”

I lent him the book after that to grant him a peek into his past. I never saw it or heard of it again.

Failed attempts at inquiry aside, Rokh and I continued as we had before. I had gotten used to the position, and was comfortable enough in it that when the individual cases arose where I questioned the morality of our actions, they were followed by clear-cut examples of malevolence and greed. I began to view our job as less of a hunt and more of a patrol. I understood the logic behind keeping planeswalkers under control.

Aside from the Hunters, the Academy also employed a variety of other specialist parties. As Rokh began to run out of things to teach me, I would often work on my own with the Intel division in order to track or investigate reports of interplanar phenomena, acting as a scout to the Hunters who would then follow-up on the cases I found warranting it. We would be also be charged with testing or escorting items which had been designed by the Academy’s Research and Development branch, acting as a security force within the Academy as well. Compartmentalization followed each part of the consortium save the Hunters, who worked with all the other parties to realize their varied goals.

The Research division is responsible for a respectable portion of my success regarding leaving the Academy. A project looking into the finer functions of a Planar Rift had need of a Hunter in order to test specific theories regarding perception and utilization of the Rifts. The researchers told me that they couldn’t perform the tests themselves as they had to record the result; however, I think they were either incapable or afraid. Regardless, they had artificially initiated a Rift, normally a capital offense within the Academy, but allowed under the controlled circumstances of the lab. I stood before it for hours, poking and prodding and narrating my senses. A revelation came when the researchers asked me to attempt to ‘read’ the rift like a planar scar. I normally reserved my questions for afterward, however the curiosity overwhelmed me.

“This is a Rift. Not a Scar. Why and how would I be able to ‘read’ it?”

“We created the Rift through compacting scars. Enough in proximity destabilize the space they’re in. Now stop your questions and answer ours.”

I dug into the rift with my mind, finding visions of past, future, and alternate present. No trails stood out. I dug deeper, still to no avail.

I left the researchers pleased with the result and unaware that I now possessed the knowledge required to cut off an interplanar trail.