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Carnifex's Story Hour (Updated January 20th, "The Union")
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<blockquote data-quote="Carnifex" data-source="post: 1257096" data-attributes="member: 227"><p>And another Cazamir update - we'll be getting back to Wolf's Company soon though... <img src="data:image/gif;base64,R0lGODlhAQABAIAAAAAAAP///yH5BAEAAAAALAAAAAABAAEAAAIBRAA7" class="smilie smilie--sprite smilie--sprite1" alt=":)" title="Smile :)" loading="lazy" data-shortname=":)" /></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p>As Cazamir asked his question, the acolytes moved to slightly different positions around the afflicted man to tend to him, and the monk finally saw his arm.</p><p></p><p></p><p>It ended just below the elbow, where the flesh was horribly enflamed in livid colours. Beyond there it was metal, a facsimile of an arm in steel and rivets and segmented metal tubes that seemed to plunge into the man's actual flesh. Articulated parts would have let the arm and fingers move had a small firebox furnace incorporated in the design been alight. At the moment the metal prosthetic was cold and inactive.</p><p></p><p></p><p>The man with the bronze eye turned to look cautiously at Cazamir at his question, the metal globe swivelling in the socket to focus on him; he could see little metal plates moving at its centre under a glass layer, focusing on him with an almost inaudible whirring noise. Then the man nodded back at the stricken form in indication.</p><p></p><p></p><p>"Our man was injured badly, his arm mangled by some of those creatures that people round here call dreadspawn. We removed it and replaced it with a prosthetic but he has not taken it well, his body fighting in rejection. It would have been manageable but then the flesh there was infected by some affliction, and I hope the people here can help cure it or else the wounding might kill him." He coughed apologetically. "I apologise if perhaps you find the idea of mechanical prosthetics... alien in concept. We are Ironjacks, and we do not come from these kingdoms, we are but recently arrived." He scrutinised Cazamir a bit longer. "You look like you are one of the people I hear called Huronese, from the lands south of here. I have heard that you have wizard-thaumineers who make many marvels. Still we have found that our ways and our machines are strange to your people and the people of this 'Drakkath'." He paused. "Nonetheless I would prefer to be in these lands where we are strange to natives than in the lands we fled from. We were driven from our homes over the Azure sea, and cannot go back." </p><p></p><p></p><p> “So you Ironjacks seek to replace damaged parts of the body with machines?” Cazamir asked, oddly fascinated by the healing arts of the monks before him. He continued without turning to regard the bronze-eyed man beside him. “You look to have been wounded a great many times, or are some of these changes by choice?”</p><p></p><p></p><p>“Interesting that you would bring your friend here, to a place that promotes purity of the body. I truly hope that they are able to heal the damage that has been wrought. I once studied at a monastery similar to this one, albeit of a different faith. I have learned to use my mind to bolster the body. So far it has served me well. Then again, I have not encountered these dreadspawn you speak of.”</p><p></p><p></p><p>There were a number of dangerous things in the world that Cazamir had not encountered. He kept his eyes focused on the man’s severed arm. Could he function with loss of a limb? Would he grow desperate enough to seek a replacement such as this, if healing were not available? He shuddered, forcing the thought to the back of his mind.</p><p></p><p></p><p>“Tell me, what could force you from your lands? I do not wish to pry, but I am a traveller. I find it better to know what dangers lurk about, even if they are a great distance away.”</p><p></p><p></p><p>The Ironjack wizard pondered for a moment. "We do not <em>seek</em> to replace parts of the body with machines, at least most of us do not, though there are... some who think that desireable. No, most of us Ironjacks merely believe in the usefulness of crafting mechanical prosthetics as replacements for limbs and organs damaged beyond repair. There is risk in taking on a prosthetic and it is not something one does lightly. And since I have come to these lands I have heard of strange flesh-sorcerers called 'Manipulators' who can repair the damage to the body in ways that the healers of gods cannot, and I wonder how my Ironjack kindred will see this. Still, for an Ironjack warrior a prosthetic is a mark of pride, for it shows you have fought and experienced the dangers of battle. This," he pointed to his bronze eye, "I lost to the sanguinii."</p><p></p><p></p><p>"We once dwelled upon the western coast of the continent your peoples call Avora, over the Azure sea. There our rigs and settlements were a centre of glorious learning and craftsmanship. Yet even with the might of our sciences, we were driven out, refugees now from our own land, or at least those of us who survived. Dark beings we call the sanguinii - for they are blood-sorcerers and masters of dead flesh, and they drink from the flesh of others - came from further east, roused by the Elder gods. Once they were the servants of the mad Elders, and were but travellers tales to us, for we heard occasionally that they prowled the Azkhatu jungles still, and we were not prepared for their attack. We were not the only ones to suffer, but I fear we Ironjacks took the brunt of their fury. I lost my eye even as they stormed our rig; myself and the other men of the rig were attempting to hold them at bay that our families and belongings might be stowed onto our ships and dirigibles, and then we retreated too and left our home to be a palace to their festering minions. Many of us escaped, but there are many rigs we never heard from, and many of the treasures and sciences of our people are lost to them."</p><p></p><p></p><p>The wizard-mechanic stared at the floor gloomily. "We are a scattered people now, small caravans here and there across these lands. Few in number, and with no influence to really protect ourselves with. There are not many in these lands who take kindly to us and our machines, at least not for longer than it takes for them to buy designs from us." He brightened. "But we are still alive at least, and I have heard tales of a Mechanist-Superior having established an Ironjack enclave for us in the port of Iril, so I shall travel there and see how things fare. And some listen to our sciences in these lands. We Ironjacks are not defeated yet." </p><p></p><p></p><p>“I am glad to hear that you are survivors,” Cazamir told the Ironjack. That earns my respect more than most. Your ways are still very foreign to me, not due to the distance seperating our cultures, but your ways are still very foreign to me, not due to the distance seperating our cultures, but in the ways we hone our bodies. I do not think less of you – I just do not understand the path you tread. Regardless, I hope your friend survives his current trial.”</p><p></p><p></p><p>He turned from the healing procedures and glanced at his group of greybeards, making sure that they were still busy in setting up camp.</p><p></p><p></p><p>“I have heard a little of these Manipulators you seek, but never have I seen one. Otherwise, I would gladly point you in their direction.”</p><p></p><p></p><p>“I have work ahead of me, but should you need anything Ironjack, please ask.” With the last words, Cazamir extended his hand to the Ironjack. He then stepped away from the wagon, allowing the monks more space to work on the fallen man.</p><p></p><p></p><p><em>Many interesting travellers,</em> Cazamir thought, <em>but I am not here to fraternize with them.</em> He glanced around, looking to see if any other acolytes were available to speak with. He found himself curious to see how the followers of Grumand lived, and what differences other than religion seperated the two groups.</p></blockquote><p></p>
[QUOTE="Carnifex, post: 1257096, member: 227"] And another Cazamir update - we'll be getting back to Wolf's Company soon though... :) As Cazamir asked his question, the acolytes moved to slightly different positions around the afflicted man to tend to him, and the monk finally saw his arm. It ended just below the elbow, where the flesh was horribly enflamed in livid colours. Beyond there it was metal, a facsimile of an arm in steel and rivets and segmented metal tubes that seemed to plunge into the man's actual flesh. Articulated parts would have let the arm and fingers move had a small firebox furnace incorporated in the design been alight. At the moment the metal prosthetic was cold and inactive. The man with the bronze eye turned to look cautiously at Cazamir at his question, the metal globe swivelling in the socket to focus on him; he could see little metal plates moving at its centre under a glass layer, focusing on him with an almost inaudible whirring noise. Then the man nodded back at the stricken form in indication. "Our man was injured badly, his arm mangled by some of those creatures that people round here call dreadspawn. We removed it and replaced it with a prosthetic but he has not taken it well, his body fighting in rejection. It would have been manageable but then the flesh there was infected by some affliction, and I hope the people here can help cure it or else the wounding might kill him." He coughed apologetically. "I apologise if perhaps you find the idea of mechanical prosthetics... alien in concept. We are Ironjacks, and we do not come from these kingdoms, we are but recently arrived." He scrutinised Cazamir a bit longer. "You look like you are one of the people I hear called Huronese, from the lands south of here. I have heard that you have wizard-thaumineers who make many marvels. Still we have found that our ways and our machines are strange to your people and the people of this 'Drakkath'." He paused. "Nonetheless I would prefer to be in these lands where we are strange to natives than in the lands we fled from. We were driven from our homes over the Azure sea, and cannot go back." “So you Ironjacks seek to replace damaged parts of the body with machines?” Cazamir asked, oddly fascinated by the healing arts of the monks before him. He continued without turning to regard the bronze-eyed man beside him. “You look to have been wounded a great many times, or are some of these changes by choice?” “Interesting that you would bring your friend here, to a place that promotes purity of the body. I truly hope that they are able to heal the damage that has been wrought. I once studied at a monastery similar to this one, albeit of a different faith. I have learned to use my mind to bolster the body. So far it has served me well. Then again, I have not encountered these dreadspawn you speak of.” There were a number of dangerous things in the world that Cazamir had not encountered. He kept his eyes focused on the man’s severed arm. Could he function with loss of a limb? Would he grow desperate enough to seek a replacement such as this, if healing were not available? He shuddered, forcing the thought to the back of his mind. “Tell me, what could force you from your lands? I do not wish to pry, but I am a traveller. I find it better to know what dangers lurk about, even if they are a great distance away.” The Ironjack wizard pondered for a moment. "We do not [i]seek[/i] to replace parts of the body with machines, at least most of us do not, though there are... some who think that desireable. No, most of us Ironjacks merely believe in the usefulness of crafting mechanical prosthetics as replacements for limbs and organs damaged beyond repair. There is risk in taking on a prosthetic and it is not something one does lightly. And since I have come to these lands I have heard of strange flesh-sorcerers called 'Manipulators' who can repair the damage to the body in ways that the healers of gods cannot, and I wonder how my Ironjack kindred will see this. Still, for an Ironjack warrior a prosthetic is a mark of pride, for it shows you have fought and experienced the dangers of battle. This," he pointed to his bronze eye, "I lost to the sanguinii." "We once dwelled upon the western coast of the continent your peoples call Avora, over the Azure sea. There our rigs and settlements were a centre of glorious learning and craftsmanship. Yet even with the might of our sciences, we were driven out, refugees now from our own land, or at least those of us who survived. Dark beings we call the sanguinii - for they are blood-sorcerers and masters of dead flesh, and they drink from the flesh of others - came from further east, roused by the Elder gods. Once they were the servants of the mad Elders, and were but travellers tales to us, for we heard occasionally that they prowled the Azkhatu jungles still, and we were not prepared for their attack. We were not the only ones to suffer, but I fear we Ironjacks took the brunt of their fury. I lost my eye even as they stormed our rig; myself and the other men of the rig were attempting to hold them at bay that our families and belongings might be stowed onto our ships and dirigibles, and then we retreated too and left our home to be a palace to their festering minions. Many of us escaped, but there are many rigs we never heard from, and many of the treasures and sciences of our people are lost to them." The wizard-mechanic stared at the floor gloomily. "We are a scattered people now, small caravans here and there across these lands. Few in number, and with no influence to really protect ourselves with. There are not many in these lands who take kindly to us and our machines, at least not for longer than it takes for them to buy designs from us." He brightened. "But we are still alive at least, and I have heard tales of a Mechanist-Superior having established an Ironjack enclave for us in the port of Iril, so I shall travel there and see how things fare. And some listen to our sciences in these lands. We Ironjacks are not defeated yet." “I am glad to hear that you are survivors,” Cazamir told the Ironjack. That earns my respect more than most. Your ways are still very foreign to me, not due to the distance seperating our cultures, but your ways are still very foreign to me, not due to the distance seperating our cultures, but in the ways we hone our bodies. I do not think less of you – I just do not understand the path you tread. Regardless, I hope your friend survives his current trial.” He turned from the healing procedures and glanced at his group of greybeards, making sure that they were still busy in setting up camp. “I have heard a little of these Manipulators you seek, but never have I seen one. Otherwise, I would gladly point you in their direction.” “I have work ahead of me, but should you need anything Ironjack, please ask.” With the last words, Cazamir extended his hand to the Ironjack. He then stepped away from the wagon, allowing the monks more space to work on the fallen man. [i]Many interesting travellers,[/i] Cazamir thought, [i]but I am not here to fraternize with them.[/i] He glanced around, looking to see if any other acolytes were available to speak with. He found himself curious to see how the followers of Grumand lived, and what differences other than religion seperated the two groups. [/QUOTE]
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