The egg in your hands churns in mechanized rhythym. A music box symphony plays on the cogs, beckoning you closer.
[[listen]]
[[look at sky|Check Times]]
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(if: getHours() is 0)[
(css: "font-size: 200%;")[☽]
[[Something is happening now, at the hour between night and day.|midnight.]]
]
(else:)[(css: "font-size: 200%;")[☼]
The sun pierces the sky like a fever pitch. The egg in your hand swelters and shivers, a faint mechanical humming like a cry in the beating sun.
[[Return.|Untitled Passage]] ]
My (either: "father", "mother", "creator", "maker",) said more hands were needed in this world. Hands, claws, teeth of iron and steel.
Said flesh is good, but flesh is [[weak]]. I was not born, but made, built carefully. A strange thing, to feel your own creation. Other creatures say they forget.
They say forgetting is good, that it does not vex memory or poison with [[sentiment.]]They say he dug too deep, something finding him in the great below of the sooted gritblood. Say it never left his hands again. Say the gears did not turn the same afterward.
Says he made us with ever gear he had left.
Even the ones [[inside]].
Gears grind and clink within. Time passes differently to you and I. One hour to you is one day to us, sometimes more.
We survive because someone finds the working parts that fit.
Wrenches don't feel the same as hands, but inside it's all started to feel the [[same.]] I was made under the sign of the [[moon]]. The mechanical cogs of the egg churn in the moonlight, gripping to your hands gently as they assemble. Bracers of cool, patinated copper flow over your arms seamlessly. The look like gentle claws.
[[watch]]. A strange thing, to feel your own creation at the moment the day [[starts]] and another ends.Ends were never meant for us, but we are meant to [[recognize]] them.The death of a beast, the death of a day. But there is rebirth from death, a new day begins at the [[moment]] of the last day's death.There is goodness in this, we are taught. And our (either: "teachings","findings") are forged into our electric [[hearts.]]
We were made in the likeness of the world of flesh. Metal bodies to replace meat and bone that tears and cracks, but in the same forms and with the same [[beauty]].Death is so rare for something like us. Lost limbs replaced with new. We survive because someone finds the working parts that fit, that work, that [[cohabitate]].We bind ourselves to the sun and moon that rise, so it seems, and fall across the sky like the [[animals]] before us.So much time has passed since my (either: "creation", "birth", "delivery"). My form has been enhanced with age, smaller pieces replaced with new and greater like the growth of a living thing.
Feathers of tin become pinions of adamantine, claws of thorium.
Forever it [[continues]].
Like the animals we were built to replace, I know it is time to bring new (either: "life","creation","children") into this [[world]].
They will be born-created like the animals before me. They will be created-born like myself.
You who are reading this message.
Will you watch over my child,
on the hour of its [[birth|Check Times]] ?Cogs begins to form to the shape of roots, patinated copper and gilded stone forming into a great tree. Numbers underneath.
They read: 63.53, 26.45
[[keep watching]]Cogs and gears begin to form on metal feet, silver and gold melding to wings of opal. Ghost Iron lungs and a ruby heart are surrounded with beautiful shades of rust and verdigris.
Eyes of emerald, claws of diamond, a beak of pure rose gold. A miniature gryphon, gilded, perfect in its parts, forms perched on your arm.
The last child, the makers final [[creation.]]
The gryphon opens its beak, stretching its wings. It peers at you with diamond eyes, searching. A beautiful creation. A message plays from a voicebox deep within.
"Thank you for taking care of him."
The bird clicks a few times, looking around from its perch on your arm.
Something that will stay with the company for this time and the time beyond.
[[end.]]The tree grows branches of ironwood, spanning outward mechanically, each one popping up with a cluster of carved emerald leaves.
A glass is extended from the top of the metal tree, amplifying the moonlight.
The tree folds with a mechanical clicking, easing back into its original form.
After a moment, it re-forms once more.
[[watch|creation1]] "Moons"
written by wallace and greaves
[[play again|Untitled Passage]]