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Sexy Times with Magnewahkul: Schlocktober 2025 Fill List

Day 7: Shallow Throating -- Daidukul teaches Magnai how to give oral sex when you have horns. (Daidukul/Magnai, background Grynewaht/Magnai, fellating a dildo)

Day 8: Masturbation Pollen -- Grynewaht learns about the side effects of purbol pollen first-hand. At length. (Grynewaht solo, background Grynewaht/Magnai, masturbation obviously)

Day 12: Haggled Use -- A Buduga sex game goes off the rails before it even begins. (Grynewaht & Daidukul & some random dudes, bondage, setup for free-use scenario but nothing happens on page)

Day 13: Antibreeding Kink -- Grynewaht's theater of thoughts about making babies and how much more comforting it is to know you won't. (Grynewaht solo, mostly just introspection from the world's least introspective guy)

Day 18: Genital Swap (Not Full Body) -- One morning, our heroes wake up with each other's dicks. That's it. That's the fic. (Daidukul/Grynewaht/Magnai, technically no on-camera sex but a looooot of dick description and dudes having Dick Thoughts)

Day 19: Spatchcocking / Wound Fucking -- Magnai gets aetherically infected by a wandering Garlean horror, with sexy results! No, actually, life-threatening results. (Grynewaht/Magnai, body horror interpreted by our victim as erotic due to delirium, a little gore, object insertion into wound for platonic medical purposes but the erotic delirium kicks in. 6.0 spoilers)

Day 22: Autocannibalism -- A grisly discovery in the Imperial palace provokes a conversation: if you were <s>a hot dog</s> the Emperor of Garlemald, besieged in your castle with a bunch of your own clones, would you eat yourself? Or: Grynewaht has an intrusive thought and it is now everyone's problem. (Grynewaht/Magnai being inflicted on Urianger and Thancred; mostly just an awkward conversation. Technically a sequel to Day 19.)

Day 29: Cloning Gone Wrong -- An Imperial defector leads an exploration into a secret lab in Castrum Fluminis and comes face to face with the various horrors sprung from the mind of Aulus mal Asina. (Body horror, mild vomiting references, nothing sexy is happening; mostly about an OC, but our dudes show up at the end in a coda)

Chapter Text

Magnai's first lesson in oral love began with a lecture. "This is a delicate business," began Daidukul, in a voice so low and solemn it was surely a jest. "Many men in our circumstances, men of great skill, have given up on learning the art completely. You are a ready student of love, but it will take great diligence to master the art of the horned cocksucker."

"Be serious, please," replied Magnai. Over the past few weeks, as they'd all faced the future with unburdened hearts, Daidukul had regained some of his habit for levity, but Magnai still distrusted jokes on the topic of intimacy and his skills thereof. To be made light of was a wound; to be sincerely doubted was worse. "You understand what this means."

"Of course I do, and who said I wasn't serious? Or mostly serious. Men do give up after they've jabbed their lovers in the thigh once or twice, but you're brighter than that, o Radiant. Watch closely, and I'll demonstrate."

Magnai's hand went to the waistband of his trousers before Daidukul waved him off. "No, not on you," he continued. "It will split your attention, and the view will be poor. I brought an appropriate implement." He crossed the room to his bedside table, on which sat a broad-based false phallus, crafted of polished ivory or perhaps pale stone. As Daidukul took it in hand, Magnai estimated that it was quite a bit larger than Daidukul's member, and modestly longer than his own. "This is the largest I own, I fear," Daidukul said. "Not an equal to your Nhaama, but it will serve as an example. Allow me to show you the technique."

Was it right to stay standing? It seemed incorrect to stay standing. Magnai seated himself on the bed, and Daidukul followed, sitting close enough to give Magnai a clear view of his face. "The first step is your angle. Even if you cap your horns, you don't want them digging into the flesh, and you need to figure out what approach will let you take the most. Straight ahead --" And now he aligned the phallus with his mouth, moving it slowly in until his horns came level with the base, with not much more than the tip near his lips -- "works poorly, no matter how natural it feels. If you arrange your position like so --" He tilted the phallus at different angles, until it eventually came up from below, bypassing the horns more easily -- "you have greater room to work."

"But surely," said Magnai, "one cannot reach much of the member, even at the best angle?"

"And now you see the curse of the horned cocksucker, and why technique is more important than enthusiasm. Your mouth will not reach much, so you must make the most of what you can reach. Start with a hand around the rest of the shaft, as slick as you can get it." He changed his grip on the phallus, hand wrapping around the base of the shaft. "Stroke, of course, but you know how to do that by now. The other hand can go for the balls or the hole, as you see fit. And for the mouth... keep it busy on what it can reach. Active lips, hungry tongue. Do not simply receive. Let me show you."

With that, Daidukul closed his eyes and began his work in earnest. His off-hand kept the base of the phallus steady, while his active hand began to move slowly over the length of the shaft. Even at his preferred angle, only the tip and perhaps an ilm of shaft passed his lips; those lips, thin and delicate, kissed and suckled with great thoroughness and what could only be adoration. Daidukul's tongue darted out from between his lips, making slow strokes along the carved glans, then a line down the underside until it had reached its limit, before his lips engulfed the head again and Magnai was left to imagine the tongue's efforts continuing inside. The room had grown very warm, and Magnai found his attention split between the demonstration and the rush of heat in his groin, his length stiffening against his underclothes. How he wanted to experience that shallow, urgent pleasure for himself, or -- or to administer it, to watch Daidukul break composure, to see just how ready a student of love he was.

"A fine demonstration," intoned Magnai, in his own low voice of command. "But, my dear friend, I believe I require practice."

Chapter Text

The thing about purbols, aside from the obvious, was that they were bloody rude. Grynewaht had heard all the horror stories when he'd shipped off west -- the veterans in Gyr Abania all seemed to know someone who'd wandered off alone and ended up rogered by a walking tree or shambling shrub -- but in all those stories, the plant at least had the courtesy to properly roger someone, with a good eye for the tender parts that could use a vine or two. What kind of half-rate predatory plant blasted you in the face with pollen and then just buggered off to leave you alone?

Nomolun had explained it all, of course, though Grynewaht had struggled to focus on the details. Something about them trying to isolate their prey and let it exhaust and dehydrate itself? He'd ask again after this was all over, he decided, and he could think properly again. Most of what he'd taken away from her lecture was that he was displaying the ordinary symptoms of purbol pollen: that the lightheadedness, the rushing pulse, and the desperate need to rub himself raw was all normal. (He'd linked his hands behind his back for the whole talk, just to keep them out of his lap. Great presence of mind under stress, he thought.) That the hunger was mixed with fear, a mental crush to be alone, was also the standard order of these things, but that was just another way the purbol was the rudest plant on the star, wasn't it? Magnai had been right there with him, and for the first time since they'd locked eyes, Grynewaht hadn't wanted him to touch him. The absolute nerve of that plant! And, of course, it stunk; even after he'd scrubbed off all he could with the gritty soap Nomolun had sent him home with, the stench lingered, like he'd gotten a rotting rolanberry lodged up his nose. Bells later, the smell had barely faded, even as Grynewaht felt his mind coming out of a long haze. It had been bells, hadn't it? This was all supposed to last six bells or so. Surely he was nearly done?

What he was, he realized with the unpleasant return of self-awareness, was ruined. The worst of the fever had passed, but he was still flushed and panting for breath, covered in sweat that never had the chance to dry. Worse, he was splattered from thighs to throat with seed. (Plus a bit on his face, he thought, and a crusty hank of hair in his peripheral vision.) Grynewaht could recall being lucid enough between wanks for drinks of water, and he'd put down some old blankets on the bed at some point, but why hadn't he washed? No point in it, maybe, not until he was done, and it seemed he wasn't done. His prick was as hard as ever, an angry red but not raw, and even still leaking. Grynewaht inhaled deeply and tried to focus. If he left it be, would it settle down on its own? Was the pollen close enough to out of his system that he could just... stop?

Did he want to stop?

He reached for the lotion jar laying open on the bed, and one dab on his shaft told him that, no, his prick wasn't ready to be done quite yet. The pollen made even the softest touch feel like a bone-dry death grip, like those nights in the barracks when it'd been so hot he hadn't even been able to work up a mouthful of spit for his hand. Feeling that delicious half-painful friction alongside the smooth glide of the cool lotion didn't seem possible, and yet here he was, lightly ghosting palm against prick and feeling like he was giving it the full-force treatment. His hips bucked, trying to force himself against himself harder, and Grynewaht had to take slow deep breaths to try and keep his brain working. How could it still be as good as the first wank? How could he still need it this badly, need -- yeah, a little tighter grip, a bit more lotion, the vague thought of a finger up his arse but that was too much coordination, his hand was working alone just fine, there was the sting of fresh sweat in his eyes and it hurt good right now, all of him hurt good, breathe Grynewaht breathe --

When the fireworks fizzled out of Grynewaht's mind and the stars in his eyes faded, the first thing he noticed was the warmth of fresh seed on his stomach, a little drizzle seeping down slowly towards his groin. Not his finest performance, but at least he'd still had something inside to spend. Nomolun had said something about calling for help if he started shooting dry. Or was it shooting blood? Neither seemed good.

Water. He needed water, while he was still lucid and his prick was soft. Grynewaht stood up and wobbled across the room to the table, gulping down the lukewarm water that had started the evening as ice. He could drink from the bathroom basin if he had to, even while his legs ached at the thought of kneeling down to reach it. Kneeling -- the sweet ache in the joints -- oh no. He could feel his blood rushing south again, and he knew he had to get back to the bed before he defiled any of Magnai's nice things. He walked as swiftly and steadily as his legs would let him, sat down heavily on the bed, and looked down with half-fearful anticipation as his erection rose anew.

There was a knock at the door.

Grynewaht yelped, and a hand moved reflexively to cover himself. "Who is it?" He knew who it was, who it had to be, and did he really have to be here? He didn't want Magnai to see him like this, did he? Not before he'd washed, combed his hair, cleaned up a bit -- seven hells, the purbol stink was starting to die off and he could smell himself, like a yakow in rut. The thought of Magnai's touch was becoming more welcome than it had been for bells, but now?

"It is I, my dearest," said the voice Grynewaht had expected. "I brought water and soup. Some vegetable juice, too, for replenishment. How do you fare?"

"It's... getting better? I think?" It was getting better, Grynewaht was fairly certain, because hearing Magnai's voice brought comfort and not panic. Maybe it'd be all right if he came in to help with the bath he'd need when this was all over. His prick pulsed in his hand, and he tried his best to keep his arm still, try to make his grip soothe it instead of get it more excited. "How do I know when it's over? ... Did, um, did this ever happen to you, Magnai?" He hadn't thought to ask before. More pressing things on his mind, he supposed.

"I fear it has not," said Magnai after a moment's pause. "I was instructed from a young age to keep a careful distance from purbols." There was another, longer pause. "Would it comfort you if it had?"

"Well, it'd be nice to know I wasn't the only bleedin' idiot to get a faceful of this," admitted Grynewaht. "I don't like feeling the fool." The thought was enough to make his prick soften a bit, which triggered the moment of realization that his prick was softening on its own recognizance. Holding it felt nice, like it always did, but not so urgent. Was this it?

"Then that settles it," came Magnai's voice from behind the door. "On the morrow, when you are well and rested, I will endeavor to lose a fight with a purbol. We will understand these agonies together."

Grynewaht grimaced. Magnai had a great many talents, talents he knew quite well, but an experienced wanker, he was not. There was every chance he'd rub himself truly raw, without a little patience and a lot of lotion. But the thought of Magnai in here alone for bells, panting and sweating and coming over and over -- glazing himself with it, making the room smell like him -- well, if he hadn't been so absolutely swived out, he'd be hard again at the thought.

"I'll make sure Nomolun has her kit ready," Grynewaht said. "And I'll be here. With ice water, and soup, and all the rest. Could... could you bring the soup in? And run a bath?"

Chapter Text

"You there, in the green shawl! Out!"

It was endearing, thought Daidukul, that Grynewaht never seemed to realize when he was in an odd position to be making demands. The position in question, in this case, was kneeling and bent over the Buduga playroom's largest bench, hempen rope tied around his chest to keep him in place and more used to secure his arms behind his back. He'd been a perfectly good sport about that part of the game, and about the thin muslin replica Imperial foot soldier's uniform some of the boys had come up with (where in the world had they found that pot helm?). Daidukul had explained the rules in triplicate, down to the fact that it all ended the moment Grynewaht said the code word, or even made a sufficiently non-feigned declaration of distress. (The boy was not a good actor.) Why, then, was it time to make objections now that he was all trussed up and ready to play?

The Buduga in the green shawl -- Dayan, he was named; a capture from the Torgud a year or two ago, and quite game himself -- scowled. "What'd I do? Have we ever spoken?"

"I've seen you at dinner, and you're bloody rude!" Grynewaht raised his head as high as his bindings allowed. "Always complaining to Esugen that the food's cold. You show up a bell late, of course the food's cold! Out, and maybe we'll have a go if you learn your manners."

Dayan looked to Daidukul, who made his most official nod, before leaving the playroom with his shoulders slumped. A murmur went up from the other Buduga assembled in the room. Daidukul couldn't blame them for their confusion; the guest of honor in this particular game was usually a Buduga brother or adventurous Oronir who relished the lack of control over their coupling, or at least were open-minded. Was this pickiness a sign of troubles to come? (Possibly, Daidukul had to admit. This round would be... unorthodox.) When one of the crowd stepped forward, Daidukul sighed inwardly when he saw it was Morokha. He'd grown up alongside him, a fine warrior and great hunter, but never in consideration for the khanate because of his relentless dedication to being the voice of opposition -- or, in other words, a colossal pain.

"Daidukul," he began, in the elevated tone that always meant he intended to make a statement of great import (that is, be a worse pain than normal). "We are all grateful that you and Magnai are sharing your lad with us, but must he talk out of turn? Have the two great khans not kept him in his proper place? Is it Oroniri pride rubbing off on this whore --"

"Hey now!" called Grynewaht, who jerked against his restraints. "That's uncalled for! Money doesn't come into it!"

Well, this was going to need to be salvaged quickly if it were to be salvaged at all. "He's right," said Daidukul, stepping forward himself. "Morokha, see yourself out. I will not ask twice. As for the rest of you -- our guest has chosen to share himself, and I expect that he will receive your respect for it, even if he is to play the part of the subjugated Imperial dog. I will remind you that his bindings are quite flimsy, and it is a testament to his good sportsmanship that he has not yet broken them. As further evidence, I can attest that he is wearing no smallclothes underneath his costume." (Grynewaht muttered something about how that was supposed to be a surprise.) "Furthermore, my brothers, remember the second act of the game to come. When Magnai bursts through the door to rescue his claimed consort, would you prefer that he 'punish' you, or that he punish you?"

The reminder of Magnai lurking in the background (hopefully not too close to the door, although Daidukul suspected he'd have already burst in if he'd heard any of this) seemed to quiet the remaining objections. Daidukul glanced down at Grynewaht, who'd settled back into an adequately comfortable position on the bench, and knelt to confer with him in whispers. "Now, then. Shall we resume?"

"Quickly, like," muttered Grynewaht. "These trousers itch something awful, and my leg's cramping up. They'd better make this worth my while."

"Oh, they will. Or Magnai and I will, if my brothers fail." Daidukul rose to his feet and returned his gaze to the crowd. "Our captured Imperial is ready. Brothers, show him the power of the Buduga."

Chapter Text

Magnai wanted a baby.

It wasn't that Grynewaht didn't want a baby, exactly. He'd always imagined having a child or two down the line, alongside the husband and the house somewhere warm and the other nice things that would have come with citizenship; he'd expected to be a bit older by then, of course, but he did have his nice things now, so why not move the plans up? But he'd also imagined the process would involve an orphanage. Magnai seemed convinced that there were ways for them to have children of their own blood -- some ritual somewhere, if he could convince the Dotharli witch to hand it over, or those potions that could remake your body however you liked. (If Magnai planned to use one himself, Grynewaht had considered, it had better just be his parts he switched out. If he was a woman all the way... well, it wasn't going to work, to put it politely.) It wasn't that he was afraid of the magic part, even magic that came from the Dotharl. It was -- maybe not even fear, maybe just a funny feeling? About making the baby in the first place. Swiving for a baby felt not quite right.

Of course, Grynewaht knew it was the standard practice. His da had explained it all, and that he shouldn't go even touching a girl if he didn't want to get her in trouble. (And, later, "don't believe your teachers, you can have a Miqo'te if you like," which didn't make sense until he'd gotten to school and read the bit in the health textbook about the "toxic venereal secretions of the animalistic races.") He'd gotten the idea that he ought not to spend himself anywhere near a girl if he could help it, maybe not even downwind of a girl, but by then he knew it wasn't girls he wanted anyway, and what could happen with a boy? VD? All the soldiers got pills for that, or an implant if you got it bad enough, and he was going to be a soldier. What was the harm?

Fooling around in the barracks had been easy, and it had been nice for something in his life to be easy. You had to stay dressed in case the monitors came by, so it was almost all just hands in open trousers, not the sort of thing that could make babies even for the lads who didn't have pricks. (Could they even have babies anyway? It didn't seem right that they could put in all that hard work to be a man, all the paperwork and the infirmary visits, and still have lady problems.) Technically even touching was against the fraternization policies, but in practice a little happy grab-arse had never bothered anyone much, and Grynewaht hadn't had anyone special enough that they'd wanted to try for more than that. It was just fun, the most reliable way to have a good day when you were stewing in the XIVth Legion Reserves, and there were very few ways for Grynewaht to bugger it up. Certainly no baby-level way to bugger it up, at least.

And with Magnai... well, he couldn't pretend he hadn't been nervous at first, maybe even afraid, but it had all fallen into place, hadn't it? Maybe Magnai wasn't practiced, but he'd figured things out quickly once they'd gotten started; he was good, properly good, and it had all been for him all along. Maybe it wasn't simple fun anymore, but it had still always been something Grynewaht was sure he couldn't break, once he'd learned enough about Magnai's body not to doubt its strength. But now? Now this was delicate. This was fiddly. Magic and rituals, everything for a reason, so many ways he could fail Magnai -- ways he could hurt him, even, because he was fairly sure Magnai was insistent on carrying it. How in the hells was Grynewaht supposed to learn how to give someone a baby when he'd spent all these years relieved he never would? Could he, even? Everything down below worked fine for fun, but he had no way of knowing if it worked for business. And if it didn't, was that how he finally managed to break this pretty thing he'd been given?

Well, worrying about this wasn't going to help. It wasn't like there was a plan yet for Grynewaht to bungle. What he needed, he decided, was a little distraction -- and Daidukul was a good candidate. Maybe Daidukul didn't look at him like he'd hung the moon and stars, but they had an understanding about the time they spent together. He never asked for much more than a little fun, and he took what he wanted, and Grynewaht gave it, and it was nice and simple, wasn't it? And when it wasn't, when Daidukul was stroppy, a little play could put everything to rights. Grynewaht stood up, straightened his clothes and smoothed his hair, and set off down the hallway towards the Buduga quarters. By the time he got there, he'd almost quieted his heart, almost convinced himself he could convince Daidukul he was just in the mood for something quick.

Daidukul answered the door fully dressed, which wasn't saying much, but at least Grynewaht knew he wasn't interrupting. "Well. What brings you here?"

"Nothing special," Grynewaht started, in a voice that was trying to be nonchalant and came out strained. "... ah, hells. Look, I just want to swive. Like normal. Whatever you want."

"Something's troubling you, I see," replied Daidukul. "Come in, then. Let's see if we can chase those thoughts right out of your head."

Chapter Text

Magnai awoke from uneasy dreams one morning to find his Nhaama seated motionless at the foot of their bed. This was not particularly unusual, as Grynewaht was known to appreciate taking his waking slow when circumstances allowed, but his pensive hunch and stare vaguely floor-ward was less common and more troubling. Magnai sat up, but before he could ask what ailed his beloved, Grynewaht looked up with faint startlement. "Magnai! You're awake! Um. Something's wrong? I think I have your cock."

"What? Surely I would have noticed the absence." Magnai could feel nothing odd below his own waist, but when Grynewaht spread his thighs to let him have a clearer view, the member between them was simultaneously incorrect and familiar. In the low light of the morning bedroom, the skin tone was a close enough match to fool the eye at first, but the ring of dark scales around the organ's base betrayed it as Auri. Its length and girth looked rather more modest than usual on Grynewaht's body, but not, Magnai thought with a modicum of pride, to the point that his dearest one was shamed by carrying "only" his endowment, even as flaccid as it was. A test was in order. "May I?"

"'course you can. It's yours."

The errant member felt correct in Magnai's hand, the precise shape and heft it ought to be, and there could be no question of its identity. He felt no particular sensation even as it twitched and began to harden, but Grynewaht half-moaned, half-yelped. "Gah! Sorry, sorry, 's not bad, but it's certainly attached to me. Is it always that strong for you? No wonder you like a softer hand."

"Perhaps," Magnai said. "I might show you properly, but first..." He still felt no absence, so what resided between his legs? He untied and lowered his sleep trousers, revealing a member whose deep blue skin melded seamlessly with his own just past the ring of blue-black pubic scales at its root. Though its length was unremarkable, its pleasing girth and subtle curve compensated more than adequately. Indeed, it was a member Magnai had admired since first laying eyes on it properly, and his appreciation was only slightly dimmed by finding it on his own body. Daidukul had always underrated his cock, Magnai thought, and perhaps this was an opportunity for perspective? Or a curse. There was every chance this might be a curse. But nonetheless. That said, where was Daidukul, anyway?

Grynewaht, meanwhile, seemed to have put together the puzzle himself. "Okay, so I've got yours, and you've got Daidukul's. And he's scarpered. Wasn't here when I woke up. What do we do, wait?"

"It surely won't be long," Magnai replied, before he was vindicated by a knock at the door.

Daidukul stepped inside, swimming in a borrowed robe; if Magnai's theories were correct, his usual garb was unlikely to fit. "Good morning, gentlemen," he announced before either of the others could speak. "I see you've discovered our predicament. I've been to one of our healers, and he says that this is a corporeal aetheric flux event, which I believe is a healer's way of saying it's the whim of the star. Harmless, curable, but it'll take magic to correct it... when we care to. It needn't be immediately." With practiced nonchalance, he untied the sash of the robe and shrugged it off his shoulders.

If Magnai's member looked modest on Grynewaht, and Daidukul's unimpressive on Magnai, then Grynewaht's member attached to Daidukul was obscene, the sort of proportions seen only in crude latrine-wall scrawlings. It hung low and heavy enough that Magnai marveled that Daidukul had managed the walk to and from the healer's with no further support, the warm soft skin and nest of red hair in strange contrast to Daidukul's cool blue composure. Magnai realized he was staring, Grynewaht was ogling, and Daidukul was smirking.

"Can I have first go?" said Grynewaht, after a blink and a heavy swallow. "I know it's silly, shouldn't be so hungry for my own, but there's a lot you can't do with it when it's attached to you, so when it's not..." The member in his lap was starting to rise, clear seed beading at its tip; of course, that element of Grynewaht's gifts would stay with him even now, wouldn't it? The thought of seeing his own member so unusually productive was a touch distracting. Perhaps Grynewaht wasn't the only one hungry for a taste of himself.

"I don't see why not." Daidukul's voice was honey, utterly pleased with himself in a way Magnai had rarely seen in the many years of their friendship. "There's certainly great plenty to go around. And for you, Magnai?"

"Many things, in due time, but I would appreciate a round of practice with the weapon I've been gifted." He took the length between his legs in hand, coaxing it into strength, sending shivers up his spine from the novel pattern of sensation. "You underestimate yourself, Daidukul. I will show you your folly."

That day and the next followed the same pattern: a productive morning, a languorous afternoon of recovery, and an evening of renewed enthusiasm. When the third day brought the Buduga healer with his tinctures, powders, and lectures, none of them could work up the energy to be ashamed of themselves.

Chapter Text

The wound in Magnai's side was painless at first, almost invisible. The greatest risk of fighting the shapeless beasts the Garleans called "specimens" was the inability to predict their pattern of attack; though they appeared to be little more than shambling puddles of congealed blood, eyes surfacing intermittently from the mass, they possessed limbs of many shapes which could be materialized nigh-instantly. One must have caught him in the flank unawares, sliced through his armor and into his flesh with a razor-thin claw too fine to even notice in the struggle. Why else would it take a half-bell for the effects of the thing to manifest? It started as a spreading ache, deceptively dull, but when a liquid fever started to rise from his gut to his chest, Magnai noticed the tear in his coat and understood. "Wounded," he choked out through a throat growing thick with rising bile.

"What? Shite! Where from? I didn't see anything." Grynewaht snapped to, his first instinct to scan for the attacker, even as they stood in the ruins of farmhouses surrounded by near-unbroken snow. After assisting with the purge of rogue specimens oozing out of Regio Domorum towards the Eblan Rime, they'd been sent on a simple patrol for survivors deeper in Eblan, quite peacefully so far. There were no attackers -- and no ready reinforcements.

"Before," said Magnai. "The specimen. I feel unwell." The nausea was dying down, but the ache and heat were spreading, much more quickly than a wound could naturally fester. The most unnerving part was just how little it hurt. His senses were fuzzy and dulled, as if the creature had inflicted a comfortable drunkenness alongside his sickness. It was enough to start to impact his rational thought -- and that, he could still figure out, meant he was in trouble. There'd been a briefing on this by the medics. The "specimens," everything that came out of a Garlean laboratory, carried a sort of aetheric corruption akin to tempering. Wounds required special medicine. Did Grynewaht remember better than he did now?

"You -- you're -- we have to get you inside!" Grynewaht's eyes were saucer-wide; he slung his gunhammer on his back and gathered Magnai into his arms before sprinting towards one of the derelict farmhouses, whose door hung off its hinges. Even through his layers of patrol gear, he was wonderfully warm, thought Magnai. Why did body heat feel so delicious when he had a fever rising? He ought to have craved the wind and snow, but all he wanted was more warmth, more touch. Being set down on the cold stone floor of the farmhouse felt almost like insult.

Above him, Grynewaht wore an expression with Magnai thought at first was simply focus, and only slowly and dimly recognized as barely-repressed panic. "Magnai," he choked out, "we've got to use the kit they gave us. Treat it before... before it gets any worse. Where are you hurt?"

Nowhere, he wanted to say; nothing quite felt like pain anymore, the ache dying away into pure liquid warmth. "Left flank," he managed instead, and Grynewaht nearly tore off a fastener or two getting Magnai's coat open and his under-layers pushed aside to find the wound. Magnai's gaze slid unfocused across the ceiling and walls as he heard Grynewaht fumble with his gloves, then with the satchel of medical supplies. Soon there was a sensation of Grynewaht running a finger along the edge of the wound, leaving hot tingles where skin brushed skin. If only he might probe deeper, stick a finger inside, as deep as his flesh would yield.

Grynewaht's voice quavered. "It's big. Halfway from hip to belly now. It's open and it's weeping. Got to use the stick and the poultice, I think. Please stay still? Stay with me? Please."

"Still," echoed Magnai. It was hard to be otherwise. Stillness felt both good and natural; he felt so soft, as if all of him were of a piece, no difference between muscle and flesh and bone. His spine felt absent, his limbs and ribs free-floating, and he was certain a hand on his chest might press him flat to the floor in a puddle. (Perhaps Grynewaht might hold him down, feel him give beneath his strong arm. Would he appreciate it as Magnai would?) How restful it was to lie flat, to find his level like water! The only thing better than dissolving would be to dissolve with someone inside him, around him, if his dear Nhaama would simply push a finger in, or more, or his fist, up through the weeping wound into his molten core.

"Nhaama," Magnai says. "My Nhaama. Staying. Stay? ... Hold?" He could not phrase his thoughts any more clearly. (The lucid part of him, defiant and losing, knew he should not, that betraying his pleasure and his need would fray Grynewaht's last nerve and undo them both.)

"I'm right here, my lord. My love. Need both hands for this." There was the rustling of wax paper. "I've got the stick unwrapped. Have to put it in slowly now. I'm sorry, love, it might hurt."

"Won't hurt. Please." Anything inside would be a blessing.

Grynewaht leaned over him, his head just at the edge of Magnai's vision, and then there was the touch of something cold and waxy against the wound: not flesh, not hot, but presence. Fullness. The tip slid in, found resistance in the form of still-solid flesh, and pulled halfway out with a wet slurp. "Got to find the angle for it," came Grynewaht's shaky voice. "I can't hurt you. Which way is best, Magnai? Which way did it get you?"

"Up. Angle... up." Down was pelvis and legs, still rigid; up was melt, ooze, sweet soft warmth. Infection, said the lucid mind. Ready flesh, said the rest.

"A'right. Going to try again." The stick slid in, angled up now, and the soft (corrupted diseased rotting) flesh there yielded. A further push met no resistance (wax like ice, freezing flesh solid, need hot), and the third push saw the stick slide home, and as the waxy surface dissolved (sweet liquid but ice-cold, need hot, blood seed bile Nhaama Nhaama put your hand in put your arm in while it's so hot wet for you), the medicine slammed into Magnai with horrible force. It was a frigid, stinging rush of order: the reminder to his body of its structure and form, the rules that made it a man and not meat. His spine was solid, his bones linked in their places, tethered by muscle and caging in organs. It was agony. It was lucidity. Something similarly cold and prickling (the poultice?) was pressed to his wound, and he could hear Grynewaht unrolling gauze just outside his vision.

Slowly, Magnai forced himself to sit up. "So you can wrap the wound," he said. "I can do this much. I believe the worst is over, my dear."

Grynewaht was pallid, and his hands were still shaking -- or perhaps had just begun to shake, now that the rush of necessity was wearing off. "You certain? We need to get you back to the camp, have you seen to. If we call the yols, do you think you can stay on?"

"Never have they done otherwise." Once the bandages were secured, Magnai climbed unsteadily to his feet and refastened his coat before reaching for his yol whistle. His feet could bear his weight again, and his yol had always been keen and observant; he was quite certain she would be steady even if he wavered. Once she hastened to his call, he climbed aboard and gave the signal for Camp Broken Glass. By yol-back, it was not so long a journey, and he told himself that his strength would not fail before then, as he gripped the reins tight and forced himself to remain himself just a while longer.

Magnai's strength held out for three steps after dismounting, but there was a crush of soldiers upon him immediately: whispered commands, the clumsy flapping of porxies all about him, the administration of tinctures and sleeping draughts, and at last sleep. When he woke, aching and nauseous in a thoroughly mundane fashion, Grynewaht was seated at his bedside. His features were haggard, face ruddy from over-scrubbing at tear tracks, and his right hand was bandaged. "My Nhaama," said Magnai as consciousness returned properly, "did you hurt yourself?"

"Hurt my hand. Punched a wall trying to calm down out there. They were working on you already by the time I made it back, but after they patched me up, they said you'd be all right, that we caught the, what did they call it? Hypermobile aether flux? I think? Well, whatever they called it, we caught it in time."

"You did, they ought to say. I was overcome entirely, and my mind was elsewhere. I could not have saved myself; it was you who saved my life."

"I'm glad. I was... I'm glad." Grynewaht moved his chair forward to take Magnai's hand in his unbandaged one. "It'll be all right now, or soon enough. But now that it is, I've got to ask."

"Anything."

"It's nothing, really. Probably nothing. But when you say your mind was elsewhere..." Grynewaht leaned in and lowered his voice, the way he so often did when trying to be inconspicuous, charmingly unaware of how obvious it always was. "Is that why you were hard the whole bloody time I had you on the floor?"

Magnai grimaced. "I fear so. A sort of delirium I cannot describe."

"Aether stuff always does make the head funny. Though, 'course, if you ever want to 'swoon' and have me set you down somewhere and undress you, examine you, the whole thing, except you're just dying for a swive, not really dying dying..."

"Perhaps one day, when we next reside in a country not made of snow and black iron. I would swoon on a better class of bed than this."

Grynewaht cracked a smile at last. It was the smallest mercy in a day of many greater ones, but it was a mercy nonetheless.

Chapter Text

Night had fallen again on Camp Broken Glass, and the end of the day brought with it more unpleasant revelations. Since the fall of the Tower of Babil, scouting parties had returned with news on the horrors within, alongside the flood of tempering victims and restless beasts without; the latest news was the discovery of a maze of laboratories at the heart of the Imperial castle, housing strange tubes full of dormant bodies of the late Emperor Solus -- the product, some said, of an Allagan technique in bodily duplication. For what purpose, few seemed to know; the Scions of the Seventh Dawn, freshly returned from the moon (the moon!) to report to the commanders, were cagey about all questions, related to their mission or otherwise. Magnai, still recuperating from the misadventure on the Eblan Rime, was ill inclined to make further inquiries. The Sun would put all evils to rights, but perhaps not immediately. Not until the wound in his side was disinclined to seepage, and until he regained the appetite for a full meal.

Grynewaht, unfortunately, had returned to a state of nervous excitation, which meant that he picked at every new piece of morbid news like one might a scab. It was distraction, Magnai knew, from Magnai's injury and reports from the Ilsabard frontier, and for now he was willing to oblige it, since false cheer was better than desolation. Dinner around the campfire had been mostly quiet, shared with two taciturn Scions: their Hyuran spymaster, apparently not of Garlean blood despite his preference for the gunblade, and his often insufficiently dressed Elezen companion. With their bowls clean and the night falling in earnest, though, Grynewaht seemed inclined to break the silence. "I can't stop thinking about those... vat things. Clones, or what's it called? What d'you think they were gonna do with them all?"

The Scions glanced at each other, the Hyur's jaw tightening, but both stayed silent. Magnai sat up slightly from his resting place against Grynewaht's shoulder. "Perhaps to rule, if the civil war had produced no winner? If there were no Galvus heirs, then return Solus from the grave. I am told you can command the clones like constructs, give them purpose and instructions."

"But the first time around," mused Grynewaht, "we got Emperor Varis, and the second time the whole thing went tits up before they could pull one out of the vat. Makes me wonder what would have happened to 'em if there'd been a proper siege. If they'd woken up a new Solus and said 'everyone's dead, get to it,' but it didn't take, and the new one ended up caught down in that basement with all his brothers asleep. D'you think he would have eaten himself, if he got hungry enough? If it was you, would you have? I think I would."

Magnai made to interrupt, but the Elezen was first. "What reason hast thou to consider such a ghastly course of events?"

"What, you never have time to yourself just thinking? It's just an idea. One of those, what d'you call 'em, theoretical questions?"

This seemed unlikely to end well, but perhaps it was best to indulge it until Grynewaht's curiosity was sated. It seemed the best way to prevent the question from recurring. "I do not know the heart of Emperor Solus," Magnai began, "but I do not think I could do such a thing. To see my own form in the meat I ate... I doubt I could swallow it."

"You could have someone cook it?" Grynewaht's eyes were far too bright; something about this had taken advantage of his distress and wrapped around his heart. "Cut it up, stew it, you could pretend it was something else. Maybe he got locked in with a cook. Or if not... I wouldn't like it, maybe, but the way I figure it, it's my body, isn't it? If anyone's going to eat it, it's going to be me. I've got the right! You would too, if you were there and you wanted some, 'course."

There was a moment of silence, but a shorter moment than Magnai expected. "He has a point," said the Hyur. "If I were Solus, charged with saving my nation, I'd have to survive long enough to mount a counterattack. That would mean eating what I had to eat, however distasteful. You can't say the man didn't do worse in his first lifetime."

The Elezen scowled. "My friend, thou ignorest the facts of the gentleman in question. Were he to have arrived at this point, thou canst easily perceive of how his powers might --" He cut off at a sharp hissing noise from the Hyur. "Ah. Well, if thou wouldst set aside the pertinent facts, surely the mammeteers of the would-be Emperor wouldst not allow the situation to proceed to the point of anthropophagy? If their first attempt suffereth disruption unto death of the clone, they would surely decant another and begin anew."

"Maybe," said Grynewaht. "But maybe, I dunno, they're dead?"

"The conspirators dead," replied the Hyur, "but there's still a cook alive? That's... I'll yield that's not impossible."

"The proposition remaineth absurd." The Elezen withdrew a pack of cards from a pocket of his robes, fiddling nervously with them. "If we presumeth that even one other soul yet liveth in the Emperor's proximity, and his hunger so great that he would be compelled to dine upon flesh, he would begin with his unfortunate comrade before consuming his own flesh, inert though that flesh be. The character of the man was nothing if not ruthless. And in extremis... I believeth that his own vanity, or a moment of lucidity, might stay his hand from that great insult. I wouldst like to believe that of him, and of myself, if such were to come to pass. A most unsavory proposition to consider. Dost thou have so little else to do with thy time, pyr Arvina? Thou might learn a game. A musical instrument, mayhaps."

Magnai ought to have held his tongue, but fresh rage rose in his chest. "Do not speak to him such. Are the Scions so blessed to only think of their exalted duties?"

"Don't mind Urianger," said the Hyur with a faintly affectionate shake of his head. "He's got more on his mind than most. We've talked about much sillier things in our Studium days. If you want someone who'll properly entertain our question..." He gestured back towards the command cabin, where a pair of figures were leaving: Commander Junius the Warrior of Light, just ending their conversation. "Our friend surely will. He's got a lot of feelings about food."

"D'you think I should? Haven't crossed his path much lately." Grynewaht wasn't going to resist, though, Magnai knew, and didn't bother pretending very long as he clambered to his feet and started towards the cabin. "EORZEAN! Most voracious of all my former enemies! If you were Emperor Solus, trapped in a castle with all your clones..."

"Thancred," said the Elezen (Urianger?), "it is a cruel trick thou playest on our dear friend. Or dost thou believe he will entertain the question truly?"

"He very well might, and maybe he needs a distraction too. Besides, he's just going to agree with Arvina. You know the kinds of things he eats. Wrigglers, Mord food, everything you can find at the end of a fishing pole..."

"The cuisine of his own culture includeth such things profusely."

"Yes, but usually not raw. And he uses the salt rock in Ishgard. The one I'm pretty sure is a prank? Let's be honest, Urianger: if he were trapped in that basement, he'd eat himself without getting very hungry first."

"And here," said Magnai, "I had thought to be flattered by his embrace of Oroniri cuisine. Ought we to lay in a supply of 'wrigglers' for his next visit to the Dawn Throne? And... rock salt? Does he truly eat rock salt?"

The Hyur (Thancred?) chuckled, and even the Elezen managed a slight smile. Behind them, in the middle distance, Grynewaht's conversation with the Warrior of Light was inaudible but seemed cordial enough. Grynewaht was gesturing broadly, pantomiming what was probably some sort of butchering technique, but the Eorzean was watching with a great many nods and gestures of his own. Was there some possibility, Magnai mused, that his Nhaama and the man he had once been willing to cut down the whole Steppe to kill might become friendly?

Later that night, after the fire had burnt down and they'd returned to their quarters (Urianger excusing himself with a plea that he was needed back on the moon, which Magnai suspected would never sound less fanciful to him than it did now), Magnai decided to chance a serious conversation as he applied ointments and changed bandages. "My Nhaama, are you well? Did the conversation over dinner do aught to calm your mind?"

"Well, I'm not thinking about the Emperor eating himself anymore, if that's what you mean. The Eorzean and I talked through all the particulars. Y'know he's a cook now? Mostly fish and bugs, but he knows some things about butchering. Clever sot. 'm sorry I made you talk about it, though. I don't think I thought that through."

"There is no harm, my dearest. An unpleasant conversation, but all to the good in the end." Magnai pulled on his nightclothes and arranged the blankets and bedrolls. "... I still do not think I could do such a thing myself, but if it were the two of us together with my clone bodies, I would let you eat your fill."

"No, we'd eat together. I'd figure out some way to make it so you could handle it. Maybe raid whatever it is they're feedin' the clones. They have to feed them something, don't they? Maybe you can eat it if you're not in the vat. Hells, that'd solve the whole thing." Grynewaht shook his head, pulling on his own nightshirt before lying down to nestle in Magnai's arms. "Maybe that Elezen's right. Y' think I should get a morin khuur or something when we get home?"

"I am certain. We shall make a special trip to Reunion."

"Something to look forward to, then. When we get home."

"When we get home."

Chapter Text

Kian Trinh's access key worked on the doors of the Medical Research Wing of Castrum Fluminis, and he dearly wished it hadn't. If access had been properly restricted to only those who worked in that wing, all of whom had died in the Doma Castle siege or been unaccounted for afterwards, they might have had to blow the blast doors open and gotten a head start on razing the place. Kian didn't like the thought of having his name on that access list in perpetuity, even doing it at the head of a squad of Doman Liberation Front soldiers; he'd spent too long working as an Imperial engineer to pretend his hands were clean, but there were some tasks even a dedicated infiltrator wouldn't touch. He knew nothing of what lay behind the door, and in a kinder world, he would never learn -- but his access key worked, so here he was.

The Medical Research Wing was dark, lit only by emergency lights and the dull glow of consoles in low-power mode, but otherwise in immaculate order. Perhaps they hadn't known what was coming, or perhaps they figured that it was better not to draw excess attention to an allegedly abandoned Imperial facility by attempting to decommission the lab. Most likely, thought Kian, they thought they'd be back in a day or two after the rebels were crushed. Researchers always had that air of oblivious arrogance about them, the sense that consequences were ephemeral, especially those not delivered by the Emperor.

The first chamber was an open workroom, probably a repurposed infirmary. The tables were strewn with parts, diagrams, and anatomical models in various states of undress and disassembly: a Roegadyn, and as Kian drew closer and saw the few that had been unmasked to mark surgical attachment points, all Grynewaht pyr Arvina, down to his nose scar. Was this why the viceroy had arranged to ship in Aulus mal Asina from Gyr Abania? An attempt to rebuild her bodyguard? The whole room had the stench of mal Asina about it, the uncomfortable attention to unnecessary detail, perversity disguised as diligence. On a high shelf, one of the models was perched as if to watch the others, its horned helmet replaced with the grinning, toothy mask of some sort of Yanxian demon. Someone had enjoyed this far too much.

Thankfully, no words were exchanged as Kian and the Liberation Front escort cataloged the room, grabbing a representative (fully armored and intact) anatomical model and cleaning out data storage and papers. Kian found himself sorting the schematics, a hideous number of them: Plan Gamma? Delta? All the way to Sigma? Why had they sketched out so many variations of... whatever was supposed to happen here? Kian had no explanations, and was grateful none were asked for. The silence held until a shriek echoed through the empty halls, followed by a heavy door slamming shut. The voice was that of Ajisai Kamiya, the geomancer medic they'd brought as a consultant. She sounded more panicked than pained, but that was enough to send Kian and several of his fellows racing down the hall, blades and sidearms drawn.

Ajisai stood in front of a closed door, unharmed but pale and shaken. "The door didn't have an access lock," she explained, as if an explanation would help her nerves. "I thought there wouldn't be much of interest inside. But inside... they're snarled. Stagnant rivers."

"I'll take the van," said Kian; if there was something dangerous in there, he wasn't the best fighter, but it was the duty of a defector to put their body on the line for the more loyal. Keeping his pistol drawn, he tried the door, which opened smoothly, with no sign its physical lock had ever been engaged. Did they leave this one quickly, or simply not care to linger?

The room inside was well-lit enough that Kian could see immediately why Ajisai screamed. A bank of Allagan-looking control consoles cast a reddish glow, but most of the light came from lamps and indicator panels built into the dozen or so cylindrical glass tanks that filled the bulk of the room; each tank was filled with murky fluid, in which the still shapes of human bodies were suspended. No, thought Kian, that wasn't quite right. All the shapes were still, and infinite thanks to the kami for that, but not all the shapes were human.

Kian had heard of cloning during his magitek studies, of course. It had been a recently rediscovered Allagan art then, more known from theory than practice, but the Garlean atrocity labs had made great progress. There'd even been some Populares literature about how the technology could replace conscription and provincial forced labor -- a desperate scrabbling for hopeful news, as the Populares so often had to do -- but why make workers when you could make monsters? Or puppets, Kian thought, as he holstered his pistol and drew his torch to get a clearer view of the bodies inside the first row of tubes. The long black hair was the dead giveaway that he was looking at clones of the viceroy, ready to be deployed in case of misadventure on one of her outings. The Witch of Doma ruled by fear. Why not make her immortal, unkillable, to tighten that grip?

Because it hadn't worked, that was why. The long black hair was unmistakable, but the clones' other features ranged from barely recognizable to inhuman. The closest appeared simply withered and drooping, as if a hundred years of age had struck the viceroy at once. Another was a good likeness from the waist up, but at the waist, blossomed into a radiating mass of legs, not all of them blessed with ordinary numbers of bones or joints. A third was barely humanoid in shape at all, facial features half-carved in the blank flesh and framed with scraggly black hair -- a failure early in the process, Kian assumed. The last's chest blossomed open, exposed ribs framing double-ended tendrils of flesh that waved faintly in the fluid current; Kian bit back the bile he could feel rising in his throat. "They can't be alive," he said out loud, as if that reassurance might help.

There were footsteps behind him. "Yes and no," came the voice of Ajisai. "The aether of their bodies flow, slowly, in spirals. Stagnant, but alive in the body. But for the rest... they have no minds that I can sense. No souls."

"The mind is part of the process, I think. There's a machine to put the minds in after they're fully grown. As for the souls, I couldn't say." Kian shone his torch down the rows of tanks. "I have to go deeper."

"And I'm going with you. Nobody should witness this alone."

"You're very kind, Mistress Kamiya," said Kian, wishing he knew the correct term of address for Yanxian geomancer -- the kind of thought you cling to when you can't bear to face what's in front of you. He swallowed, bracing himself for what he knew was coming, and stepped further into the room. A brief sweep of the torch and survey of silhouettes confirmed what he suspected: the remainder of the tubes contained variations on Grynewaht pyr Arvina. Clones of the viceroy were useless if you couldn't get them accurate enough, so they'd given up, but any version of the viceroy's brute that could survive outside the tube was useful meat, and maybe more useful without the mind.

You could see progress, Kian thought as he walked the rows, trying to turn on his analytical mind and keep the contents of his stomach in place. They'd clearly mastered the art of enclosed body cavities and full skeletons, and while several of the pyr Arvinas seemed more or less accurate to the man, the ones that weren't were deliberate iterations on form instead of merely mistakes. One clone's midsection bulged with a second set of shoulder blades, installed mid-back to support a second set of arms, muscles bulging and fists bloated into hammers; he couldn't make out distinct fingers, but the thing obviously wasn't intended for fine manipulation. Another was an ordinary clone until the waist, which terminated in a second set of shoulders and arms, then another torso that terminated at the waist to continue the pattern, coiling insect-like until the sixth or seventh "segment" ended in legs at last. Vestigial heads half-protruded from the length of the spine, some large enough to have open eyes. Aulus mal Asina must have laughed. Kian gagged and felt his mouth fill with hot bile before a cooling wave of magic settled his stomach again: Esuna.

"We've seen enough," said Ajisai behind him. "No minds for any of them. No souls. No feeling. Let us be grateful for that."

Once he'd emerged into the comforting dimness of the main corridor, retching into the old infirmary sink and rinsing his mouth a few times with water from his canteen, Kian had to admit it was a mercy. Whatever those things were, whatever they'd been meant for, they'd never had the capacity to suffer. They'd never had minds put in their heads -- copies of their originals', or new pliant ones -- and they'd never made it to mal Asina's surgical table. Nobody had, and nobody would. No doubt pyr Arvina himself would consider that a product of some Xaela god's intercession, but Kian had never been able to distinguish between divine providence and luck.

When he felt well enough to rejoin the Liberation Front contingent, he found Ajisai already delivering a report. "... all soulless, and incompatible with life outside their enclosures. Would you agree, Master Trinh?"

"The clones? I'm no expert, but I think you're right. I don't think most of them could survive without whatever life-support system they're on; I wouldn't trust the visually intact ones not to have severe internal abnormalities. Even if they could, I don't think anyone in Doma knows how they might be granted consciousness."

"Then it's settled," replied the commander, his stern face frowning more deeply than usual. "There's nobody to save in this facility. We gather the portable equipment and records, and we seal the doors for subsequent decontamination and decommissioning of the non-portable equipment and... biological samples by experts. We report on the cloning room to Lord Hien, but otherwise its existence and contents are on a strictly need-to-know basis, and nobody but the ones who'll clean it up needs to know. Are we agreed?" They were, of course, agreed.

Thank the kami as well for confidentiality, Kian decided. From the moment he'd seen those anatomical dolls, he knew he'd be leaving this expedition out of the letter he'd send to the Azim Steppe, but now he had an ironclad excuse. Of course, there was still the rest of the parcel to consider...

"They sent me a gun-chainsaw-sword?!" The massive weapon (and if it had a more elegant name than "gun-chainsaw-sword," Grynewaht didn't know it) stretched across the bedchamber floor, freshly unwrapped from the brown paper that had cushioned it on its long trip from Doma. The letter in Grynewaht's hand stated that it had been found in the armory, apparently earmarked for him upon his return from the Steppe, and that he "ought to have it, in case he found any use for it." Thoughtful of kir Trinh, under the circumstances, and he couldn't deny the thing was a beauty, but it might have been a touch excessive. Magnai looked about as skeptical as Grynewaht felt. "A fine weapon, by the standards of the men of iron, but of unwieldy size. Has it some power source of its own?" "Can't tell. There's some switches, something that looks like it might be cables..." Grynewaht hefted the saw-sword up for a closer look. There were certainly cables running from its central power unit, along with some rubber tubes, but no indication of what they were intended to hook to, and the power indicator light was off. A flip of the switches yielded nothing, not even the noise of an engine trying to turn over. "Nothing doing, and it's bloody heavy to lift, let alone to swing. Um, not that I mean to try in here, but I can guess. You want to hold it yourself?" "If it is too heavy for you, my peerless Nhaama, I fear my own efforts would be far worse. Do you judge it as unfit for use, then?" "Unfit or broken, it's got to be, and I'm not surprised. Most of what came out of the castle shops was rubbish. It's a pretty thing, though. Maybe we ought to hang it up?" "There is room on the wall for it, if we can find sturdy fittings," Magnai agreed. "It will make a fine decoration, and if not, at least the Domans have also returned your other possessions." Grynewaht nodded as he set the saw-sword aside, back on its wrapping. The Domans had sent along the footlockers of all of the defectors who'd stayed on the Steppe, and the relief of having his own stuff back was stronger than the mystery of the saw-sword. The old footlocker was battered but intact, and he had fresh smallclothes in there, his shaving kit, his books... well, the books he maybe didn't need anymore, but all his nice things were here at last, home with him. "I'd better unpack," said Grynewaht. "I've got a bracelet in there Ma gave me before I left home. Never wore it before, but I can start." Grynewaht unpacked, chattering with Magnai as he put the last vestiges of his Imperial career into place in their bedchamber. Next to them, the pinnacle of Aulus mal Asina's weapon engineering sat inert and ignored, soon to be mounted unused as a trophy of an unfought battle. Grynewaht would never know where its cables and tubes were meant to plug in, and that was a mercy worthy of the gods.