#amonkhet posting

The active battlefield was, ultimately, a small portion of Amonkhet’s desert. It was to the west of the Kasmut River. The magic of the local nagas had purified part of the river despite the towering structures of Pronoia, which was half-settlement and half-foothold.

Sisters soared through the sky catching the suns’ light only to clash in battle with a flying ship known to others as the Silverwing, manned by five individuals and some cleaning robots of great bravery. The ship was aided by clouds of locusts who chewed their way through any Sisters between them and where they wanted to go, yet the locusts fell through either illness or magic in greater numbers than the Sisters.

On the ground, Imoti pulled her purifying magic from the river and turn it against the Pestoxy and had created a protective aura around the river for fleeing individuals to fall back to. Many of the nagas had already evacuated due to the citadel’s sheer scale. The ones that remained were helping Imoti hold the line. Alongside them were other extraplanar helpers, including a large cicada and the human who was calling more locusts to bolster the defense. It was unclear to both sides how long this line could hold.

Menea the Phármakon and High Marshal Celino Guitirre stepped out of the Omenpath with their respective weapons at the ready. One simply did not need to breathe and would not be harmed by the disease. The other was both the Champion of Pharika and the embodiment of Her teachings. And right now, those teachings had one simple order: find and kill the Pestoxy member known as Thermophagy.

Chionia's displeasure at Thermophagy had only grown since the wedding. She wanted those snakes gone from the river near Pronoia, and yet in his weakness Thermophagy instead constructed the housing around the citadel. She stormed into his sanctum, a circular room within the deepest heart of Pronoia, with surging lines of black mana exploding through every surface. The closest thing to light here were flicks of anti-darkness within the walls, deep turquoise flecks along the sandstone which granted sight to those close enough to them.

"Father Thermophagy. My disappointment in you only grows since we last spoke of the matter of those disgusting, slithering beasts. I asked to meet you here for you to finally activate Pronoia."

"Mother Chionia. I have made the preparations for exactly what you asked. I have spent months allowing myself the resources to finally eradicate them. And yet you speak with the same spite you do for them. Allow my harmony with these walls and leave. Remove every Sister, sail them into the skies as a warning."

She grimaced. This was no excuse, for once Thermophagy's promise would have to come true. Commands such as this came when his inaction turned to action, as she began to sprint, her wings unfolding as she met the open air as she shot upwards, yelling for her Sisters. "Rise, rise Sisters! Swarm the Southern Stream and assault the wicked, rebuff their misguided delusion with pure streams of faith!" Within moments censers were overflowing with noxious fumes, and Sisters were clad with their chains, catching the air and hovering in formation as the citadel quaked. Humans fled as their home began to stand.

Legs. Thick, tumourous shadows began buckling and lifting the structure, hundreds began to heave as sand billowed outwards, a calamitous dust storm rolled itself through the town surrounding it, the suns devoured in roiling spasms of dust. Pronoia, the three-tiered spiral, the citadel that determined all order for thousands - had stood up and began to walk. Flesh coughed and swayed as the Bishop's fled into the protected walls, the force of thousands were devoured by the one single being. And as all beings, their wounds delighted the earth beneath them.

Imoti slithered to the edge of her river bank. Her skin had just shed, as she shimmered in the remaining sunlight. Dust ran itself across the sides of her oasis, as naga's began to slither with weapons drawn towards the source. They quickly began falling back, as the sky darkened with Sisters, their habits concealing their faces as their censers began to fume. The air itself was forsaken, the only hope was to flee. Imoti remembered what she had taken months ago, a communicator. The silver box was all that could represent true rebellion as a flurry of limbs arose in the distance. Imoti glanced up - the city of Pronoia. The face of their adversaries had taken itself and step by bloodied step loomed over her, it still lingered in the distance and yet she felt it over her, beaming down with the hateful stares of millions. She sent an emergency message, tossed the communicator into the sand, and began hoping. Charging overwhelming flows of green and blue mana were the only ways she had kept her rivers clean, removing gunk and purifying what could be saved.

⧖ — Name: Khepmi ⧗ — Species: Insect Shapeshifter ⧖ — Gender and Pronouns: It/She ⧗ — Color Identity: Blue / Black ⧖ — Height: 173cm | 5ft. 8in. ⧗ — Weight: 59kg ⧖ — Age: Time Magic (:

⧗ — Plane of Residence: Amonkhet ⧖ — Affliations: ⧗ — Titles/Ranks/Positions: The Sundial Scarab; Monarch's Quarry ⧖ — Allied Organizations: ⧗ — Companions/Associates:

⧖ — Grimoire: Time Magic; borrowing one's own past or future to converge its own will in the same place and same time. Actions brought into the present from the future are enforced in the future; fate will always lead one into the place the magic was used. The only variable is how far in the future gets chosen ⧗ — Combat Style: Dual Khopesh. Twirling strikes to fend off multiple opponents. ⧖ — Signature Spells: Pull from Tomorrow

⧗ — Bio: Khepmi is a scarab who once led the Monarchs of the Broken Lands on a wild beetle chase as they sought a special idol in reverence for their ancient gods. A scarab of intelligence and unique beauty, who wanted nothing but to be left alone. It accepted neither its own worship nor capture, living on the run within its home tomb until it began to learn the patterns it and the Monarchs would always take.

It left its home behind with the help of itself from a day later— in the form of a human woman. In only one day it learned time magic sealed within the same tomb it called Home, taking the form of the woman it had been guided by, and guiding itself out of the Tomb.

From then on, Khepmi has been free to seek whatever life it desires; appearing irregularly throughout the lives of those who brave the Broken lands and those who have taken to rebuilding Naktamun.

⧖— Cards:

I'm Bill, the most reliable, fastest, cheapest, and most of all bravest mechanic you'll find in the entire Ghirapur Grand Prix. Is your mode of transportation in need of a little repair, but you don't want to slow down for a pit stop? Just give me a ring, I'll be there in no time to fix your vehicle on the go!

Thermophagy took his first steps on Ammonkhet since the wedding. His and Chionia's paths had been interwoven, the perfected matrimony of Choirmaster and Sister. That chapel had already been buried, another sector eaten away by the dead of Kaldheim drenching their cemeteries, devouring the walls with what little remained of their teeth. The bells still rung in his mind, their clangs crunching against the sound of sand beneath his boots, solid blocks of some humanoid's leather, complete with hardwood lifts. His thick coat covered him like a curtain, this purified shroud of cotton that washed out the salted wind, as his great citadel, Pronoia, rose like the second sun. It has grown since he last saw it - from a spiral of stone it tumourously blossomed, the beginnings of a new Hospital had sprung out in bold, pure bricks, splattered in crimson as proof of their caretaker's adoration. Priests had clamoured around a serpent, its foul head and frenzied arms being bound down to free it from sickness. Thick strands of leather came from the wrists of the Expendables, attaching it to the slab. What a lowly being, struggling against the blessings of the Pestoxy. It's every scream but another sign of our righteous mission.

He continued to step through his delightful palace, watching each and every person. Humans were toiling in gardens, Expendables sprinted to serve like ants, and Sisters floated through the air, their skirts hemmed and shadowed. A Sister's modesty and purity came before all wicked influence. And the Nagas, who refused his care, were already falling to his Hospital. It was a simple plan, really. Pave over that river, that foul-scented river, and build a huge suite of houses over it. Those who would refuse their new housing, new protection under the Pestoxy, faced waves of motivation until they would concede. It was much kinder than slaughtering them, far easier to convince their human settlers of their continued morality. After all, look upon the first of the Nagas arriving, coiling in pain.

Thick, bloating wounds boiled out through its scales. Buboes at best, eschar at worst. Every movement made it writhe in pain again, bones flaring up through their skin as they openly wept, arms bending and coiling as a Father approached, waving a censer by it's pearls. The smoke palmed at their wounds, puncturing them. Purulent extrusions flowed out like honey, quickly turning serosanguinous as it flooded the slab, mixing with their tears as their palms were held outwards. Expendables drank from what little blood flowed out, as the illness burned into a thick smoke, the incense duelling with it's foul swings at life. "Take pride, Father." Thermophagy spoke as if addressing a congregation, stern and reserved, "You have taken this wicked being's dark heart from it. Speak now, son or daughter of the Pestoxy, you may be reborn in our image."

"I... cannot recount my dedication." they mumbled, coughing.

"Speak now, son or daughter of the Pestoxy. I cannot perceive your voice of praise for us if it is muffled by your paranoia."

"I don't... speak in praise. Let me back to Imoti."

Thermophagy's body twisted. His arms flared, ripping through his body to sprout additional backup should his main sextet be insufficient. "Foul being! Do not renounce the Gods of Fortunes, Connections, Duty and Veneration! I have lead the light of the God of Connections outwards, and Veneration has taken your hands, seen your suffering and ridded you from it. Foul things such as you who refuse sacrifice or dedication face sickness and death at their own wicked hands!"

The serpent pulled itself free. "Imoti brings us true dedication. We venerate her for the spell she casts upon our lands."

Thermophagy's palms met their wrists again, pulling them directly across the stone, knocking their wounds against the uptilting edges of the tiles. "Do not blight my senses with such a name! Her fraudulent, linguistic bile befouls all who perceive her. That heretic, even to her own people, has deceived you. Impoverished worm, you shall be reduced to feedstock should your sycophantic delusions corrupt the faith here, do you understand?"

The serpent pulled away, weakly. "I cannot relinquish my dedication to her side. She is the one who heals us, not you." Some of the humans overheard the commotion, and began staring at the two of them. "Leave. Leave this place and never return." Thermophagy's orders were quickly followed. It was time to decontextualise again, retell the tale as another demented mind that had flown in as a Sister's newest experiment had gone poorly, leading the naga to turn feral.

Dear Diary,

I cannot stay in Pronoia much longer. I recognised the person being chastised today. They were a great friend of my previous lifetime, before my face and name were stripped from me. They are all I can remember. I will do all I can to return home, wherever it may be. I saw them trail out Eastwards. I shall follow, like the man of Cantors 17:42. 'I, who am but humble and meek, see your glory and rise to it like a secretary bird, high upon my working limb, and through it become capable of flattening the wicked beasts that surround my heart.'

I'm leaving tonight, and burning you. My dissenting here shall be worse than any who dissented from Naktamum all those years ago.

– Chimal, Faceless Heretic

The scrap of paper blew across the desert, before reaching the eyes of a winged woman. "You, are what earn'd my husbands ire. Do not think yourself holy, do not think yourself safe. We stitched away your mouth for your words were nought but sin. Your hands shall be next, the absence of mouth did not prevent your sin spreading."

The first thing I saw was a series of announcements regarding a 2v2 tournament.

Count. Me. In. Yeah?