#zomal

 The world lists and reels, sharply, and water rises. Germonique also rises, jumping to his feet and threading with an assassin's ease through the suddenly panicked onlookers. 

 "Zomal," he hisses, unheard over the melée of voices. Any eavesdropper would only hear the whispering, guttural dialect of Old Kilean even if they tried. "Something went wrong."

 As he says that, he sees an airship from the corner of his eye. Its engines stutter and, ponderously, the great machine lurches out of the sky.

 "I am aware." Zomal is always aware. "We predict a total loss of life. This includes yours, Hume."

 "Excellent," Germonique snaps, throwing up his arms. "Is there anything you can do?"

 "We can, yes. You are but one vessel I did not request."

 Germonique always prefers to swear in Rozarrian. If Zomal understands, it does not comment.

 "What other crazy bastard is going to let you use him as a plaything? Just get me out."

 "Beyond my capabilities," it says, frostily. Then, after a pause long enough to consider what Germonique has thought the far-off concept of hs mortality, it concedes,

 "I can preserve this place."

 Curious wording. Germonique looks at the prone Viera who has sat so regally by his side. She could be dead.

 Zomal continues. "For it, I will need sacrifice."

 "I didn't ask you to spare me by killing me," Germonique spits, his panic showing as sharp-toothed spite.

 "Your mere life would be insufficient," the voices thrum. "I will spare you. And you will be the sole survivor." 

 Zomal speaks or spoke or will speak in manifold voices, some stolen from men not yet born.

 "I will make of Mullonde a Necrohol."

 Germonique looks around - to the rising water, the dense shiver of Mist he is sure even a Hume without magick-touched eyes can see. It looks as if there is a crack in the sky.

 At the Bangaa and Viera and Moogles and fellow Humes, and their lives, and what must be thoughts and dreams and, of course, terrors. How a child searches for his mother.

 And how he hates all of them. Hated them since he was a child and he was taught the hate of the Gods. And how they will always carry in them the death of that mortal body, a death that Germonique can only feel belongs to him alone.

 "Aji," he murmurs, and then, "Do it." After a pause he adds, with brutal logic, "They're soon dead anyway."