She could feel them writhing inside, squeezing her bones, exploring her muscles, finding purchase on and in her organs, and mapping her veins. Now, she can feel them also tasting the air along with her skin, using her to satiate their boundless curiosity. As a good conduit should.
The burning sun, the moons of pink and green, and below them the nations of Prospit and Derse; great masses of land, gold and purple, twisted teardrops hooked one to the other and separated by the narrowest of ocean channels and millennia of war. The tempests rage along the coasts, and the clouds and the lands turn in their endless dancing spirals.
Noontide City, in sandstone and clay of yellow and white, simple and smooth in shape, decorated more than enough by the blossoming vines crawling up every wall. The roads are beaten earth, sprouting more grass every day, turning yellow in the baking sun. The people, dressed in airy cotton, smile and laugh as they go about their work, as merry as the day is long - and oh, the days in Prospit are long and long indeed.
Midnight City, in basalt and agate of purple and black, not a leaf to be seen, ornately carved and trimmed in amethyst and jet. The roads are paved and polished, tidy slabs scrubbed clean. The people, wrapped in warming furs, diligently focus on their work, their stares intense, their eyes and thoughts only on what they do, that they might do it well and finish it before the long nights come.
Watch them. You can see it...
Prospit bustles most in the night. The sun beats down so hard a being will crumble under its weight, and the clouds provide not half enough cover; under direct light at noon, bare skin will blister, then boil away. All that can take the sun is the plant life and the already dead, and in the heat and damp they grow and grow. Everyone sleeps with windows tightly covered by layers of cloth nailed to the frames, no matter the heat. In the worst times, with a summer rain, green growth cut back to ground can creep in through cracks and fill a cottage overday, or fungal spores can form wet festering growth on every piece of bare wood, and that would be a mercy for then the kingdom's many predators would be slowed down on their way in.
Derse stirs most in the day. The ever-thickening layer of smoggy cloud blocks the sun, leaves the inhabitants sickly-skinned. The winds blow cold, and even the rain is salt and soot and acid. The soil is volcanic, but near-useless. It once was fertile, as the great coal and oil deposits show, but not for many centuries has the land birthed much more than stone. The people scratch out a living from scrubby plants in stony soil, and gather closely together in their homes for warmth, burning dried dung in place of wood. Predators roam here too. The people, desperate, eat them, and wear their skins, and block the cracks in their walls with their fur, to keep the whispering of what else lurks in the night away.
Reach out. You can feel it...
The last child of the last jadeblood line in Midnight City lies awake and listens to her mother weep. No one else born to the task is left to nurse the city's Mother Grub with them. Carapace pawns do what they can, but they are created fully-formed; they have no natural urge for childcare, no in-built knowledge of the task. The Grub lays fewer and fewer eggs, smaller ones, and the drones grow more aggressive. Out in the countryside, the Mother Grubs are dying one by one. Trolls are the warriors of Skaia. With so few born, what will they do? She dreams of Prospit outbreeding them, the city overrun.
At dusk the jadeblood grubherds of Noontide City urge their charges out in a flood that packs the streets from side to side. The grass has grown through the trodden earth since yesternight, watered by the humid air, and the grubs mow it down to nothing. They suck dew from stones and moss from walls, and gobble down the foot-long worms and slugs and centipedes and the fist-sized spiders and the nests of rats and mice from every crack and crevice. They swarm the bigger beasts, stray cats and dogs with festering wounds, and in turn the beasts devour or kill many of them. The grubs turn on their own wounded brethren, or those addled by the toxic weeds and mushrooms they have found, and consume them too. The grubherds let it happen. The weakest ones die first. The runts and mutants have already been culled long before.
Breathe deep. You can smell it...
Outside the city walls of Noontide lie the fire trenches, ever burning, making the daytime all the hotter. Rotting and dampening wood is culled without mercy from the buildings every day, and dragged out here. So too come funeral processions, the bodies burned in colossal metal dishes over the flames to save the ashes. The workers wear masks; in Prospit, spore and virus alike can spread so fast and hard even the fires can't cleanse them all, and disease dances on the air with the soot. The filthy, smoking clouds pour upward, and the prevailing winds carry them over the Skaia Channel to Derse, as if the kingdom spits on its ancient enemy. Still, Derse's clouds could hardly be filthier already.
Outside the city walls of Midnight, every spot of land which can be made to grow something will be made to grow. Fields are dug and dug, stone battered into soil by force of the workers' will. In Derse, there are no funeral processions, except for those of the very highest ranks. Even they will be buried in earth beneath the stunted fruit trees and the grass grown as green as it gets over them. Once there were tombs, but no longer can bodies be wasted outside the hungry soil. Near everything that grows in Derse grows on a grave. The poorest's dead don't even make it that far. Hunger gnaws, and the cold keeps them from rotting long enough.
Swallow. You can taste it...
The river of Noontide rots within its banks, and stinks from miles away. Recently, sewers have been installed, magic and engineering combined to keep them sound, channeling out on the seaward side; it's not enough. Fertile loam clouds the water from its very source, and the plants within it feed and grow. The creatures which feed on the plants grow too, until the river chokes with bodies or with algae. Workers clear the scum, but not as fast as it can grow. So much life births and shits and fucks and dies in the river that they'll never get it clean.
The river of Midnight is cold enough to burn, and black as death. Nothing lives in it; all that moves in it are reflections in its oil-slick top. Soot and sludge and who-knows-what taint it all throughout its course as it passes mines and factories, and by the time it reaches the coastal city nothing that lived or died in it is left. The dead things might rot further up, or wash downstream perfectly preserved by the chemical taint, as if in resin. It smells faintly sweet and smokey, pleasant even, of coal and gasoline.
Listen. You can hear it...
The market's bustle is pierced by wails. A brownblood youth has fallen to his knees, sobbing his heart out, from fear or exhaustion or some deep sorrow; none around him will ever know why. There is no shortage of reasons, in Noontide City. The crowd ignores him. If he had a moirail, it would be their duty to stop the disturbance. He does not, or they are not here. The carapace peace officers are, and he is restrained, though now he wails even louder. Too late to run. Causing a disturbance through rejection of Mirth. The law is the law. The carapaces' tealblood master takes a short knife and slits the brownblood's cheeks from ear to ear.
Coins clatter on stone, drowned out by shrieks. A corner of the Midnight City town square is roped off; highbloods in their carriages and litters watch the show. In the arena, troll and human children in rags claw and bite for pennies thrown at them hard enough to bruise their bony bodies, and bets of more money than the children will ever see changes hands in wagers. Today, for the first time in many months, a human is triumphant. She's a rangy little thing, maybe ten years old, hollow-eyed and wielding bottle shards, and she's the last one standing while others groan and bleed. She picks up all the coins and limps away. She will die tonight, slowly and agonisingly and alone; her last troll opponent was old enough for her venom to come through in her bite, and it already burns within the human's blood. The surviving children will take her coins and her clothes and the trolls will devour her, bones and all. The humans cannot eat the venom. They hunger still.
