Ah, what a lovely day! The sky is clear as ever, and has been since the clouds have all migrated over those rust-fort castles of the Empire west of Videlma, clouds that were, I remember, ever dark and mercurial, wisps of green or red sewn in. This world, Abraxia (known as the world of bones) has an organic spirit, unlike many of the other Reliquary worlds, which has given rise to a particular view of history that the Reliquary worlds are, in fact, gods themselves of old, from before humans were formed—before Archons were formed. As the Yethic legend goes (that is, the nativists of Abraxia), in the beginning there was a singular God, who represented all things, which took it upon itself to split into two. Now two things represent all things. As this spitting of forms continued, an endless dichotomy of things would be defined, and from each division arose new conflicts—now, nothing was united, and all things became opposites. Dissatisfied with what had become of the universe, these godlike entities ossified into worlds where the Archons would live for an eternity in abundance.
Well, so much good that did them, aye? Since, you see, the Strife of the Archons came along, and the Empire was born. It seems that all good things are destined to come to an end. That's how it seems to me, anyway, and I think this as I'm walking out upon the platform of the train station, the floor below me the rough texture and color of dried bone, the tracks running off into the black hills stark white, too, and me moving with the crowds of people—natives, rebels, but not an Imperial soldier here out as far as Demurgia—my luggage in tow, my thistle skirt swishing along the way. Though the sun shines radiant, inside there is a storm brewing knowing what I must do, what I plan to do, with my gun dissembled and packed away. I wish it were in my hands, now, but I'd rather not appear conspicuous—no, I'd rather appear as an ordinary member of the Velvry, the artificer class of humans living here, who, rather than relying on only those gifts that the Reliquary provides, exploiting nature to create a synthetic world for themselves. Not necessarily a rebel, but someone of the mindset: with free will, humans will make what they will of the world. You can see the stark contrast between me and many of the nativists, the Yethic people, who employ use of the Reliquary trains, for religious reasons so they would say—they're not exactly friendly. Their bodies are covered with the black coral that grows across the lands, stripped off into ribbons and their soft skins applied to the body where they dry and stick interminably, or at least put up enough of a fuss while you're trying to remove them that I'm inclined to stick with my linens. Nevertheless, it wouldn't be honest to claim that they're ugly, because the dresses and robes they form are quite beautiful. You can also often recognize them by the bald pates they wear in lieu of hair. Even their eyebrows they shave, to give more the appearance of the skull, I suppose.
From off in the distance, it can be heard, that deathly whistle. The train, Vanguroph as it's named. It's a sight that I've grown to love—something about it, the way it evokes the romance of life and death. It's a wonder it still exists, with the Empire having taken root here on Abraxia, who erect their own rail lines. I must admit that I admire the power of the Empire, who in having nearly eradicated the Archons have grown to such immensity that the Reliquary worlds themselves might crumble. Truly, we rebels envy the Empire. Their scientific innovation is unmatched, their military might indomitable. It's a kind of power that we want for ourselves, to affect our own ends. The Vanguroph appears now, the crowds poking their heads out past the platform to see white trails of steam rising from the bone-train closing in, the death whistle of it still screaming, a sound that if you weren't used it would be totally horrifying. I find it beautiful, of course, and it brings back a kind of nostalgia that motivates me. I pull down the brim of my hat against the warm sun, smiling.
Arriving right on time, according to some cosmic calendar that defies my comprehension. The Vanguroph has a bone white hull, a head without particularly distinguishing features, yet unmistakably organic in shape, and the whole thing is threaded through with ornamental gilding of gold, the wheels and undercarriage made of some black substance reminiscent of black coral, but much like cast iron. Thieves beware the curse of the Ghost Trains, for those who attempt to steal their gold fall ill with the petrifying poison. The remains of these thieves can be found across the land, their brittle and white bodies caught in the throes of trying to escape their creeping death. Doors like bone slide open, and lose myself in the farrago of passengers boarding and unboarding, finding my way into the opulent interior of the train, white like marble running up and around the carriage interspersed with filigree of gold depicting skulls and flowers. A bold red carpet running the length of the train, formed of a single flexible coach, hosting seats that may as well be carved of wood with red seat cushions to boot. Instinctively I find myself heading towards the back where I could keep an eye out, but something else is drawing me towards the back today, some guiding intuition or instinct. It becomes more clear to me what this is when I see him, an ashen dark man slouching, one arm slung around the backrest of his seat, the other clutching a bottle of whiskey, one leg perched up on the seat across from him and a drooping hat hung over his face, a tie hastily undone, sweat at the triangle of chest showing through. I take my seat, there, right beside his foot, sitting curtly with my luggage in my lap. "Ahem."
One hand closes slowly to his hat, pulling it up enough to reveal the eyes of the man. I hesitate to say that they are dashing, for I am not so fleeting with my feelings to surrender them to whichever way the wind blows, but I must admit that his face is quite handsome, the ulotrichous curls of his hair running roughshod give me some impression of the untamed wilderness within. Either that, or they may stand a testament to his status as a bachelor. As soon as he's gotten a sight of me, he's covered his eyes again and offers me this: "I know I don't look like a busboy to you, ma'am."
"It's very rude to be taking up so much space, don't you think?"
"No."
"Well, you're fortunate that the train isn't so busy, otherwise you might be stirred necessarily from your bender."
"As opposed to unnecessarily?" He takes a sip from his whiskey, tipping his hat to give me another look, "Put that up, will you?"
"Does it bother you that I've kept my luggage in my lap?"
"It makes no sense. That kind of seems like your thing, ya?"
"And I suppose you're making a whole lot more sense, passed out drunk on the Reliquary line?"
The surly man pulls his foot down, sitting up, clearing his throat and putting his hat straight, looking out the window momentarily, looking like there's more on his mind that he's reluctant to mention.
"I was just beginning to enjoy having your foot up on my seat," I say.
"Here, hold this," he says, getting up to reach for my luggage, "It's bothering me," he says, stowing it away above.
Holding his whiskey now, I give it a sniff—"You're drinking this straight?"
"Have a sip."
I do, and my face goes sour with the strength of it.
His smile betrays his delight at my suffering. "What's your story, then? Stir me from my reverie."
"You really want to know?" I ask, wiping my lips with the back of my blouse sleeve.
"Make this worthwhile for me," he says, reaching over to take his whiskey back, "You got me up. Entertain me."
My eyes train on his crotch, obscured by the baggy pants he's wearing.
"What's your name?" he asks.
I reach over and grab the whiskey back, "If we're doing this then I'm having a proper drink." A steady swig later and I'm not giving the bottle back. He laughs. "My name is Mimi."
"Just Mimi?"
"It's a long story. And yours?"
"Geddon."
"Just Geddon?"
His stare is penetrating. I don't know if it's me or the whiskey, but I can feel something in my loins rousing. "Where are you from?" he asks.
I shake an eyebrow, seeing as how he didn't answer my question there. "Is that how this is gonna be, then? Keeping it all to yourself?"
He adjusts his hat. "Just call me Geddon, missus 'Long Story'."
I let the silence foment in contemplation. I don't know if I'm imagining a holy aura around him, or if he just radiates personality, but I'm curious to say the least. "Fine," I say, "You want to know about me, then?"
He rubs a finger under his nose, eyeing his whiskey, "Yeah. Tell me about yourself."