two arms too many
Taddak is a hunter from the nomadic city of Dortoka-Brekh, which roams the frozen tundra inside the body of a massive, undead turtle. She plods along through the icy wastes, delivering goods between the few walled cities that remain.
The city is tiered; the village crusts upon its shell and skeleton, and in its heart is the chapel. Strung above the central chambers: a roughly spherical mass of coral and Clay, tubes and valves. When it plays, it’s notes ripple through the smoke of the ever-burning, turtle-mummification-concealing incense.
He’s been in the central chamber a few times, where the incense comes from. Hot and thick and stifling and blinding. His mount can’t stand it. His skin is thickened to cold, and in the smoke it itches and it feels a bit like drowning. The elders are there, like infants in a misted womb, squinting against the snowblinding outside, understanding nothing he tells them.
But that was a long time ago. The city moves still, but Taddak’s pack of dogriders is gone, like his arm, like his only real tether to home. Taddak rides away from violent memories and into the waiting embrace of the Church of the Hin inside the mighty walls, and their so-called Inquisition.