A series of gestures later, Theria followed him downstairs. They didn’t have anything as intricate as a formalized sign language, just so much experience getting up to mischief together that they always understood what was meant.

  Moving down the steps was an odd experience. They felt somewhat loose under his feet, as if they were attached to something that was meant to move. The final step was notably shorter. A truly odd construction.

  The bottom level of the Precursor structure felt more ruinous. Part of this was because of the basins that decoratively filled the middle of the long corridor, each of them containing dried dirt and plants that had withered away an eternity ago. The floor was covered with the broken remnants of the white-gold Precursor material. Black dots in-between showed the remnants of a viscous liquid that seemingly refused to dry out.

  ‘They were right, there is a Ceramic here.’ Oras’ mouth went dry at the realization. His mind returned to a childhood memory, to the wolf that he had found, covered in wounds. If he wasn’t careful, he would find a less peaceful end. Ceramics were renowned for their thoughtless cruelty.

  They were also renowned for being loud. Currently, there were no signs of any movement, audible or visual. Oras looked around, both to make doubly sure of that fact and to know his exits. If something did happen, running would be their best bet.

  As he scanned around, his green-gold eyes got stuck on something else.

  Through a display window, in the depth of the room behind it, he could see rows of sarcophagi. They stood upright, each of them shaped like a casket with its corners rounded out. All of them were of the same make: white, with brass lines running through them. The tarnished colour proved that all of them had long since been damaged beyond repair.

  All of them except one.

  A surge of excitement rose in Oras’ gut. That looked important, very important. The room was located in the bend of the U-shape on the opposite end of the entrance. He finished his scan of the environment, then he began to walk.

  Theria almost overtook him in her enthusiasm. Obviously, she had spotted the oddity as well, and no one that followed the teachings of the Supernatural Elephant could resist knowledge from the Precursors being uncovered. They were in a temple to the greatest civilization this world had ever known. Even the tiniest secret of its success could propel their current society forwards by decades.

  The door to that area was narrowly open. The duo slipped inside. They did not have to inspect the deactivated sarcophagi to get an idea of what they had once contained. In their unpowered state, some of them had been partially or completely opened by the weight of the bodies that pressed against them from within.

  Doll-jointed corpses hung from the doors or had collapsed to the ground. All of them were female, their bodies porcelain white. Decorative ‘cracks’ wove through their surface. Like their containers, the corpses’ marks had turned the colour of bronze. Despite their age, their bodies were still perfectly preserved.

  Glass-like eyes stared, gold, green and purple predominant. Long hair hung from dangling heads or formed carpets beneath those that had fallen completely, black, blonde and white predominant. Lips remained eternally closed, where they had not cracked from their fall, black, red and gold predominant.

  ‘Stringless - no - Strings,’ Oras thought. ‘If all of those within the failed sarcophagi have died, then obviously…’

  They approached the intact machine. It was nothing special, just one in a row which had been the remnant by pure luck. There was an inscription at the foot of it. Oras tried to read it. The letters almost made sense to him.

  ‘A written form of Common?’ he wondered and focused some more. It was to no avail. All he could make out was the word ‘doll’.

  The magical circuitry overhead sparked. The light in the area flickered. For now, the sarcophagus was still operating, but who knew how long that would last? It would be best to liberate the one inside.

  ‘I am rationalizing,’ Oras cautioned himself. ‘I want to free her, but is that the wise choice?’

  By decree of the teachings of the first harem that followed the Supernatural Elephant, a man was to take a String as his second wife, if he got one at all. Religiously, it was for the best.

  By his own ambition, returning with a String from the age of the Precursors would be a point of great prestige. Ambitiously, it was for the best.

  By the urging stabs of Theria’s elbows and the excited gestures of her head, it was made clear what his wife wanted. Personally, it was for the best.

  There were only two hurdles. To this, one was that he did not know what troubles this could bring. The second was that he had no idea how to open this machine… although he was happy to try to find out, once he had resolved his stance on the first problem.

  In all of his research on the Precursors, in all of the texts, sacred or not, that described what little was known about them, Oras had never once read about something like this. If it ever had happened previously, it was such a rare matter that it might as well have been the first time.

  Oras, consequently, had no idea what would happen if he opened that container. It could be that he was going to damage the only individual that could give first-hand accounts of the Precursors. Perhaps it would be for the best that he left it to an expert.

  Then again, who could that expert be? Oras himself was well read on these matters, as well read as anyone his age could ever be. He had studied a large library, ventured around and talked to the leaders of various sects of the Cult of the Supernatural Elephant. He had more insights into the sacred rites of maintenance than most. Only the members of the main cult, who repaired the Station of Resting, could truly be said to know more than him and they specialized in something other than this.

  Above his head, the circuitry sparked again. There was no guarantee it would last another two weeks. There also was no threat that it would give in so quickly. He could take this to push him one way or another.

  Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  The more Oras contemplated this, the more the simple fact became certain: this was his choice to make. Would he open the sarcophagus? Doing so could have a great many effects that would change his life forever. There was a timeline where the woman within would become the foundation to his wealth. There was also the possibility that she would be taken away immediately by people that considered her too valuable to be left in his hands.

  ‘There is too much to consider, too many unknowns,’ Oras thought. ‘The only question is: what do I want?’

  In his heart of hearts, the answer was obvious.

  Oras’ hands glided over the smooth surface of the material. There was no give to it, just a polished perfection that no contemporary glass could achieve. Even the gold-inlays were integrated flawlessly into the surface. When he focused on one, he could see it shift ever so slowly, just as the ‘cracks’ on a living Stringless did.

  The mystery of how to open the sarcophagus was no mystery at all. A pronounced bump at chest height practically begged to be pressed. With all of his confidence, Oras did.

  A hiss of hermetic seals breaking had him jump back, startled. Golden light flooded out of three gaps of the opening stone, meeting around the round button that had been pressed. While the majority of the sarcophagus swung outwards, the fist-sized circle hovered there, beaming various letters into the air. They flashed quicker than Oras could decipher them, the magic meant to make them understandable as broken here as they were for the socket. A hollow tube gradually filled with light. When it had done so completely, the button hovered down. As it did so, the golden, borderline liquid, magic that had been within the sarcophagus drained away into the floor.

  Out stepped a String in perfect condition. Her skin was as pale as porcelain, its snow-white beauty interrupted only by golden cracks and circuit lines that harmonized perfectly with the equally golden doll joints that sat in her shoulders, elbows, wrists, thighs, knees and ankles. Only the joints of her fingers, toes and neck were like that of a human.

  Her hands were relaxedly lowered, hanging to either side of wide hips. She was ‘naked’, her womanhood and small breasts covered in a protective wrap of some variety, leaving nothing to the imagination while covering the most sensual bits.

  Long, gold-blonde hair cascaded from her pale head. It was equally parted, framing her gorgeous face. There was a hint of pink to her cheeks, preventing any impression that she was a truly lifeless doll. The intelligence in her equally golden eyes broke any doubts that the unfaithful might have had.

  She was gorgeous. The shape of her eyes was sharp, the lashes framing the striking colour of her irises with dense darkness. Her dark-blonde eyebrows were shaped as aesthetically as the curve of her cheekbones and chin. Her nose was an adorable piece of art, the tip lightly upturned. Intensely pink, her mouth naturally drew the gaze of any that beheld her white-gold form.

  The ancient String locked eyes with Oras. Her gaze lingered for several seconds, then continued on to Theria. After the two of them, she took in her surroundings. Her head moved slowly and gracefully, turning on her slender neck. Compared to the average Stringless, she was of the expected height, putting her notably shorter than Oras and just a tad below Theria.

  The last of the light of the activation ebbed away. Oras considered talking to her. The question of whether that was safe or not was answered pre-emptively.

  “M-may… I… TAKE!” The clicking and screaming of a broken voice box cut through the silence of the ruin. Oras reacted instantly, putting an arm around the waist of the String and dragging her with him towards the closest hiding spot Theria could find.

  All three of them disappeared behind a curved counter near the entrance. It wasn’t perfect, but it was the best they got while the staccato of several limbs skittering got closer. Oras desperately hoped that the ancient String understood the signal of his index finger in front of his lips. Unmoving facial features gave him no indication that she did.

  “Take… t-t-t-take…” The voice was now in the room with them. Its stutter matched the click and clack of limbs meeting the stone floor. “T-t-t-t-t-t-t.” Each repetition of the letter, exactly on the dot with a footfall, as if the two functions were linked together.

  Oras dared not look over the counter. He forced his breathing to remain quiet. A hand suddenly grasped the edge of the tabletop just by his head. It was a glorious golden piece of artifice, crafted with cogs impossibly small with teeth impossibly fine. It was an inhuman claw with fingers too long and angled incorrectly from a palm that was too short. The thumb was a spike, nothing more.

  The hand pulled back. The machine skittered along. “May… I… take… your…” A screeching sound, like metal grinding against metal, filled the room. It was filtered through some… impossible to liken distortion, making the noise warble-y and advanced in a broken manner. Something audibly snapped. Something else squelched. “May I take your c-c-c-co- skin?” A jolly, almost intact voice asked.

  Three more rapid steps, then the creature was suddenly in Oras’ field of view, framed by the walk-in gap of the counter.

  Ceramics were a common motif in the tales of Kumse. They were proof that even the technology of the Precursors was not flawless, its purpose capable of corruption. Tales described them as twisted creatures of white and gold, broken and repaired incorrectly, their forms dripping oil that never dried.

  The reality was so much more disturbing.

  The Ceramic walked on three limbs. One was a footless leg, the shin turned into a sharpened stilt. The other leg was similar, yet also wrapped in some black, tattered cloth. The third leg was a golden arm grafted onto the right side of what likely had been the hip of a humanoid once upon a time.

  A silver ribcage had been almost entirely detached from a spine that was covered entirely with crawling, black oil. The substance shifted constantly, defying physics as it shifted and pumped up and down, through and across the white-gold perfection of the Precursors. The oil stretched into two additional hands on the right side of the Ceramic. The true, golden hand of the machine had its upper arm glued to the side of the white ribs. To compensate, an extra joint had been broken along the unnatural length of the limb. It ended in the wrong hand that Oras had seen a moment earlier. The left arm of the creature almost looked right, but its hand had been replaced with a crooked, forking skewer.

  Remarkably, this Ceramic had retained its head. What must have been a decoration of golden feathers once upon a time still marked the position of its shoulder. Midnight blue cloth, soaked with oil, was wrapped around its neck. A face-disk sported several crusted spots. It took Oras several seconds to realize the yellow spheres meant to be eyes, eyes that were staring right at him.

  [AI Generated Image]

  Eyes that had also lost their function an untold amount of time ago. “May… I… t-t-t-t-take?” On its three limbs, the Ceramic skittered along. Its every movement was unnatural. It balanced on improperly designed limbs an uneven amount of weight. Despite these matters, it practically floated, its jagged form unbothered. Tattered cloth swayed in the sudden acceleration and stop of its motions. It turned, tilting back its spine as it scanned the area.

  ‘Fight, flight or hide?’ Oras’ mind was racing through the options. ‘Can we even fight that? We can try, but it’s so fast and… I don’t know where I would hit it to kill it. Flight? We might be able to dodge a few swings as we make for the exit. I don’t think that thing fits up the staircase. Ceramics rarely leave their assigned areas either. Hide? Then we are just praying that we get lucky.’

  There was no good option. This was exactly why Torm had not wanted to accompany them. It also was what made being an adventurer so worthwhile.

  Oras glanced at the ancient String, who was staring back at him. If he made it out of there, this was his story to tell, his ambition realized. He and Theria would be renowned. There was no great reward without risk.

  ‘Remember to only take smart risks,’ he cautioned himself, then made his decision.