On the day of his final test, Liébo followed the Proktor-Superior into the cavernous meander of tunnels and chambers beneath the Castle, and into the oldest of the scrying rooms. There was an omen distiller here. It was an ugly aggregate of metals and strange, delicate crystals, sat in its niche before him. It could have been any crude machine: something for brewing poisons, or collecting strange, rarefied air from the uppermost reaches of the sky. He'd seen such devices before, he'd seen the balloons that carried them aloft, and the parachutes of fine-spun metal-weave that carried them safely down. But the still—a complexity of angular and bulbous shapes—defied the mundane roles his eye sought to assign the thing. It was an old monstrosity, ugly in the manner of something hammered into shape, rather than carved by the refined hands of an artisan. But it worked, as it had for centuries. An omen—one of seven still alive—sloshed feebly in a tray beside the thing. It was a broken and shriveled creature that struck the eye like a salamander, an insect, and like something at home in the sea's deepest trenches. It was a water omen, at home in that element, but even without an Aeromancer's intent hanging over it like a sword, it was doomed. Omens, even those of the water, could never live in the environments of earth. It regarded Liébo with at least three of its eyes. The other five kept focus on the distillation rig and the room itself. Two of them were already clouded with nacreous cataracts: proof that the omen was already dying. I must work quickly, Liébo reminded himself, as a pang of guilt surged along the sweep of his spine. No one had yet designed a vox capable of interpreting omen speech, and so the only way to learn from them was to read their flesh and their fluids. This omen, like at least three of the others, had to die. Liébo closed his eyes, balling his fists at his side. He whispered a prayer to Boguán-of-the-Air, and to the lesser Daemons of water, stone, and fire. He touched the hilt of a scalpel beside the omen's holding tray. And at the close of the prayer, he sliced into the flesh of the omen, finding it's primary nerve cord. He prayed to the omen, for forgiveness and gratitude for what it would tell him, and within an hour, with its vital entrails, ganglia, and subtle fleshes all sealed in various compartments of the still. In another hour's time, he'd have an announcement to proclaim, to the Proktor-Superior. Be very careful, he told himself. Do everything right...do as you've been taught, and tomorrow, you're no longer a mere student. **** The object in this image is a piece of the interior design of Prague's Cross Club. I originally thought that it could play a role in the Nemaean Universe I've been working on, but I decided to use it here instead. As always, thank you for viewing, reading, and commenting, and hopefully, your week is going well.