"An angel!"

"Draxlach brought an angel back to the city, still shrieking blessings!"

"They have chained it beneath, in the halls above the Necromentate - hear how
the screams echo pleasingly through the halls?"

"They say they will offer it in hopes of entreating Lord Fain to return."

"I heard the cooks of the city were sharpening their knives - they say that the
taste of angel meat is addictive, and the blood can be curdled for a fine
beverage, the likes of which grace the table of the Feyranti. They say the hair
can be ground to a fine powder that evokes the shrieks of angels and the cries
of the damned. They take neither food nor drink, but live on the songs of the
Supernals..."

"Well, I saw it, and it looks only like a trill dipped in glamour. See how even
the wings droop as the Penitents chant day and night - they took a brand to it
the night before, and that was sweet music for the soire in the Necropolis.
Cactus weed and absinthe passed freely among the nobles, and dogs howled at the
arch day and night, slavering over the scent of burnt flesh - oh yes, you have
not heard? The sign of Luciphage has been burnt into the back, and it weeps day
and night for vapid Raziela..."

Such were the whispers I heard in the Engine of Transformation. I had been away
for months now, journeying the wilds of the Basin and entreating errant scholars
to return to our library, forcing potions down their throats to keep them
straggling after me day and night like blank-eyed children. Even now they sat
entranced before books, scarcely noticing the spider of Baalphegar, that
cunning artifice which impels them to scrawl tome upon tome of curious
writings, but burns them out before even a year has passed... Ah, but such a
thing is neither important nor relevant to this accounting.

An angel, they said. An angel chained beneath Magnagora. I had heard melodious
shrieks indeed from even the Northern Gate of the Engine, but had supposed it
to be another Cantor in one of the crow-cages of the Cacophony, or perhaps a
foolish bard who dared to play the hero in the Wailing Woman.

But no, an angel. An angel chained beneath the city. I could not imagine it.
Did the feathers shine even in the darkness? As a youth in Celest, I had seen
them flitting about the sky, had seen the Celestines walking beneath the
shadows of their wings... it seemed then, that no dirt touched them, that light
shone forth from their eyes. Strange that I had not noticed the clarion chime of
bells beneath the terrified tones of the angel.

No matter. I would see soon enough. Indeed, a constant stream of Nihilists and
nobles were streaming into the Necropolis arch and flooding the stairs down
into the depths of the city. The smell of incense, spicy and disturbing,
drifted up from below, as did the sound of Penitents, who were chanting more or
less in unison. And through it all, the melodious shrieking of the angelic
being.

I breathed deeply of the air as I descended. Of a surety, it was more rank than
usual, the smell of incense mixing with the scent of chemicals, and the
indescribable scent of the Necromentate that lent the pulsing thrum to the
walls and hallways. So too was there the smell of cedar and chemicals used to
keep the insects from expensive robes. And above it all, the smell of crushed
lavender, mixing oddly with the other smells.

It took elbows and hissed threats to proceed through the throng - for once, I
found myself using my rank as Iconoclast to shove my way through the robed
nobles, til I stood in the doorway of a chamber I had never seen before.
Pausing in the entry, I caught my breath and stared in frank amazement at the
spectacle within the chamber.

Penitents ringed the chamber, robed and hooded in enveloping black. Each stood
before a brazier filled with burning coals, feeding the flames within from
sacks of an incense that put forth oily green fire in the depths of the lamps.
Symbols painted in fresh blood adorned the walls - nearby, I spotted a weeping
viscanti child, a pathetic runt from one of the Minor Houses. Robed in
dirt-speckled robes, he was being assisted in the tying of a tourniquet by an
overeager Urth.

But oh, the spectacle at the center of the room.

The chamber was large, but not very high. Especially for an angel bequeathed
with wings of a pure lily-white that scraped miserably against the grimy
ceiling. It wept and wailed, it did, still barely clothed in rags that had once
been white cloth, rags that revealed skin I thought to be untouched until I
circled to the back of it and caught my breath in awe.

They had branded it with the mark of the Supreme Master Luciphage, and done it
so recently that the wound had yet to fester, if angelic flesh festered.
Certainly the implements of Lady Nifilhema were set on a solid table near the
doorway, but although blood speckled the floor and stained the angel's robes,
no wound could be seen upon it but the blackened branding mark. The creature
knelt akimbo upon the floor, surrounded by blood and feathers, giving forth the
same ringing wail that echoed through the Engine.

I reached out with my mind to the aethers and bespoke the Heresiarch: of a
surety, she had seen the angel, and was most amused at the captivity - a jest
was put forth regarding caging it in the zoo, but then she remarked that it had
been given over to the Geomancers for experimentation, and so it would be
dissected for the amusement value. In short order, I was tasked with keeping an
account of the dissection for the edification of the Engine and the enrichment
of the Fold. Without further inspection of the pathetic creature immured
beneath, I went forth from the tunnels beneath the city and retrieved ink,
quill, and paper for the proceedings.

By the time they were ready for me, it was full dark, and the bells of the city
rang out their salute to the midnight as I hurried from the Tower of the Dark
Fates. The miserable wailing of the angelic creature had ceased, but for a
shriek now and then, doubtlessly ripped from its lips by the expert hands of my
fellow Nihilists. The piercing sounds would doubtlessly be branded into the
minds of the Fold even as the creature itself was branded.

The appointed place was a courtyard off of the Necropolis proper, and it had
been prepared in a similar manner to the chamber beneath the city. But where
the symbols on the walls had been a mere ring, here the bloody symbols covered
the wall and the floors in vast, looping patterns. They crackled with energy;
looking to a cloth-covered pile near the northern entrance, I could easily
discern the vessels from which the blood had come. No doubt the Gloaming was
several beggars short, and the Minor Houses relieved of their most pathetic
runts. Such was the way of the Engine - where there was a need, a way was
found, and here, the pragmatism of my fellow Nihilists had brought the weakest
of our race before the sacrificial blade.

(I was later told that these were not the first of the sacrifices - indeed, the
brand used upon the angel was both dipped in the blood prior, and cooled
thereafter from an Urth converted recently from the Serenwilde - a mugwump Urth
who was foolish enough to raise his voice in opposition to the orders of a
Seditionist, had been the first to feel the knife. Doubtless such a lesson was
not lost upon the other novices.)

As I stood in contemplation, pondering my own luck at escaping such a fate, the
wailing began anew. Only now it reverberated with the sound of clanking chains,
and it took on a particularly hopeless edge. As I watched, the retinue of
chanting Penitents came into the courtyard, and behind them, four strong
Ur'Guard, dragging the creature in disgrace through the dirt and muck. It
didn't put up much of a fight, but merely twitched and whimpered as long, iron
spikes were driven through the ends of its chains and pounded deep into the
fallow earth of the Necropolis.

It lay there, as if dead, but we could see the slow rise and fall of it's chest
as it lay in the dirt. We watched in fascination for a moment as it stirred and
seemed to look about itself with limpid, despairing eyes. And then it moved, a
slow, graceful movement, coming up to it's knees and then, slowly, steadily to
it's lily-white feet. It stood for a moment, tears running down immaculate
cheeks... and then it sought to throw itself into the air.

Ivory wings flapped painfully, and the creature turned it's head to the sky as
if in rapture. It hovered merely a few inches above the ground, straining
fruitlessly against the chains, but as it hung in midair, wings beating
hopelessly against the midnight sky, I thought for a moment that the chains
would give way, that it would rush into the sky and be free of the Engine and
our designs.

The air shuddered suddenly, then, as earth-toned robes billowed in a sudden
wind, a wind that picked up from nowhere and slammed the angel harshly to the
ground. The loud crack of the skull against the pavement echoed sharply in the
courtyard as the wind died down, and the Goemancers came fully into the
courtyard, milling around the angel to check chains and the state of the angel.
It lolled senselessly on the ground, eyes rolled back into the head and wings
splayed as if broken. Perhaps they were. Either way, it was clear that the
angel would never fly again.

The Geomancers had brought many fine chains forged in coldfire for the
spectacle, and I found myself inspecting their work as they more securely
fastened the creature to the fallow ground of the courtyard with the cunning
application of slender spikes. As they worked, I found myself noticing that
some of the spikes bore slime or blood, and some seemed almost molten in the
hands of the mages - spikes intended for the Necromentate were used to secure
the creature. The Engine was being cautious indeed with their prize.

A small flurry of finery in one darkened corner of the courtyard caught my eye
just then: a retinue of Cacophony bards, passing back and forth a pipe of
cactus weed and glasses of dubious substances. Occasionally, the faint sound of
strings issued forth as they contemplated tunes to commemorate the occasion and
bring fear to the angelic hosts. One of them, his voice harshened by drink and
careless with the weed, suggested that they fashion flutes from the armbones of
the creature, or string their harps with the delicate angel hair. At that, he
strode forwards with a stumbling gait and haughtily demanded the use of the
fine strands. The Geomancers regarded him with calm, contemptuous eyes, and
then began to lay out their equipment. One of them took a pair of scissors and
began to cut the shining hair from the head of the creature.

The bard stumbled back to his corner, and a murmured conversation could be
heard. The merits of braiding the hair into thin strands was discussed, and one
remarked rather shrilly that for all the delicate appearance of the angel, the
hair was as strong as twine, and would make a fine violin.

I returned my attention to the Geomancers, and drifted closer, inspecting the
shining array of tools laid out by the Geomancers. Unusually, these tools had
not been consecrated, and I quickly obtained the reason from a Pupil who was
carefully buffing the tools with a white cloth.

"The consecrated tools, ma'am, we've noticed that the skin rots sometimes on
touch; and you've seen how your thralls react on Celestia. Well, it's the same
for the energies of Nil and the angels. We caught this one with the master in
Paavik; lucky enough to kill her and get this one alive. Anyway, your Fold was
too quick to brand it. We could have kept it alive for years, otherwise, but
the corruption from the brand is eating away. Such a fine specimen it would
have made in the zoo..."

I eyed the Pupil in disgust. The brand, clearly, was the only way to seal an
angel from breaking loose and causing trouble in the city. Obviously the
Geomancer was one of those deranged by his proximity to the Earth Plane. I
wondered idly if he would be the next experiment for his Guild, or if he would
become one of the useless, sodden beggars we find in the gutters of the Engine.
Or perhaps he would merely meet his end at the hunt. Such things have been known
to happen.

They shaved the head of the angel with a sharpened razor, taking little care
with its scalp. It scarcely moved; perhaps it had gone deep into itself, as
some given over to Lady Nifilhema's arts are known to do. But I shall not
describe again the piercing screams that rang through the courtyard and Engine
as the Geomancers began to slowly take the creature apart, muscle by muscle,
bone by bone. They were efficient in their labors; it is perhaps fortune for
the angel that they had little intent to torture, but merely to dissect; to
that end, the suffering was ended with the draining of the angel towards the
beginning of the procedure

It is known well what happened afterwards; the skin of the angel, brand and
all, was given over to the tailors of the city, and we made much use of the
supple stuff; the back, which contained the most skin, was ruined for larger
pieces, such as robes, but the angelskin made many fine gloves and soft boots
for the feet of viscanti noblewomen. The Cacophony found themselves competing
with the smiths of the city for the use of the bone - several of the smiths had
designs in mind involving angel bones in the hilt of fine swords and daggers.
Indeed, several of the Nihilist's Guild recieved fine sacrificial knives with
shards of the bone set into amber and glass.

The meat, of course, became a fine delicacy for the feast afterwards, although
I found myself with the oddly disturbing flavor of lavender mixing with the
meat. The flavor was not remarked upon by the others who dined upon angel
flesh, although the exquisitely delicate nature of the meat was often mentioned
in approving tones.

And the wings became marvels for the Geomancers. One of them, denuded of
feathers and dissected for the edification of the Engine's scholars, was given
over to the Fold and awaits our Mystagogue's decision regarding the placement
of it within the tower. The rest of the corpse has been given over to those who
could find uses for it - I am told the tendons made fine pulleys for various
steamworks within the city.

It has been two or three years since this occasion, and since then, although
many have gone hunting angels in Celestia, none have since brought back a
living specimen. The tailors and bookbinders of the city find themselves drawn
to working with the skin these days, crafting blasphemous works of art to adorn
the shelves of the Halls of the Void.

As for myself? My dagger rests in a place of honor within the Seditionist's
office, rarely taken down, and only as an object lesson for the Urth. And if
the angelbone pipes of the Cacophony seem at times to wail, I do not mention it
to them - for the screams of angels, while pleasing to the ear, seems to
encourage them to even greater heights, and drive the Urth to madness well
before their time.