There was ticking, tocking, ticking in the walls.
It was in the brass along the edges, the corners, the breaking of the pieces.
Shaping the woods that moved, whose creaking, groaning, moaning cries told well in age and woe their plight.
Held by the avaricious grasp of auramite with grip of yearning minds, questing minds, minds that were no more.
There was ticking, tocking, ticking in the ground.
Heard by the feet that trod upon these dusty paths, carved into empty halls, brought upon lightless echoe'd calls.
Studied by the minds whose faith had called, whose faith beckon'd upon them journeys vast, whose faith has seen their people last.
Ignored by the small minds and little people who trod these halls, these dusty paths, echoing with forgotten calls.
There was ticking, tocking, ticking in the air.
What use was there for iron rock and electron path when clock and wheel sufficed?
What wonder was there in the labors wrought by silent metal and wrathful oil?
What duty could be had when there were grander things to do than to war and fight and burn and hunt?
There was ticking, tocking, ticking in the eyes of those who entered the world they call 'The Workshop.'
See the soldiers walk, their springs wound tight by the keys sunk into the backs of metals sharp and bones so hard.
See their delight upon the hounds of war who jump effortlessly into air to chase and cats whose purring clockwork joy sits astride upon their necks and face.
'Take a piece from here,' they thought, 'a souvenir, a memory made real, genuine and tangible, wholly natural unpretentious honest factual' held in hands and grasping soul, 'to bring forgotten joy to those we now can't hold to breast and arm, left behind in journey vast, terrible and grand, upon these Clockwork Halls forgotten and by time bypassed.'
There was ticking, tocking, ticking on the planet they knew not to be Hineni.
A workshop we wrought from wood and brass, auramite and sweat, labor and love.
"Here I Am," did Clockwork Man declare, built of wire and tin and stone and lore.
"Here I Am," did they declare upon the darkened skies that broke the earth and shaped the world.
"Here I Am," did they declare with fright reflected in the eyes of people born before, known before, upon their world untouched by Clockwork Artifice before.
"Here I Am," did they declare upon the works they started, flesh and blood remade and shaped upon their wheels that wound and springs that ground.
"Here I Am," did they declare...standing alone, upon these vast and empty worldly dunes, whose visages were marred by skeletons of iron cast and poured stone.
"Here I Am," did they declare, not knowing where they were at all. All who wore witness carved into Clockwork Homes and Frozen Time.
"Here I Am," did they whisper wordlessly, midnight oil burning fast, hateful ice grasping hearts, indifferent night shrouding tasks, labr'ing fast in darkened halls, ignoring a Goddess' terrible calls.
"Here I Am," did the Clockwork Men say, a ritual of ages past from Man they did not know, with words of people undefiled once before, before there was a ticking, tocking, ticking within these then-unwrought halls.
"Here I Am," did they chant, wrought from steam and tree and labor dark, these Clockwork Men, born by Man's Hand and Peoples' Heart, these bastard children wrought from vigor and timber hard a destiny stopped forever barred by destiny whose mind was filled with cruel disregard.
"Here I Am," did these Clockwork Men say, a prayer hopeless and devoid of love and heat, unknowing their blasphemy by life's and flesh's darkened start.
"Here I Am," did they whisper, with hands that creak and hearts that speak withering upon a barren world, "here I am," did they whisper, hoarse and scratchy springs and gears, ticking, tocking, ticking away the timeless night under endless stars.
"Here I Am," said the Clockwork Man, standing last and whole, staring into blackless skies and voiceless nights, standing here, wounding tight, holding vigil without fright, knowing neither love nor hate, upon this ticking, tocking, ticking world of silence past.
Here they are, these Clockwork Graves. Carved into clockwork stone and clockwork home. Buried under creaking wood and aging brass.
Written---with no names to call their own.
And all the while, there was a ticking, tocking, ticking in these Clockwork Halls.
The Expedition Returns With:
(6-Hour Moratorium)
[] Clockwork Bones
(Gain: Crafts of Old, broken and disused. Grander than all your artifice.)
[] Clockwork Hearts
(Gain: Frozen Children wrought by wire and tin, breathed new life from frozen graves.)
[] Clockwork Pasts
(Gain: A People suspended in time by Clockwork Hands and Clockwork Minds.)
AN: And that is all the info you'll get without literary analysis.
