[STM]

Chapter III Part I - Untimely Promotions

There was a simplicity to the long, narrow corridor that Mellkart wandered down. He observed through unblinking orange eyes, that this was quite uncharacteristic of Glukkon architecture. The elaborate metal-work that typified every wall, ceiling and floor of most industrial complexes was supplanted by thin, rusting sheets of steel, bolted together on all sides. The ceiling was low and damp, stained green as mosses and moulds took residence in the gloom. The floor was dusty and grey; physically worn down as the passage of countless thousands before him trod the same path as he. Every now and then the executive would pass a waxen torch that flickered weakly, as if the flame was being strangulated by the darkness. He carried on along, vaguely claustrophobic and increasingly aware that he had been moving along down the same constricted hallway for at least ten minutes. He had received the call to attend the emergency meeting in the early hours of the morning; his residence up in the Paramonian Highlands was desperately lacking in infrastructure and the glukkon had worried he would not make it to the Sanctum in time. It was only upon the revelation that a personal blimp would come to collect him that he had been able to relax ever so slightly. At long last, the corridor began to widen and a cool breeze wormed along the ground, crawling through the dust, agitating it into minute swirls of ancient particulate. As Mellkart rounded a sudden corner he was faced by an immediate barrage of brightness that left him temporarily blinded. He squinted through the barrage of photons assaulting his eyes and saw two almighty sconces bearing the likenesses of the Magog crest. Through their slit-like eyes flickered wrathful fire that intermittently belched upwards and erupted into the air, illuminating a vast wooden door and the two muscular gloktigi that flanked it. These stoic guardians stood motionless; their hulking forms both ominous and primal. Although they were glukkon kin, Mellkart couldn’t help but feel a twinge of disdain as he walked between them.

The doors were constructed from extinct Paramonian redwood and bolstered with wrought iron nailed mercilessly into the enormous timbers. He coughed and stared up, waiting for them to give him passage. There was a significant lack of technological excess within the Sanctum complex. The innovations of steam power, electricity and digitisation—the fruits of the Alchemical Era—were all absent. Simple pulleys were used to open the vast doors, though whomever worked them remained mysteriously hidden. The torch-fire was cowed for a moment as a gust of air hurtled off down the corridor. The doors groaned open and the gloktigi guards eyed Mellkart through ornate leather masks as he stepped through the threshold, at which point they took pursuit, turning in military tandem before slowly ambling forwards on their enormous spindly talons.

Ahead of him there was a vast stone table, if one could describe it as that. In reality, it looked as much like an altar as a table. Unlike the simplicity of the corridor to the Sanctum, the interior chamber was fantastically designed. A melding of stonemasonry and ironmongery created a visually striking room with vast vaulted ceilings, suspended by twirling iron supports that burst through the still, damp air. The walls were hewn from perfectly smooth rock and festooned with millions of minute hieroglyphic inscriptions describing arcane histories of the octigi race and premonitions of a future dominated utterly by the Magog Cartel. To say that the Sanctum was just a meeting room would be derisory. The room, indeed the entire complex that led to it was swaddled with religiosity and mysticism. The glukkons had long ago cast off their spirituality, instead choosing the paths of ego, technology and conflict. Nevertheless, there remained a fascination—and indeed reliance—on the practice of occultism amongst the higher echelons of the cartel. As Mellkart made his way towards the centre of the chamber, he became expressly aware of a sense that the business world he knew was but the smallest fraction of what there truly was. The boardrooms of the outlying brewery facilities he knew were nothing in scope and size when compared to the awe inspiring industrial majesty of this hallowed sanctum. He had scarce little time to ruminate upon why he had been summoned to this prestigious place; he had made a stark assumption that his role was minor, if not trivial, and that there remained many more rungs to climb in the ladder of power before he could consider rubbing shoulders with the élite. As more glukkons entered from different doors around the periphery of the room, all he could guess was that the reason for his admission to this esteemed table would soon be explained.

Sure enough, as the last glukkons filtered into the room now filled with harsh whispers and shifty looks, a door of truly vast proportions at the front of the Sanctum began to swing open. The whispers died away and the executives seemed to become rigid in their posture. The glukkon next to Mellkart, whom had been sucking soothingly on an enormous lung buster since he entered now let it droop heavily over his lip, smoke twirling faintly upwards towards the ceiling in a constant narrow stream.