Letter to the Alchemists Quarter

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re: Letter to the Alchemists Quarter

transmission origin: floating city
transmission source: Stewards

Most Honorable Survivors of the Alchemists Quarter

Do you still not believe? Especially now? Indeed, it was your prescriptions to begin with, so long ago.
Y(our) gods were beautiful- design given face, possibility made emblem, distant and abyssal concepts rendered recognizable and traceable. We adopted them, indexed them…does this surprise you? Perhaps you meant them temporary, crafted for a necessary moment, but then they appeared at the Temple of Creation, standing before us, desiring not worship but merely to be looked upon (was this intentional in your crafting?) with names you gave them:

Dlethlan, of Under.
Glor, of Roads Leading Nowhere.
Kliph, demon of Breathless Pause Between Words.
Jorshaq, a fate god who refused their own existence.

These are but a few, but we hope you remember them, remember them all. We do. Their names are written down, in the margins and back covers, on slips of cloth tied to branches, as seeming gibberish of Sacred Graffiti or hidden in the Murals along the stonework of The Fountain. Some of those seeking the Alters in the Temple needed them, the words sometimes failing them, the Things Between sometimes unrecognizable. Your works gave them a road map, a direction, a glimmer that began in the corner of their eye for them to follow. Your works were good.
But there is always slag. Ask the bell casters of the Foundry District. Slivers of iron and cooling drops of brass on the floor. They are swept up or scraped away, but they go somewhere. The bones and scraps of grizzle, they always go somewhere. Even when recycled, the waste retains as aspect of the Discarded. Were you not aware of this?
What else were we to do with the unexamined possibilities, unspoken words and unexpressed intentions of your rituals? They appeared here, too. Ethereal at first, in the Temple, unattached and formless next to the Alters.
And then the smoke from the apothecaries.
And then the energies released by the soothsayers.
And then the bloody bandages thrown out by the medics.
We had to build something to contain it all.
Perhaps you wanted a Queen after all. Perhaps you merely failed to recognize all of the intentions and possibilities and words of your rituals.
Now that she is gone, can you finally believe in her?

Unsent and Archived by
The Stewards

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