The handforged mother
It stood upright and tall. Its was a strange and heavy machine, unwieldy at best. This, however, was the smallest it could be while retaining it's function. The machines innards were grown in his laboratory, the outside manufactured in the workshop. It's gaunt fabricator looked proudly at his work. The stains of tea and biochemical substances ond his embroidered robes were now cobered in turn by oil spills, coolant and the active chameleon coating he had used on the machine. These latter stains shimmered with his mood now, and with the fluctuating temperature. It was an amusing and now permanent reminder he would have to replace that robe. With a touch the machine changed colour. With another the symbols on top changed. The symbols themselves seemed arcane, for a heartbeat he wondered at their origin, how his Albian forebearers came up with them and linked them so thoroughly to their meaning. An egg clonked loudly out of the machine. Snapped out of his meandering thoights he q...
