The clockwork god thundered along the well worn dirt track. It made the ground shake as it raced by. Dust and dirt flew in its wake. It’s long, segmented body was supported not by legs, but by wheels. Hundreds of black, elastic wheels made from a strange substance that was both hard and spongy.
I called this particular god centipede. Some might think it blasphemous, but I’ve yet to hear the god complain.
I turned to my companions:
“He will cut a sharp corner at the base of that mountain soon. And then go along a section of track that always washes out in the rain. That’s where he always loses some of his rocks.”
Sierra Firestorm, a black haired teenager dressed in clothes too good for a trek out into the wilderness, groaned.
“Why are we out here with this scrap collector? We’re alchemists! We should-”
“Enough!” spat Sonoma Farseer. The tall Khet woman in her late twenties to early thirties was growing tired of her appr