The Sigillite by Chris Wraight (Sample)
Description
Vocal Characteristics
Language
EnglishVoice Age
Middle Aged (35-54)Accents
Arabic (General) British (General) North American (US General American - GenAM)Transcript
Note: Transcripts are generated using speech recognition software and may contain errors.
a stone, said the sigil light. Yes, Lord, said Hassan, feeling his cheeks flush. They made fools of us. I see the city light turned back to the doorway. Locks clunked open. The great spiked door swung inwards, rasping on a tinges. Malkhadir raised a long, bony finger, and a soft glow of Lumen strips bloomed up from floor level. Come, he said, the chamber beyond was small in comparison to the others he'd seen on Lee. 100 m in length, perhaps with a low ceiling and rough, unfinished walls. Box like cases stood at regular intervals. Each was a different size and shape mounted on pedestals of marble. Some were as tall as he was. Some were no larger than his fist. Every case was dark, glinting smoothly like cut crystal before unity before strife, said Malkhadir, moving between the cases like an old hunched ghost. We built thes walls. We built them to last. Only later did other men raise their spires around and above thumb, burying our secrets beneath their own. His voice was proud and wistful. This is the last repository of the city lights. We are watched by unsweetened ing guardians and ringed with ancient wards against ruin here are kept the most dangerous and powerful creations of our species. You should feel privileged. Khalid. Not many men have seen these things. As the sigil light walked, he gestured to some of the cases. Their glass surfaces lit up, exposing the objects held within. Hassan caught glimpses of them. Is they passed by? It still makes me proud. On occasion, the city light went on. The palace is his. Of course, it always has been, but it was built atop a much older structure, the cradle of my order. These are the last foundations of the original fortress, preserved in the depths, a relic of another age. I remember it, how it waas, as so few now do only those who linger who endure as Theeighties cycled by. But we are a scattered fraternity. Hassan saw a long, curved sword engraved with flowing script. He saw books. They're metal covers thick with the Patna of ages. Locked, closed and bound with chains. He saw suits of armor hung from iron frames. Some were of impossibly old design plates of polished steel, inter leaved with linked mess chain. Others looked more modern, like the bulky half dismantled power armor of the Lee Jones a start ease the city light paused before one in particular. Very first, he said thoughtfully. Such a simple principle compared to those that came later but so very effective. Hassan let his eyes wander across the other cases. These are weapons, he said. Tools of war. Some of them. Malkhadir started walking again, heading towards the far end of the chamber. The species is defined by many things as it lives as it grows. It creates art. If acts, it passes its genius into those things. They become, ah, part of its soul. Ah, living record of its psyche. We create, we fashion, we mold we make. That is the essence of us. What sets us apart from the beasts who cannot and the gods who do not. Dane to the city light gestured to a small cabinet on his left. It contained one of the chambers, many books. There was a time when that book governed the lives of trillions, he said. None read it now, but its power still remains locked deep in our unweighted minds. I have studied it many times. Were it not so dangerous, I would recommend you do the same. He smiled in the dark. All is vanity, saith the preacher. Perhaps the greatest truth of all, Malkhadir finally halted before another large square case. It was a stall, as he was the wider and remained unlit and opaque. If the palace above us were destroyed, how much would be lost? He asked. Many palaces have come and gone. Many wars have been fought but thes things, they are the treasures of our kind. Without them, we are like Children lost in the night, cast adrift, truly homeless. The casket before them blossomed into illumination, revealing its contents. The stone from gypped us stood there, but it had changed. The dust had been cleaned from it, leaving a smooth, polished sheen. Hasan could see words and geoglyphs on the flat surface, hundreds of thumb, all engraved in tight, dense lines. Not a weapon, he said, finally understanding. No, not a weapon, said the sigil light. They do not aim to destroy only our fortresses and our starships. They aim to destroy the things that make us what we are. They seek out every accomplishment and marker of success and throw them down, erasing the past plunging us into forgetfulness. He gazed at this stone. I am the custodian of such things. Dawn is mawr than capable of marshaling our physical defenses? My task is the preservation of our species soul.