The Tilling of Her Skin (by Sciborg)

Their younger eyes watch the clusters of pustules on the floor of creased skin, while the eyes of their first faces glance nervously at the approaching necrosis. Mother will soon be little more than a petrified fossil, one whose emptiness begins to be overcrowded with the echoes of lovers and fodder used up and discarded through the passing of ages.

Anxiety causes deeply set grafts to shiver, sending ripples across the translucent flesh of the Inchoroi. In this place, even they who are a race lovers are flacid, their arousal doused by desperation. Crouched over the milky blisters, penises drooping into contact with the slow cooling floor, these last masters of the Bios whisper indoctrination with the wary resignation of a luckless gambler.

“…Drawn out from the dying flesh of our Mother, born of a seed taken from the Father we made, you are both brother and son…”

The similarity of their teaching brings an almost synchronous flow to their collective words, the closest their kind has ever come to the ritual of the faithful. They peer deep into the pus with a fanatical intensity, seeking some sign of movement, some proof that hearts are quickening within the cutaneous wombs, some sound of life gurgled through at least one of the reptilian maws.

“…You are a descendant of Wutteat, and all this world might be your larder if you war with us to make it our harem…”

There was a time when the Inchoroi might have more easily separated the wheat of those that would come to term from the chaff of the stillborn, yet now they were forced to be little more than desperate farmers thankful for even the most meager of harvests.

“…’Who are your Makers?’ you ask as your skulls harden over nascent minds, as the furnace within you begins to warm…”

They sat, squatting in the darkness, hoping but not praying for dragons while somewhere in the deep caverns of Mother there was a long dead sigh of pheromone induced ecstasy. A flicker of recalled desire ran like a feeble arc of lightning from each groin to both of their brains, for even with that ghostly reminder of approaching damnation the hoary sons of the Ark could not forget what they had made themselves to be.

“….We are a race of flesh, we are a race of lovers…”