Time Is Measured In Men

kalachakra; the wheel of time

The Authority invented time in the same moment They invented death, for it stands to reason that time only holds meaning insomuch as it works to measure the lives of men. Time began with the last breath of the first generation.

It is said the first mortals lived 100 years, since one year was defined as 1/100th of a mortal lifespan. There were also 100 days in a year, and 100 hours in a day, but this was subject to change; it only takes so many hex-yards of arcane energy to change the planet’s orbit for good. Eventually, mortals invented their own notion of time, with sundials and clockwork and pouring sand, and forgot the nature of true time.

Time, however, is immutable; men must die, so The Authority decreed. A metronome was necessary, to keep time ticking and men dying.

Thus, The Authority made an enlightened mistake.

THE GNOMON /ˈnōmən/

What follows is assertive fiction, hearsay transcended to dogma within the clockmaker’s guild. It is as true as anything a clockmaker will tell you.

The gnomon is a human. They are unremarkable, marked only by fused earlobes and a propensity for gossip. Their lifespan dictates the ebb and flow of time: when they die, they immediately reincarnate elsewhere, and the universal metronome ticks forward. All great ages begin and end with the death of the gnomon.

The current gnomon is an old old man, once a gardener, now a “cherished guest” of the clockmaker’s guild. His name is Kalki Preed, and he is an utterly mundane old man. He is kind, perhaps because he has lived so long and loved so many. If you meet him, it will be from a great distance, in his bedroom, as he is hand-fed lotus blossoms by overbearing attendants, but you will not meet him.

The clockmakers do not allow the gnomon any visitors. This is because the clockmakers intend to keep the gnomon alive forever. Now is an age of prosperity, and they will do whatever it takes to preserve this peace.

There was a time when the age was unjust. Back then, the clockmakers scoured the planet with fire, seeking out and destroying the gnomon’s reincarnations one by one, so as to hasten the end of the age.

According to them, they succeeded after a mere two hundred years of war.

by svetoslav petrov
they wear masks and espouse cleanliness. underneath, they are dissapointingly human

The Clockmakers

You’ll see the clockmakers on every corner of the Hungry City, peddling tchotchkes and novelty gifts. They make a lot more weapons than they do clocks, but that stuff’s behind the counter. They’re also seeking immortality, and will pay handsomely for any leads. They often place large bounties on obscure relics with dubious medicinal properties. Devils refuse to deal with them, so pick your contracts wisely.

The clockmakers are in the midst of a quiet holy war. A thousand and one different fringe groups believe the death of the gnomon will fulfill one prophecy or another. Some are quite sympathetic; the diaspora-ed peoples of the Sewerpolis, or the paladin orders, who face theological extinction at the hands of an industrializing world. Others are less so.

They almost all hate each other, but they hate the status quo more, so they often band together for assassination attempts. On any given night, you’ll spot a half-dozen assassins on the rooftops near the guildhall, all from different famiglias. Those are decoys, obviously; countless more are hiding nearby.

If you find yourself on this side of the war (likely, since this is the side that gets to dungeon-crawl through the clockmakers’ maze-like guildhall/temple/catacomb) you can expect resistance. Clockmakers fight like death cultists; not stupid, just stupidly brave. The entire guildhall is a deathtrap designed to safeguard the gnomon, and they have enough spare cash to throw at chainsaw golems and room-stable black holes, just in case.

The clockmakers are not sure whether the gnomon is on their 38th reincarnation or their 39th. This is a well-guarded secret. 

by konstantin vavilov
Once polished clean, skeletons make surprisingly sanitary servants. no lungs means no risk of transmitting airborne disease to the gnomon

The Angels

At the bottom of the guildhall is an “iron” box with two angels in it. Their names are Quotirritu and Amize, or [tittering birdsong] and [somber screech] in their native tongues. They are captives, and they are furious about it.

The angels are backups, captured, broken, and collared to martyrdom centuries ago. The old contract redirects all harm inflicted upon the gnomon to the angels instead.

There is a third angel in the box. It is dead—killed by one of the gnomon’s frequent heart attacks—and rotting into something angels are not supposed to become. The clockmakers can’t do anything about it without opening the box, which would release the other two. For now they’ve left it.

The box is starting to glow.

A Battle Prayer

"Single in purpose, we; the pebble that breaks the axle and halts the wheel. Turn loose the horse! Turn away repairs! Ia! Ia!"