“My thralls are hungry,” Ay rumbled, standing amidst a crumbling stone ruin. Dust and sand were kicked up from its broken arches and fallen walls by the wind as he addressed the Tumour-Keeper of the Oasis. The fat, bloated beast reared up on its podium, laughing as it swatted its swollen hand at a passing servitor. The little one fell, scrambling on weak legs to get back onto its feet.

“They are all hungry,” the Tumour-Keeper said, spilling pungent oil from its wide, frog-like mouth. “Look at them, slowly purifying! Embracing the source!”

Ay clacked his beak, then slowly looked around the court of starving, emaciated attendees. All around, their heavy heads were bent low, both in reverence and by the weakness of their gaunt limbs.

“Their hunger is cleansing,” the fat one said. Behind the corpulent beast and its pulpit, there was a pit to the lower levels of the ancient structure. Ay could smell the meat kept just out of sight.

To the side of the chamber, an executed freak was strung up high onto an iron frame - displayed for all to see. Some act of perceived heresy doomed the monster to its fate, though no records of its alleged crimes were displayed. Stooped at its side, a monster carved at its flesh. Slowly and expertly, it took a bright knife to the meat of the heretic, slicing carefully around its exposed augs. Each muscle was carefully taken apart. Each deliberate cut released a slice of flesh, wafer-thin, held up to the light. Transparent to the sun, the meat was checked for perfection. Then it was arranged upon a platter of gold for communion.

Devour your enemy and let their meat be purified within the crucible of your body. Ay had heard it all before. Just another band of freaks with their heads stuck with dreams, no different than the Neoglosms or the Axiamati of Acetyn in the end.

“You have never come before me, traveller,” the Keeper said, hands clasped together on its rotund abdomen. “Until now. You are so full of vigour, I can see... Succulent. One of gluttony, one who has eaten more than their share of biomass.”

Ay grunted, a hand on his lance, propped down against the sands, where his long body coiled.

“Just my fair share,” Ay said, wet eyes returning to the Keeper.

“So it is. So it is. Yet now you are here.”

“I want to trade.”

“I’m listening,” the Keeper said with saccharine sweetness, its mouth peeling into a gibbous smile, teeth bladed and sharp.

“I’ve got a live one,” Ay said. The Tumour-Keeper chuckled, then tapped a fat hand against the heavy bench.

“I have many live ones in this court,” the Tumour-Keeper said, its oily tongue flicking out to clean its eyes.

“Not like this one,” Ay said. “The Vat-Mother of Sestchek’s final creation. She has a face like the old ones. Probably all sorts of other rare gene-stuff, too. I’ve been sent to retrieve her by those on high. You can have one of her afterbirth. All I ask is food for the journey.”

The Tumour-Keeper of the Oasis lost its smile. Its beady eyes regarded Ay with considerable scrutiny, the weight of its gaze tremendous, cold. Every freak in the chamber looked on with bated breath, antenna and claws twitching. Even the butcher ceased its carving, turning towards Ay, blade in hand.

Ay could taste their fear, coiling his tail, ready to strike first, lance in hand. Tense, his beak clacked.

“And if I simply took this child?” asked the Tumour-Keeper.

“Then I would kill every last one of you.”

There was a sudden cacophony of gasps, hisses and cries from the court. Ay swallowed beneath his nearly sealed beak, sweat forming around the joints in his armour as he tried not to show even a moment of weakness.

“Would you?” The Tumour-Keeper grinned, a hissing sound from its wet mouth, glistening fat scleras starting to mist over. “I would enjoy seeing that.”

A howl interrupted the stand-off. It came from the pit beyond the Tumour-Keeper. Something down there that cried out a blood-curdling sound stretched out into a helpless whimper.

The Keeper worked its fleshy palms upon each other, deciding.

“You asked!” the Keeper said, then rolled forwards, fat body rocking. It addressed the court. “The meat! Feed the hunter!” it roared, spittle flying, knocking a poor misguided follower from the stand. Its legs scrambled to keep itself up, then failed, and it dropped onto the sand with a thud. A surge of servitors emerged, crawling up from the pit. They were small, dirty things - scurrying scarabs in rags of white cloth, masks covering their misshapen heads.