Brother Manuel of the Eskatonic sect (whom I find a fascinating conversationalist despite his bohemian views and annoying lisp) has discoursed with me concerning an esoteric field of scientific endeavor, whereby he claims the Pancreator's very blueprint, the matrix of human biology, can be laid out, warp and woof, and unraveled like a skein on a loom.
Manuel has regaled me with enchanting fairy tales: stories of artificial warriors, of beauteous dancing girls and perfectly pitched divas sprung newly formed from the scientists' vats; of the blind given sight, the lame arisen, the flower of the myriad noble families amalgamated into one Prophetlike composite.
I have heard other stories: horror-tales of the freaks of the Second Republic, and of how the grand city of Vorool fell one rainy night to a slithering horde of unbirthed abominations.
Nay, Brother Manuel, these speculations I must pronounce anathema. Learned ears may take an invigorating, if guilty, pleasure in filtering them; but such as this can do naught but harm should the masses learn aught of it.
