An unknown number of years ago, they brought Vakochev to a grandmother half-dead.
The grandmother had no name that mattered to the grand powers and no Provenance worth their notice, only a small warm house at the quiet edge of a dying Observable Existence and a very long memory.
She had known the maker of the Scales since before he was grand, back when he was only a stubborn boy in a tribe near a mountain- when she called him Tokoloshe.
And so when they laid the ruined thing that had been Vakochev across her table and left, leaking Causes and Dimensionality from a hundred wounds that should each have killed him, she was not surprised.
She put water on to boil. She had mended him before. She would likely mend him again, if he was foolish enough to keep living the way he lived.
