kalliopeeleutherios

[kalliopeeleutherios]

or, alternatively, go to canada or the netherlands or something and just don't fight an imperialist forever war for the sake of your oligarchical political class. assuming you can, yknow, get a visa, which is kinda hard for a girl with no employment prospects and no job history. whoda thunk.

cosmic awareness isn't all its cracked up to be when it's gone and fucked off but left you still unable to sleep

and instead it's eight in the morning and you're wisecracking to yourself about

how the hell did it get to be eight in the morning. christ.

about geopolitics in that way that only someone who spends too much time thinking about this shit and the fact that they're still perfectly capable of getting drafted despite technically being persona non grata for that can.

'okay, so ideally they don't draft you, and ideally if they do, the family curse hits you and you drop a car on yourself just in time to get called up,

and if the family curse doesn't hit and they drag you kicking and screaming, don't let them put you in a tank, because the tanks are where they put the idiots,

but, more to the point, do not ever let them put you in an armored personnel carrier, because that's where they put the idiot cannon fodder, and at least the tank men have something sort of like armor inbetween them and the battle field

whereas most APCs area, have been, and will always be tissue paper in the grand scheme of things,

and more to the point, if you have the choice but can't avoid getting sent to battle at all, take the tank over the APC, and take the APC over being on foot, because on foot, you're vulnerable to artillery fire, mortars, and drone-launched frag grenades, and getting run over by the guys in APCs and tanks.

and more to the fucking point, do not ever, under any circumstances, let them put you on a helicopter, because helicopter pilots are nervous, jumpy little bastards for a reason.

but really, if you can help it, be smart enough that they let you drive radio equipment, or a desk, because the radio guys are told to set and forget and the desk is cozy, has coffee, and might even be stateside."

[kalliopeeleutherios]

cosmic awareness isn't all its cracked up to be when it's gone and fucked off but left you still unable to sleep

and instead it's eight in the morning and you're wisecracking to yourself about

how the hell did it get to be eight in the morning. christ.

about geopolitics in that way that only someone who spends too much time thinking about this shit and the fact that they're still perfectly capable of getting drafted despite technically being persona non grata for that can.

'okay, so ideally they don't draft you, and ideally if they do, the family curse hits you and you drop a car on yourself just in time to get called up,

and if the family curse doesn't hit and they drag you kicking and screaming, don't let them put you in a tank, because the tanks are where they put the idiots,

but, more to the point, do not ever let them put you in an armored personnel carrier, because that's where they put the idiot cannon fodder, and at least the tank men have something sort of like armor inbetween them and the battle field

whereas most APCs area, have been, and will always be tissue paper in the grand scheme of things,

and more to the point, if you have the choice but can't avoid getting sent to battle at all, take the tank over the APC, and take the APC over being on foot, because on foot, you're vulnerable to artillery fire, mortars, and drone-launched frag grenades, and getting run over by the guys in APCs and tanks.

and more to the fucking point, do not ever, under any circumstances, let them put you on a helicopter, because helicopter pilots are nervous, jumpy little bastards for a reason.

but really, if you can help it, be smart enough that they let you drive radio equipment, or a desk, because the radio guys are told to set and forget and the desk is cozy, has coffee, and might even be stateside."

[kalliopeeleutherios]

The premise of HDG itself, "Affini are better than humans because humans nasty stinky dumb and that's why it's okay that they're conquering us under a dictatorship where we have no rights, it's for our own good and they're doing it out of racist colonial fervor compassion so it's a good thing," is so fundamentally, obviously fascist that no, you cannot write all this positive fluff and kink in the setting without tacitly accepting or even embracing a fascist viewpoint.

Either your HDG story is about grappling with the abject horror of Affini tyranny and fascist politics or it's simply in bad taste and leaves many awkward things said about you.

Yes, even if you just want hot plant mommy. Write about whatever other hot plant mommy, why does it have to be about the colonialist aliens?

[kalliopeeleutherios]

Canard X

Canard X – Finally it began to crack.

“Close your eyes.”

Lorelei was greeted with the amorphous blackness behind her eyes. She gave a nod.

“Now, breathe.”

She took in a breath of the air on the manse’s balcony. It smelled like leaves, dirt, the faint sunrise’s dew; it smelled like life. She took in another breath, filling her lungs with it, and exhaling it back into the world.

“What do you see?” asked the Witch.

She shook her head gently, in a little confusion. “Nothing.”

“No,” she said, firmly, not unkindly. “Use what’s inside you, not your eyes. Those aren’t good for anything but reading,” she huffed.

“Okay…” The apprentice tried to feel what was inside her, anyway. Her heartbeat; blood, steadily she noticed her blood, flowing down her veins, pulsing in time with her even breaths. She felt the chill of morning air pricking her skin all over, clad in only a nightgown as she was; she felt the sounds of the forest beginning to wake. Birds singing familiar songs in the branches, leaves rustling in the wind, the scattering of small animals beginning to breathe.

Beginning to breathe, just like her. Suddenly she felt the wind blow against her; the wind that rustled the leaves, the wind that carried the birds and their songs. She felt the bugs, and not with her eyes, she saw them in her heart, cicadas crying and being eaten by the same birds, old carcasses dissolving into the trees’ roots, and eggs birthing new insects and birds alike, and the wind that entered their lungs entering hers, and out again. She felt…

“What do you see?” the Witch asked again.

“I see life.” An unbidden tear came from her closed eye. “I see death. Birth. Life again. And it’s in me.”

“It’s all in you,” she said, nodding. “Open your eyes.”

She did, and saw her teacher in her broad-brimmed hat and plain white gown, brown apron. So plain, yet Lorelei now saw so much coursing through her body. Something beyond her youthful face, slim with faint wrinkles and gray eyes.

“This is magic.” The Witch looked away and off the small wooden balcony, out over the chirping woods. “The birdsong and wind, eating and being eaten. Breathing each other in and out, together. This is the motion of magic, and it is the same motion as everything.”

“I see…” Lorelei looked out too, turning over this understanding in her head. “What next?”

“Next is breakfast.” The woman turned and paced off.

“Oh.”

---

Lorelei stepped through the starry rift and back before the terminal she had entered the Nether from. She smoothed-down her skirt as it shut behind her with a glass-tearing sound, and faced forwards, confidently looking to where she sensed Morn was standing, waiting.

The doll gave her a nod in greeting. “Afraid we’d lost you.”

“I imagine people get lost in the Nether all the time,” she said back, sighing out in some relief to be back where she was familiar, material reality.

“Well, Cybil tries not to let ‘em. How was it?”

Lorelei paced closer to the dim-lit corner Morn stood at. “I remember why I’m here. Not how I got here, but,” she said, “Why.”

“Enlighten me,” the Quill shrugged, suit ruffling quietly.

“You’re telling a story.”

“We’re all telling a story,” it said. “You, this one, everyone.”

Lorelei pursed her lips, “Yes, but this is on purpose. This is for someone’s benefit, some purpose you have.”

It hummed, a low clockwork trill from its throat, crossing its arms. “We’re all dancing on someone’s strings, darlin’.”

“Dolls, maybe. Not me. I chose freedom a long time ago, and I’m sticking with it.”

“Well,” it said, running a hand through its pink hair, “We’re not here to stop you. But the way this one sees it, you don’t got much choice. We’re the only ones that can put your memories back together, and if it’s right, it thinks that you don’t got much waiting elsewhere. If it helps,” it shrugged, “It promises We’ve got good reasons for all this.”

“I’m sure you do, but I’m doing this my way. Got it?” She crossed her own arms.

Morn assented with a final shrug. “Got it. Speaking of freedom and choice and all, why don’t you pay a visit to Saiko? Sorry,” it caught itself, “That’d be Cioel.”

“The Quill of Religion,” Lorelei recalled. “I’ve met her. I guess that’d be as good as anything.”

“Right. Well, follow me,” it bowed a bit, gesturing towards another ornate elevator door over some ways behind her.

They started off.

---

Soon the elevator doors were sliding open to reveal a brilliant light; the room was all in front of her, the elevator opening dead-on into it. It looked like a church—high vaulted ceilings, finely-carved pillars raising across the walls, stained glass windows depicting mandalas letting in inexplicable light across the marble space. But it was also some sort of lounge; red couches and futons rimmed it, resting beside tall metal gates to other rooms, at the front some form of grand altar adorned by incense, ancient-looking cases of books, a desk with an ink quill on it and a cushion to kneel on before it.

And above all, a great golden dragon, serpentine and sharp-toothed, watchfully presiding the empty congregation. Before it, Cioel reclined in front of the low writing desk, propped-up on a shoulder comfortably, red kimono spilling out over its small form.

Morn stood behind as Lorelei entered, striding up to the doll and giving a small wave, little smile. “Good to see you again,” she nodded.

“Oh, and you,” it laxly greeted, blue hair bobbing over red eyes as it nodded a few times, giving a languid and sly smile. In its hand was a pipe, and shining azure smoke coiled out of it. It was offered forth. “Smoke?”

“No, I don’t really touch it,” she said, and looked around for a place to sit; she found it in a cushion beside the dais of the altar, kneeling down on it.

Amber-red clock-spinning eyes alighted on her as the doll turned to face, still reclined. “What brings you by Our humble Cathedral, O dear seeker?” It sounded nigh-teasing.

“Well,” she said, blinking. “I guess the fact that I’m being made a story of.”

“Oh? This one thought you’d be flattered,” it tittered, a mechanical noise.

“I don’t like having things done to me without my knowing,” she pursed.

“Do you think you ever have a choice?” Cio took in smoke and let it blow out, coming dull from its porcelain lips.

“I didn’t, once,” she said, “But I walked away to make sure I did.”

It watched her, unblinking. “And did you make that choice?”

“If not me, then who could’ve?”

“Perhaps the one writing you,” it smiled slyly, eerily. “Maybe Us. Maybe God.”

“If there is a God, I don’t want any part of his stories. Besides, I’m not a character.”

“What is a character, then, mm?”

“It’s… Well, it’s a fictional idea. It’s not someone that exists.”

“But a program in a computer can?” it asked, smoking again, letting it out. “As you’ve just met one.”

“Cybil’s made of something, though. Data, or whatever it is. I’m not a computer scientist,” she huffed.

“And what of the character in your head? Cybil’s made of information, programs are made of electricity, usually,” it said, “And so are your thoughts. Lil’ electric shocks in your brain,” it grinned. “So then?”

“But I don’t exist in someone’s head,” Lorelei asserted.

“Oh? You exist in this one’s head,” it tittered again. “Just like this one exists in yours.”

“I can touch you, you can touch me,” Lorelei insisted, shaking her head.

“And? So? That’s just more electrical signals telling your lil’ brain I’m here, being touched.”

“Fine, so everything I’m seeing is in my head. But that doesn’t change that a character up there is just not out here like I am.”

Cio shrugged, smoking, breathing. “So it exists in a different way from you. But it exists.”

“Then that’s the difference between us, and so I’m not a character,” the Witch nodded.

“But then,” the doll’s eyes glimmered mischievously, “If a character exists, then where does it exist?”

“I… Don’t know,” she said.

“Could it be that it exists somewhere you’re thinking about?”

“I don’t know…”

“In your head? In the book you’re reading? In another world?”

“What are you getting at?”

“What is it getting at?” the doll asked back.

Lorelei turned this over for a minute, then answered. “That fictional characters are real somewhere.”

“And so you could be one of them,” it concluded, rolling the pipe over in its ball-jointed fingers.

“I guess neither of us can prove it.”

“It wonders,” the doll hummed, smoked again, and looked out to where Morn was watching across the room. “So, what is it you’d like?”

“I’d like to know why my story leads here.”

“You’ll see. Just go on, it’s your story, after all. Tell it yourself.”

She sighed. “Alright. I’d like to know more about the Nether, and how programs exist.”

“Oh, lovely,” Cio grinned. “Then go to the Wing of Technology, Lotheia can help!”

The Witch nodded, stood up, smoothed her skirt, and bowed a bit. “Thank you. By the way,” she gestured up to the great dragon above them. “Who’s that?”

The Quill looked at her unblinking, a wry smile on its lips. “Oh, now that’s a plot twist this one can’t spoil.”

“I see. I’ll guess I’ll be going. Take care, Cio,” she smiled, and began off.

Morn caught her as she headed to the elevator, filing in after her. “Productive?”

Lorelei looked flatly to it. “Not even a little.”

It chuckled, pressing the button to shut the doors. “Hope you’re not frustrated.”

“On the contrary, I’m ready to get started with this. For real.”

The doors shut on the pair.

[kalliopeeleutherios]

the scoundrel goes to a red honey victim meetup and is surprisingly empathetic about the inherent trauma of bees crawling into people's eyes to steal their memories and turn them into drugs. except as time goes on it's slowly revealed she's offended not because of the torture but because she thinks the honey gardens are a form of artistic plagiarism

[kalliopeeleutherios]

nothing better than the wrong capitalization of Sie

[kalliopeeleutherios]

somebody euthanize me i'm a rabid fucking dog and i need to be put down before i hurt somebody else.

[kalliopeeleutherios]

//vent, please do not read anything dangerous into this. i am fine. just doing badly.

i feel

like i might have done something horrible

i feel like i might have done a lot of horrible shit.

without realizing any of it.

i

feel

like i

should

go jump

in

the river.

it's what i deserve, isn't it? someone like me? who does the kind of shit i do? without even realizing in the moment that i'm being an awful, evil piece of shit?

i don't deserve to live after all the people i've hurt it feels like.

[kalliopeeleutherios]

second note to self

if someone looks friend shaped, in the future, do not repeat the mistake of fucking them. all it does is send them the message that you're there for sex, and not for Them.

you've made that mistake too many times in the past. don't do it to yourself, or to anyone else, again, please, wyn. it hurts them, and it hurts you.

[kalliopeeleutherios]

Canard IX

Canard IX – It passed my lips like a bird learning to fly.

Lorelei turned the glass door’s silver knob and stepped into a grand ring. It circled the central pillar of the Library, looking in on it with vast swathes of dark stone lit by glittering blue crystal chandeliers; patrons and goers milled around, talking, some made of crystal, some with several arms, some of imposing stature and tusks and horns, and yet others with a serpentine body that glimmered in the lights, draped in dyed glass silks, and some others looked to be no more than ghosts, shadows coalescing into the shapes of people that perused shelves lining the walls.

Lorelei took it all in at once and asserted herself—she put herself forth and marched towards the nearest column. It had set in it a cavalcade of bodies, it seemed; porcelain figures, dolls, they appeared to be, sculpted into extravagant forms, feminine and voluptuous, shimmering in the Library’s blued light. They nestled around a delicate crystal screen, which on it displayed in bright color: the Library’s search catalogue, a gray-and-white formatted page dryly containing links to every file available and its place within the system. A bar for input sat empty, the keyboard below extending like crystalline mushroom stalks under Lorelei’s hands to meet her fingertips.

As she typed—the words came alive. She tapped out a search, “Witch of the—” and the computer before her, the dolls wrapped around it came alive, to see the screen, to see Lorelei, now all peering down with their marble hair and jet-black pearl eyes; they hungered with curiosity for her input. And they whispered. “—Of the Wind? --Of the Heart? --Of the Gray?”

She swept those away, physically as much as mentally, jabbing a finger at a doll that had come too close to touching a key. No, Lorelei shook her head and focused on the search: “Witch of…”

Then she sees it. Inside. It subtly taps at the glass.

Lorelei backs away, shooting back just a second before recollecting herself. Right, this was nothing new to her. A living search engine would only make sense for the Library. She steadied at the panel of melded dollish bodies and focused her eyes to the screen.

There it is. The doll. Unbidden by her, the doll is there, in the screen, a figure with brilliant rose-quartz hair, porcelain frame and amber eyes, foxen ears and tail swaying—but all digitally. All on the screen before her. “Hi!”

The voice comes from the dolls lining the panel, but is clearly belonging to the kitsune inside the machine. Lorelei responds, “Um, oh, hello,” and gives a slight wave.

“Hello, Lorelei,” the image of a doll waves from the console, “This one is Cynder Nevara Cybil, and it shall be your guide to the search you seek.”

“And my search is for my Witch’s title, yes.”

“Then you’ll have to follow this one,” the Quill beckoned from within the monitor.

And so she did—in a way she didn’t expect. She felt her soul—no, she felt her Heart, her very being tugged at, pulled upon, and then yanked—but not with a jerking motion, but an elegance, as if she’d longed for this path, this way into the Nether. She saw a sea of streams, doors opening by and by, as if she were a ghost floating across the rivers of data. Her physical form dissipated across a refraction from the screen, a trick of the light leading her forward.

Vast coils of weft weaved in and amongst it; great dragons prowled the stardust skies, the shimmering seas, for they were both at once, dust and ocean, fragments of ideas whittled down to the granular specks of ash there are now; death eternal, always here, preserved, within the chaos of negative space.

There she met Cybil, alighting on a raft in the pitch-black tides. It was a scanty thing, and yet, it felt so vastly heavy beneath her.

Lorelei washed ashore of the data sea unto this raft of seeming dark metal and crystal board, and Cybil hauled her up with a hand, but—it wasn’t as if they were drenched, then, suddenly, as she crested onto mental seascape, it was as if they been on a manse afloat, everything clear and clean and dark

Cybil, pink hair swaying in the nightly breeze, asked, “What are you the Witch of?”

“Nothing,” she said, a tear falling from her eye.

Cybil nodded. “Nothing is everything.”

“And this itself?”

“Will also be recorded.”

“And?”

“Broadcasted. To the worldline receiving it.

“Good. I remember now.”

“Remember?”

“Why I’m here.”

[kalliopeeleutherios]

A handy illustration of wind-up doll vocalizations

[kalliopeeleutherios]

instant doll, just add weed

[kalliopeeleutherios]

help

[kalliopeeleutherios]

rb to tell ur mutuals ur fond of them

[kalliopeeleutherios]

it really is always my goddamn fault, it feels like. and i learned, too little, too late, that my go-to behavior was... what always ended up driving people away from me. go figure, nobody wants to be around a clingy insane hypersexual traumabomb who thinks that sex = friendship and... and...

i just. i wish i hadn't done any of that. i wish i had acted healthier. i wish so many fucking things but,

too little too late,

you can't change

your lonely fate,

so rot alone, little girl,

and stew yourself in self-hate.

...yeah, that'll totally make you feel better, won't it? dumb bitch.

<Shut the fuck up. Stop talking about yourself like that.>

<You made mistakes, yes, and you know what?>

<You'll make more. The challenge is not making the same mistake *twice*, Wynbits.>

<So learn. Internalize this, and change your behavior. Make different mistakes.>

(In english - you've bloody well realized how problematic your behavior has been, our behavior has been, and you've got the choice to change, to actively change how you behave.)

i'm just afraid that i can't change. that i'll always be like this.

<Copout, excuse. You are, straightforwardly, an agent. You are the one that makes the damn decisions. Just make different decisions.>

(We know you can. We know we can.)

i'm scared

<So are we.)

(But you'll get through this, too. You always do.>

[kalliopeeleutherios]

Canard VIII

Canard VIII – I suddenly felt the breath in my chest.

The manor rose from the trees in twisting boughs. It was woven into them, from them, thick bark growing into branches that grew into a vast sloping roof of shingled leaves, that parted into elegant paned windows, that silently shivered with the valley’s woods as a natural part of it all. Though the deep woods were dark and brambles thick and thorned, sunlight mingled with candlelight from within, a beacon in the quiet shade.

Lorelei anticipated she would be nervous, but finding herself here, she realized there wouldn’t be any turning back; it steeled her with the resolve to go on. That what would be next would be, without question. She strode up to the plain wooden door before her and knocked.

No sooner than that then it opened, seemingly of its own accord; she peered in. It was surprisingly normal, if fancier than her family’s small farmhouse; candle flames danced flickering with calm afternoon sunlight through the high windows, all along the right wall, and an elegant scarlet rug lay across the floor. Lifelike paintings, of nature, of people, graced the left, where a staircase led up, and tome-lined shelves filled the rest of the space.

Save the middle of the room, where there was a small and worn-looking oak table, round and currently hosting both a teaset and a woman in one of the four ornate chairs, also wooden, also worn. She stared directly across the room to Lorelei, at the door, and sipped from a porcelain cup.

Now nerves got her, and she swallowed. But refused to be deterred now; Lorelei stepped in and shut the door politely behind her before bowing to the Witch from her waist. “Ma’am. I don’t wanna’ intrude.”

The lady at the table almost snickered. “You already have.” Her voice, old and soft, was at odds with her stunningly-youthful appearance. Dark and braided hair and nut-brown eyes, a simple gown in white and green, scarcely more than any farmhand would wear.

Lorelei awkwardly scratched her head. “Sorry, ma’am. You are… You’re the Witch of the Valley, right?”

“Is that the title, these days?” She huffed, sipping her tea again. “Suitable as any other, I suppose. Come in, unless you’re here just to waste time.” But she was smiling as she said it; her eyes were surprisingly friendly.

The farm-girl did come in, and at a gesture from her host, she sat down across from her.

“Tea?” the Witch asked, already pouring another cup for her.

“Oh, thanks. No sugar or anything.” Lorelei took it as it was offered, lifted the porcelain cup to her lips, and drank. It was earthy. Strong.

“So, what brings you to the valley?” The Witch appraised her plainly.

Lorelei looked her in the eye. Nodded once. “I wanna’ be a Witch.”

At this, the woman’s eyes glimmered almost ethereally; she cackled and set down her tea. Once she’d settled, she smiled and folded her hands on the table, looking at Lorelei once again. “And why is that?”

“I’ve been a farmer for all my life,” Lorelei answered, rehearsed but suddenly passionate. “I don’t wanna’ sit around and tend the family farm for the rest of my life. I want more. And rumors around town say you can give it.”

“Noose-End,” the Witch muttered, almost grumbled. “Rumors around there are as reliable as a leaky boat. Why would I teach anyone?” She grew serious, staring Lorelei down. “Why would I teach you?”

“I don’t have a reason,” she said back, glaring her down the same. “I just want to know what else is out there, and I’ve heard Witches learn that. I just… I want more.”

For a while, the woman across the table watched her. Then eventually smiled, both sharply and warmly. “You already are a Witch. You just need to learn what that means.”

“I’m… what?”

“What’s your name, child?”

“Lorelei. Lorelei Blackhand,” she inclined her head.

“Well, Lorelei Blackhand,” the Witch said, “Here’s your first lesson.”

She looked across eagerly.

“Never take tea from a stranger.”

“Oh…”

---

On the other side of the portal was a balcony. Lorelei saw the City span forever beneath her, spire lights shining under endless stars above, cars and people moving in photonic bursts like blood cells through innumerable veins. The gray stone balcony was limned with garnet roses, vines and thorns diamond-blue as they glittered by carnelian light cast from the opaque glass doors behind her, all crossed by lightning-course fingers of dark steel.

She took a better look at the doll, perhaps two-thirds her own height, alabaster exterior and black metal joints. Its eyes were flat, glassy but flat, scarlet clocks that ticked both forwards and back as they bore into Lorelei’s own gaze; she looked away, taking a few steps towards the balcony’s sculpted rails, admiring the view of the City below.

And, looking back, admiring the apparently endless tower that was the Library, stretching interminably towards the Night. She tried to estimate a position, halfway up, closer to the ground, whatever bearing she could grasp, but she failed; it was impossible to tell where the Library ended below and whether it had an end at all, at the top. Instead, Lorelei turned her eyes down and focused on the easel and canvas set just before her, framed by the City.

“Are you an artist?” The doll guiding her now, with the dark portal closed behind it, now looked up at her blankly.

Lorelei looked back down with a playful grimace. “Alas. I’m better at just about anything else,” she chuckled.

“What,” the doll asked, “Is art?” It stepped without pause nor qualm around her and went to the canvas, guiding Lorelei to also come stare at the blank slate, propped-up and ready for painting.

She scratched her head, thoughtful. “It’s something you… It’s like paintings, or sculptures, drawing. I guess you could say music, dance, writing, and things like that, too.”

“But what is it?” the doll asked again. Its eyes were fixed on the canvas.

Lorelei furrowed her brow. “Well… I don’t know.”

“Pick up the brush.” Its voice was not commanding, soft and empty and porcelain as its form, but it felt as if its words were inevitable.

Lorelei did notice it, the black-tipped paintbrush resting on the easel, just under the expanse of white above it; she picked it up, looking it over. Crystal, naturally, and seemingly the end was already dipped in paint. She squinted; what color was that? It swirled as she watched, seemingly all colors, none of them.

“Paint.”

She looked aside to her guide, and the doll returned her gaze, staring through her. Lorelei chuckled again, nervously, “Well, I’m not good, like I said, but… Alright,” and she set the brush’s tip to the canvas.

A splash of black. She saw the yawning woods in front of her. Slowly, eyes honing on the work, Lorelei spread the paint across. It shifted colors as she went. Orange, purple, a twin sunrise over the world; emerald, gold, rich blue, filling the fields with grain and sky with life; black again, deep black, smearing the colors of the world into contrast. Before she understood what she was doing, Lorelei stood before a finished painting.

Before her, a golden tree amidst a sunset, fields of burning wheat; it opened its maw wide, darkness spilling from it, transforming into smoke, transforming into a scape of stars, almost twinkling. And in the middle of the tree’s pitch hollow was a figure, unclear, but appearing as a white silhouette in the darkness, yet made of black within, holding a carnation.

Lorelei dropped the brush to the ground and stared at it. It was more beautiful than anything she’d ever made—its every stroke caught at the breath in her chest. Inside her, an indescribable motion bloomed.

The doll stood beside her, and also looking over the art, it asked its question again. “What is art?”

Now Lorelei turned to look back at it, and with tears in her eyes, she understood. “It’s your Heart, speaking,” she said softly.

It nodded once. “This one is Cynder Nevara Ciarda, Quill of Art. And you are Lorelei, a Witch without a title.”

“I had a title,” she said.

Ciarda nodded.

Lorelei frowned, “I can’t remember it.”

It nodded again. “You will.” Ciarda tilted its head, just slightly. “You want the record.”

Lorelei rose a brow, “How did you know?”

“It’s obvious. You are clever. And resourceful. Go to the Nether.”

She shook her head out and recovered, blinking back the scars opening in her. “Which is…?”

Ciarda pointed to the glass door leading back inside. “The Never’s evernet. The Library’s system. Cybil will help you.”

“Oh, well,” Lorelei stood straight, smoothed down her skirt, and smiled, just kindly to the doll. She had business to get to, evidently, and nothing else here. Time to move, as always. “Thank you. For the lesson, and the directions.”

“You’re welcome,” it said, staring.

Lorelei gave her a nod, turned to the door, and walked.

---

“She’s passed halfway.”

“Almost here, indeed. Sumiko?”

“Mm?”

“What do you think about her?”

“She’ll be important here. She may change quite a few things.”

“Next is Majoko, yes?’

“Correct. And?”

“Why don’t we make this more interesting?”

“A bet?”

“A game.”

“We’re already playing one. What else do you propose?”

“Why don’t we play with… them?”

“…You may have a point. Let’s begin.”

[kalliopeeleutherios]

Canard VII

Canard VII – I looked inside and saw only myself.

“I’m leaving.”

Lorelei’s words hit the table like a hammer. Her family, seated around it, stared at her in dead silence. Her father squinted, how he always did when he was suspicious; her mother glared, the wrinkles around her eyes crinkling sun-spots; her brothers, the pair of them, looked between each other and then down. They usually didn’t dare go against their big sister, let alone get in the middle of an incoming battle.

Now it was her father’s fist hitting the table. “No.” A word of judgment. “Your mother and I bought this farm for our family, and you aren’t gonna’ squander it.”

“We raised you, Lorelei,” her mother said, low and pleading, but her voice sharp, dangerous. “Does that mean anything t’ you?”

“A house,” her father went on, throwing a hand up in exasperation, “Work, money, estate—you think these things come easy? What’re you gonna’ do, whore yourself out like my damn ma’? You’re—”

“Leaving!” Lorelei threw her own hands onto the old carved wood between them. “I’m leaving’s what I’m doing! A house? Work? Who gives a goddamn shit!” She glared them down with no fury, but set steel. “Every day you work us t’ the bone, and every day we stay right where we are. Nothing gets better, and I’m not gonna’ spend my life on your dream!” She folded her arms. “I’m goin’ to the valley.”

Her mother gasped.

Her father spat, “You’ll be dead t’ me. Even if you don’t die there.”

“The Witch of the Valley will take me in,” Lorelei proclaimed, “Or I will die there. But I’m not spendin’ one more second fixing your stupid machines.”

Her father scratched his beard, an irritable gesture, and waved her off. “Then go die. I don’t got room in my life for an ungrateful brat.”

Her mother was holding her head in her hands as Lorelei turned.

“You didn’t have room for me anyway.”

And so, Lorelei walked forwards.

---

The room was dark. Yet, shadows played along the walls, dancing amidst lights that glared off various faceted gems; glittering black inlays to pillars that lined the hall, jagged diamond-like sculptures of keening women growing from the walls, wreathes of crystal roses, all colors, that glimmered with the dim lights cast by golden lanterns and candle-lit chandeliers hanging across the way.

Ahead was an ornate stone door, gothic in its rising spires and sharp angles, stained glass windows in it glowing opaquely. Lorelei looked behind her to see Morn with its hands in its pockets, giving her a nod forward. She nodded back, and faced front; no fear. She couldn’t afford it in this place. She paced forwards, heels tapping the dark stone floor, and reached out a hand to the door; it swung open at the gentlest touch, admitting her to an annex.

It was a room much like the hall before, though its ceiling-hung lanterns were a rainbow of colors, and its round edges were out of sight, shrouded in darkness, no pillars to be seen holding up the ceiling—which too was hidden, high above in the shade. As the tall doors swung silently closed behind her, Lorelei took some hesitant steps forwards, taking note of the rose pattern inlaid to the floor; reflective, like a mirror. She stared at herself in it a while. Something about it was captivating. Something about it was different.

No. There wasn’t only her reflection. There were countless. Countless of her, refracting across the rose. Lorelei stepped back—

She felt a shift in the emanation surrounding her, the weft of energy in the room. Suddenly, just before her, in the room’s center, was another door like the first, nothing backing it. She shook her head and came back to her senses; the Library wasn’t any stranger than things she knew.

Yet, this door. It called. Her reflections on the floor had entirely vanished, as if culminating into this portal. It seemed to beckon her to learn what was behind it. Behind…

Again, she shook her head, clearing it, and proceeded. The door came easily open at another touch, and she stepped through.

Lorelei’s heel landed on a stained glass step; and it seemed more proceeded down into an abyss, shadows lit only by the glowing staircase. But her footing was sure with every step down she went, no matter how far. And it was far; the spiraling stairs were endless in number.

But at last, she took one final step and arrived down onto a plane; infinitely-patched glass of countless hues, some beyond anything human eyes could see, stretched onwards. It formed a desert of mirror glass, peaks and towers of reflective pieces with vast webs of glittering strings running between them.

And ahead, in this clearing of the glass thicket, staring at the black void overhead, was a doll. Its hair was pale but shining mauve on one side, glittering blackberry-dark on the other, hanging long across its back and its foxen ears matching color, its tail a shifting swirl of both; it wore a long-coat, or perhaps more of a cloak, adorned and rimmed by crystalline raven feathers, like onyx in the floor’s glow.

“Can you see the stars?” It asked, back to her, its voice honey-smooth and dark.

Lorelei looked up. There was nothing, just blackness. “No. Nothing.”

“No,” it said. “Look.”

She stared more. Squinted. Opened her eyes wider. But as she relaxed her gaze, opened her mouth to give another negative, she saw it—a point of light. Another. Her mouth hung open as the sky lit-up with—not stars, she couldn’t dare call them that, but shining voids, swirling uncreation like nebulae of nonexistence, and among them all, countless shards of mirror glass hanging on threads, attached seemingly to nothing.

Lorelei turned her eyes down to the doll. It was facing her now, ruby eyes to her own crimson, and it was smiling faintly.

She walked towards it, collected swiftly, but curious. “What are they?”

“Nothing.” It turned the corners of its mouth up, slyly grinning. “Just like Us.”

“Us,” Lorelei repeated back. “The Heartless?”

The doll shifted its gaze back up at the heavens. “Why are you here?”

“I’m supposed to meet all the Quills,” she said. “Or it seems like it.”

It looked back down to her and hooded its eyes slightly, a flat expression across its porcelain face. “No,” it said. “Why are you here?”

With a sigh, Lorelei looked away. “I want to know the truth.”

“This one can show you,” it said, turning back to look out over the glass expanse. “But what will you do when you see it?”

“Hard to tell without knowing what it is.”

“You know,” it replied.

Lorelei swallowed, but pressed on. “Show me.”

The Quill stretched a finger; around it, a crystal thread shaped, and as it was pulled down, a shard of mirror came from high above to rest in front of Lorelei.

She looked into it—and her eyes went wide.

It was her. Yes, it was her, but not now. A robe of pure shadows coalesced around her form, a vast chaos like the void above her now, a wide-brimmed hat obscuring her eyes, dangling with countless extradimensional charms; in her hand was a blade like a long needle, dripping with darkness and unknowable magic. The image turned its eyes to meet hers.

In them was the reflection of corpses.

Lorelei fell back, hitting the ground as the glass shard evaporated into dust before her. “No— That’s not me, I’m not that, I’m…” she threw herself up off the ground, “I’m not a murderer!”

“In the Wing of Reflection,” the doll replied evenly, “We receive the dead’s stories and weave them into books.” It turned, pulling strings from across the room into a bundle between its hands, and there suddenly rested a tome. White, as if encased in marble, with a golden-etched title: Evangelus of Har.

She recoiled, grimacing, but then took a step and righted herself. “I defended myself. Because Vaen forced me,” she gritted.

“You chose to kill,” it said, “Because you wanted to live. You had the choice to die.”

“What kind of choice is that!”

“The kind you made.”

“But I’m not a killer,” she refused. “I’ll never be that.”

“Is it wrong?”

Lorelei blinked. “What?”

“Is it wrong to kill?” the doll repeated, shifting its ears forward to her, tucking the book under an arm.

“Is it ever not?” she shot back.

It rolled its free hand, “A wolf kills a deer. It wants to live, so it eats. A farmer slaughters a pig; he wants to live, so he eats.”

Nodding, Lorelei took in a breath and, more evenly, replied. “Sure. But that’s different from murder. War and violence.”

“Is it?” The Quill smirked faintly, its tail swaying. “A soldier wants his family to survive, so he defends his land. A knight wants to protect his world, so he kills a witch.”

“But the witch wasn’t about to destroy it,” she countered.

“And?” the doll said. “What if he simply wants to destroy her? What if she wants to destroy him? What if they cannot coexist?”

She folded her arms. “What if they can?”

It smirked in a deeply-teasing manner. “What, indeed? It’s been waiting to meet you, Lorelei.” The doll curtsied. “This one is Cynder Nevara Vana.”

She inclined herself back in greeting. “Is what the mirror showed… true?”

It chuckled, a rich and sultry sound. “The truth is only what we believe. What do you believe?”

“I believe,” she said, “That whether I was that or will be that, I’m not that now. And I don’t plan to be. I killed Evangelus to save myself and whatever other witch he might go after. And that’s all.”

“And,” Vana said, “Will you put your other desires ahead of other lives? Will you keep impressing your survival over others’?”

“I’ll do what I have to. I won’t be held down and I won’t be stopped. Because that’s… What I want.”

“A Witch is its wants,” Vana said, humming. There was a different power in that word.

Lorelei noticed it. “A Witch. You said that differently.”

“The Empyrean calls many unwanted arcanists ‘witches,’ but that is different. A Witch is a kind of being. A Heart,” it said.

“A Heart?”

“The concept. The nature of an existence,” Vana explained, swishing its tail. It let the book under its arm disappear into shadows. “A Witch is pure darkness. Desire, instinct, destruction, so on,” it chuckled.

“I don’t know,” Lorelei said, hands going to her hips. “I’m not sure I feel that dark.”

For a moment, Vana was silent, then held up a finger. It looked to its left as a hole in the air opened, a dark rift from which stepped another doll.

Another kitsune doll. This one had deep-purple hair, shimmering fine crystal, fluffy ears and tail to match, and was exceedingly short. “Sumiko. What is it?”

“Vana, in front of guests,” the other doll smirked.

The second turned to face Lorelei; its eyes bore into her, its expression uncannily flat. “Oh. Hello.”

“...Hi,” Lorelei decided, giving it a small wave. “Um, Sumiko?”

It was returned by a curtsy. “We were given personal names by Our creator. Sumiko is Vana’s.” Its tone was soft, as porcelain as its skin, but painfully empty.

“I see,” she nodded.

“Vana wants this one to assess your Heart. Come.” It pointed bluntly to the dark portal behind it.

Vana, for its part, turned away. “Go with this one’s sister,” it said. “It will see you again, dear Lorelei.”

Though she couldn’t help but take a nervous swallow, Lorelei started to follow. “Alright. Good to meet you,” she waved.

Vana only smirked as both Lorelei and its sister vanished into the swirling darkness.

This was going to be interesting, after all.