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киса

Первопост

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It spoke your name on the stairs that night.

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Andrei Tarkovsky

Stalker (1979)

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the signs do be kinda vibin doe 👀👉👈😳✊👊🖐️🥺🥺

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Ball lightning while visiting a parking lot… Ball lightning is a rare phenomenon described as luminescent, spherical objects that vary from pea-sized to several meters in diameter....

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Begins the Mass

A little thing to bridge between seasons/holidays in the Schwarzwald. Nothing big. Always wanted to write some part of the Mass but never had the opportunity to think about its details. So have the bit where it starts.

CLANN revisits as inspiration.

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Midwinter is winding down in Central.

The Wolf knows celebrations will likely continue further into the night for the other towns and the many hamlets, but Central has begun to lower its lights, so to speak. The festivities have quieted with the solemn sending of the yearly tribute toward the Inner Circle, where the heart of their Zone resides. It is a quiet and reverent affair, with lines of carts and escorts atop Fracture Eaters trekking with heads bowed and thanks like prayers murmured into the night alongside the light of low lanterns so as not to set off the wandering Patrol Trees. A ghostly procession, the members of which will not be seen until the next morning.

There is a low wind over the harbor, mixing with the tangy smell of fish below the surface and the sounds of humming splashing as the boats play and entertain among themselves. Moonlight glints in slivered rays through holes in their protective canopy off their gossamer sails as they flap them, off the crests of waves around them. An almost dreamy sight. 

There is a clatter of the stringed lanterns hung in crisscrossed patterns over streets and the main square, offering a haunting bit of backlighting over frosty structures and a few rogue snowdrifts of a recent winter storm. They are barely more than ambiance in sight and sound, illuminating the few forms of revelers still out and about, milling between inns and taverns where distant sounds of continued celebration can be heard, muffled through doors and windows and walls.

The smell of the harbor mingles with the sharp cold air of winter in her nose, and for a moment, The Wolf takes stock of her senses around her from the center of the main square. Closing her eyes, she can still see all points of nearby activity through hearing and she imagines walking the street and watching through windows and open doors human activity where it parallels none outside those thresholds. She opens her eyes slowly when a familiar smell interrupts her thoughts.

Clove-soaked tobacco. Earthy in its undertone, sweet in the over with a faint hint of spice.

The glow off her eyes catches wisps of smoky tendrils rising from the cup of her pipe clenched in her teeth, sparks of faint light before they’re gone. She did not light the pipe. She knows what it means.

Change is coming.

A new year with the procession making its way deeper into the confines of the trees they all make their home would incite change. But they are not yet at their destination, she knows. No, this is something else. Something nearby she has been ignoring for deeper familiar ambiance in her surroundings.

There is a grumbling creak of massive trees, a whispered call only she can hear flowing around her head into her ears. It is not her mother’s voice. Schwarzwald herself remains silent in all the noise. More hushed whisperings mingled in the groaning of wood, but these are not the trees. These are the wraiths that live among them, control them and provide of and for them. 

The Merchants’ Guild is preparing to move. The Mass is beginning.

It starts with a single low note that rattles her down to the ground she stands on, echoes through her chest into her feet. Like a horn to warn others they are moving, alongside the cracks and creaks of wooden joints that have not moved in a little over two weeks becoming mobile again. The first steps are taken, the feel of the entire weight of hundreds of thousands of tons of living wood felt in the encompassing boom of the first roots shifting up and putting down.

The Guild’s trees move slowly at first, a lethargic pace while the movement unfreezes the wood and gains momentum. Each new step renews the purpose of motion and before long, elegant arches of wooden tendrils block out her view of the sky above with crackling masses of the monoliths passing soon after, displaced air in the sheer monstrousness of the building momentum ruffling her hair and clothing, pulling her pipe’s smoke in its wake. She catches the silhouettes of bridges and structures built across the higher boughs and tethering the gigantic parade together as they make their way to the harbor.

The playful boats scatter like frightened minnows as soon as the first of the trees splashes down, massive waves rising and crashing against the shore and over piers and up the sides of sleeping boats moored to their place for the night. The cacophony of clicking boats angered by being forced to wake so early against the creaking and splashing as the rest of the Guild’s pack of trees follow their leader into the harbor and begin to wade across it is almost overwhelming, and The Wolf has to break her stoic stillness to put some distance between her and the events unfolding.

Her relocation is brief, as she returns soon after the exodus of trees has gone far enough away that the disturbed boats stop reprimanding them and begin to fall silent once more. The startled younger boats have slowly begun to filter back into the main harbor body to resume their games. 

The shadows of the Merchants’ Guild are fading into the gloom the further they get from shore, beginning the month-long Merchants’ Mass. They will recruit all who would give up their pure humanity to the Zone, a proprietor of the local economy and ferryman of goods. It is a process and a sacrifice not even The Wolf would be willing to give, despite her standing and her own sacrifices. A Guide gives their life, but they are still human in the end. A person gives their existence, their very essence, to be reborn into the wraith-like Merchants.

As the smoke peters from the pipe on the Guild’s leave, The Wolf does not envy the Mass.

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Castle // Drabble

~PLAYLIST: x x x x ~

Someone reminded me that there are almost a hundred different castle sites in the Schwarzwald region, although only a handful are suitable for tourists. The rest are old ruins they’ve identified, most of those from before the unification of the kingdoms and territories.

An immigrant from the old blog, with some terminology and grammar changes to match the current lore.

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The doors in front of her look like they are barely on their hinges when The Wolf climbs the crumbling stone steps to them, checking over her shoulder at her charge. A small cluster of five Zoners make up an odd circle behind her, making sure they face every inch and corner of the courtyard. They are hunters, having asked Schwarzwald permission before to help cull the Cherub population, but are currently keeping company with the stalker until the trees pass by below.

They know she is safe to be with, Schwarzwald favors her as it does all its Guides and will give her and all with her passage. It is not greed, they have assured the ancient oak and beech and pine, it is survival only that they cling to the Guide, knowing that only a Guide ordained by the Zone can open the Castles safely.

They still dot the landscape, of course. It would take more than a simple alien landing to topple over, and Schwarzwald seems to like them enough to keep them intact on their ominous crags and hills. So long as the stairs and paths are intact on the way up, there is nothing to fear in sharing their same space.

Seeing all are present, The Wolf turns and regards the old doors again. They are still sturdy, even while their hinges rusted through. The swollen wood will prove no problem for the Castle itself. She raises a hand and knocks hard on one panel, three times, heavy enough to hear echoes in the chambers beyond. Then, she takes a step back and waits.

She doesn’t have to wait long. The stones begin to creak and groan, from the structure itself to those lining the courtyard to the crumbling walls around that. It is a sound that encompasses, makes the inner ear and chest space rattle. It sounds like this is the only sound in the entire world, that it is the entire world. Needless to say, it is asking who has come calling.

To anyone unaccustomed, it sounds like old wood settling, at a volume that could make one worry about the aged wooden supports holding the structure up. To an ordained Guide, however, there are voices beneath the groan. Sometimes, it’s just a few, sometimes there are too many to count, but there are always more than one overlapping in whispers.

Thankfully, Hohengeroldseck is a fairly friendly old creature, fond of the memory of human energy from before the Landing. Its greeting is enough to say that, a murmured pleasantry to its favorite of the Guide children only she can hear.

“Good day, and sorry to disturb you. The trees are migrating through here. Is it alright if my companions and I use you as shelter? We will not stay long.” she asks, looking up to focus on any window within view. Like looking someone in the eye to portray sincerity, even if the eyes are scattered all across the surface of the face.

It groans, it whispers, and the hunters move closer toward her nervously, unsure of the Castle’s temperament. It’s probably better that way, really. A fear of the old beasts of ruins is healthy and keeps those who can’t hear them from insulting them unintentionally.

They only hear one half of the exchange, but it seems to go well. “…Oh, is there a storm rolling in? … From the north-east? I see… I suppose we could keep you company until it passes, if you will have us … Yes. Yes, we can keep your conditions, and you may have anyone who refuses to do so. Thank you.”

She is certain her charge will respect the old Castle’s rules, and her assurances are enough for it to allow them entry. With a click, the doors open and grind across the floor, and once the stalker passes the threshold with no consequence, the other five are close behind. Once everyone is inside, the doors shut and lock with an encompassing boom, drowning the party in a temporary darkness.

She hears the hunters shuffle uncomfortably beside her. “Stay close.” she warns them. “If you don’t, it won’t let you go.”

They don’t stray as told, but their nervousness is tangible as a vibrating energy in the blackened entry. The sound of a groan echoes through the building, followed by a brief inexplicable ticking noise, and the room blazes into existence as ornate wall sconces light the path of a corridor in front of them.

For an old ruin that looks like it hasn’t changed on the outside, the inside is surprisingly well-furnished. The walls around and ahead of them are fine plaster with a raw wood-grain wainscot, the floor is a dark oak herringbone. It looks maintained and polished, like it has always been this way. She knows this is not the case. She knows the history of this old ruin and understands what is happening here.

“Stay close to me, keep your eyes on me.” she instructs. “Don’t look around, and especially don’t try to peek in the doors.”

Muttered acceptance is given from the others and she walks forward, dull footfalls on the wooden floor thudding into the hall. The walls are pocked with dark doorways, yawning abysses where no light shines and the occasional shuffle or scrabble of movement emanates. Even the light from the sconces ends abruptly in the door frames, sharp lines of contrast between warmth and unending cold on the thresholds. Although curiosity grips the Zoners, they know better than to defy a Guide when warning is given, and so she feels five pairs of eyes on her back at all times.

Sound changes in the corridor, sharp as nails on a concrete floor at some points, pockets where there is no sound at all. Castles are, in their own way, like Zones themselves, acting independently of that which creates them. They think for themselves and create their own elaborate trap systems and take their own retribution. This hallway is the first and easiest trap of Hohengeroldseck, and The Wolf is sure it will change by the time she returns here.

Her charges have not lifted their eyes from her once that she knows of. A quick glance over one shoulder assures her that all of them are still there, and not one of them has drifted or been stolen. Zoners are fairly keen to the ways of the Zone and tend to listen to Guides, however. There is little worry they would disappear when warned.

The hallway ends, the same sharp boundary line carved into the floor as the doors along the walls behind them. The sound of the sconces behind them shutting off slowly causes a shuffle of panic amid the Zoners. They place their hands on her shoulders and back as though using her as an anchor to something real. They are scared, and rightfully so when the darkness returns, the sound of creaking wooden supports permeating the abyss around them growing more and more deafening. Another test, another trap. Something quick and simple, if disorienting, before they are given the prize. Such is the nature of Zones, and as an extension, the Castles as well.

The sconces light, but not behind them. They will not go back using that hallway, it is dangerous now. Before them is a room. It is large and octagonal, the same plaster and wainscot walls with a vaulted ceiling held by strong curved supports and the polished wood floor. A stairway curves up one side with narrow slit windows covered in stained glass. A fireplace in the far wall blazes to life, the chandelier in the ceiling lights. It is a cozy space, a feel of calmness hanging over it with its rugs and low seats and a stack of bedding in one corner. When counted, there are five sets for five hunters.

“Hohengeroldseck has chosen to give you shelter and safety for the duration of the storm rolling in.” She translates the conditions of the Castle ruin given her earlier, letting her sense of gravity re-establish itself from the dizzying trip between rooms. “Its only condition is that you five never leave this room. It will provide comfort, provided you are not impolite.”

Sighs of relief and confirmation of the conditions are replied in every mouth, and slowly, they flutter like a flock of birds to rest at the fireplace, accenting their short trek with giving thanks to the walls and to the floor and to the fire. Anything they associate with the Castle is given thanks before they settle for good.

The Wolf has faith they will do as told, and that all five will be there waiting when she comes to get them. Guides rarely stay with those they enter with when in Castles. The old ruins ask for company, and only the Guides know how to give that company. As soon as she sees the Zoners made comfortable, the wall behind her slides open and she exits through it as bade.

The groaning whispers are back as the wall shuts behind her. Asking where it is she would like to stay, to sleep, to talk.

“I would like to watch the storm, if that’s alright.”

Confirmation, another wall sliding to one side in front of her to offer her passage to a crumbling stone stairway, narrow enough she has to turn slightly to climb up it. The walls here are made of stone, broken and fractured but still standing sturdy. This is the true face of the Castle, the ruin.

She looks down through a split in the wall, at the way the wooden supports are quietly mending and weaving over themselves, a slow process. Hohengeroldseck is slowly, but surely, rebuilding itself to reflect its glorious past. The room the hunters are staying in is real, it is merely a part of an unexplainable labyrinth the Castle has built up for itself, a form of defense. It is not the center of the labyrinth, however, and there are still many corridors and halls and tunnels that branch off it. If they all stay in that room, they will be safe and not get lost.

She arrives at the top of the stairs, the stone walls cloaking her movement. Holes in them brought on by age are also rebuilding, just as slowly as the wood separating floors below. It’s more subtle with masonry, her diligent eyes picking up on the crackle and shift of blocks and brick slotting together. Where it gets the materials is a mystery, but not one anyone is truly eager to solve.

She reaches her destination, a small outcrop that might have been a window seat at one point. The ornamental stonework remains, carved around the window wells to protect past masters in imagery of eagles and gryphons, worn and pocked by time and the elements before the Landing. Through the glassless windows here, she can see Schwarzwald below.

A herd of the trees, likely the one they were initially avoiding, is making an obvious path below, scuttling along as the trees do on their root systems. They will not come near the hill that the Castle sits on. Nothing comes to the Castles besides desperate Zoners and the faithful Guides.

A few clearings can be seen from her vantage, the glimmer of artificial light denoting four hamlets and one on the far curve that is Central, settled on its glittering harbor. But that is not what she is looking for.

The horizon a short ways off is dark and broiling with streaks of vibrant green veins, the storm the ruin warned her of. She can see the flashes of light within the folds, hear distant thunder. The wind is starting to blow over the Zone below, upsetting the canopy like hard waves on a green sea. The trees surrounding the hamlets and town start to bow further forward, creating an umbrella over each. They are protecting their people against the incoming onslaught of weather, readying to catch heavy rain and hail threatening them and their precious crops.

The Wolf settles in the frame of the window in front of her, resting her arsenal and equipment to one side carefully. It isn’t long now…

Hohengeroldseck doesn’t speak much now that she is in her place. It will simply enjoy her presence and alert her if anything goes wrong with the hunters in their room. The groaning creak has ceased altogether, even when the headwind hits the ancient structure. It carries the smell of freezing water and heavy ozone, a chill ruffle of her loose hairs in its embrace, the loud crack of thunder and lightning drowning out the ambient clink and grind of the masonry placing itself. The rain begins to patter, large drops darkening the pale stone more with each passing second.

In a way, it is humbling. A reminder that even a Zone is not exempted of something so primal as nature’s fury.

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CLANN -- Welcome the Storm

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Artwork by Sophie Lecuyer.

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Another day another what the fuck

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VNV Nation -- At Horizon's End

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Versant -- Out of Touch

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Faffing about and rereading some details for Schwarzwald Ver2.1 and I kind of want to tell The Mutt's story, as his is probably the most tragic of the Guide family.

The TL:DR of it is that The Mutt is a Zoner. For those not in the know, it means he was born in a little hamlet in the Schwarzwald, in the heart of his Zone. He had a name of his own once, but he has since forgotten it in lieu of his nickname instead.

His hamlet had an Oma, and though they knew she was a manifestation of Mother Schwarzwald, they took good care of her as they would a normal living human being, not unusual for a hamlet with an Oma. Having an Oma in residence attracted The Vogelweide to them, and he did what he does best; demanded a week-long feast and festival, and then challenged a local girl to sing the duet with him. But the local girl was a vain thing and refused, which made the anomaly angry and he went to devour the Oma as is his nature.

Which is where Mutt comes in.

Mutt put himself between his Oma and Vogelweide and pleaded for the resident anomaly, attempting to stop The Vogelweide by grabbing his hurdy-gurdy. Which sent Vogelweide into a rage, a manifestation of greed and selfishness, and he did something no one thought possible. But anomalies are born of Zones and Zones are unpredictable, none moreso than Schwarzwald and her faerie stories. So he took Mutt's soul and left in a furious storm, leaving the hurdy-gurdy and the empty shell behind, but also leaving the Oma still in residence.

Omas are Schwarzwald, and Schwarzwald has great power when sacrifices in her name are made. Mutt's death was seen as such a sacrifice in his loyalty to his Mother Zone that she pinned the wrathful anomaly down outside of his range and wrestled part of the soul back, confining it to the hurdy-gurdy left behind and reviving that part of Mutt in her name. His Gift is the gift of Loyalty, though the conditions for it makes it more of a curse than a gift. The hurdy-gurdy is both his soul and his Tell artifact, humming on its own when something changes in Schwarzwald.

The Mutt cannot be without the hurdy-gurdy for long, as it is what anchors his half-soul to his body and this plane. When it is just Mutt, he discovers he can only play the instrument at intermediate levels, as he had never known how to play one before this. However, when he is in range of The Vogelweide, the half of his soul still in possession of the vicious anomaly reveals itself and he channels the thing's ability to play it with unearthly skill, making him the only mortal in existence who can properly fight against and balance out The Vogelweide, much to the anomaly's dismay.

And yes. This is the TL:DR and the reason why The Vogelweide no longer carries a hurdy-gurdy, despite its namesake being well-known for playing one. I might write out the whole thing, since I've been working slowly through developing the Guide family. We'll see.

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FAUN -- Lament

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Trainwreck Going off the deep end

Casuals finished last night, plus some detailing extras. The new scanner does wonders and miles better for quality honestly, and the bed light caught the reflective ink I used in her eyes splendidly. Decided against backgrounds/detailed backgrounds for both of the new references to give a chance to show off details without them being muddled against an environment, so we'll get a sense of Floor and that's about it.

Wulf is finally resting after her last foray, minding the tavern and dropping those Universal Truths on people. Waiting for the time her mother Zone nearby yanks that chain again and drags her into those forested depths...

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Every third night, at the witching hour, it crosses the fields by the radio tower.