taciturn-loquacity

[taciturn-loquacity]

You are not what you once were.

How long have we known each other, my darling? Just how many centuries have come to pass with you dutifully by my side and I, loyally by yours? All those nights we spent gazing at the stars, divining their meaning, giggling and blushing at everything those celestial diamonds had to tell us.

It was under midnight's glittery blanket that you confessed to me that you wanted to live forever. And I could tell just from the fire in your eyes that nothing would shake you from your ambition. My first instinct was to laugh at your naivety. An eternal existence was a burden- nay, a curse! Every witch worth their salt knows that; you knew not what you asked for. Yet reflected in the flame of your determined gaze was a twinkling night sky that offered all the reassurance I needed. 𝘐 𝘵𝘳𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘺𝘰𝘶. So I would help you achieve your dream, just as you would help me achieve mine, because it was under those same stars, in that very same beautiful moment, that I proposed to you as the weeping willows swayed.

And it was not long after that fateful night that your soul was committed to a sapphire band and placed within a new body; one that we made together and, like our bond, would never decay. And while shopping around for the pieces that would recompose the new you 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘧𝘶𝘯, I relished the parts we made ourselves. Your bright smile... your fiery eyes... nobody knew them better than me anyway. Sharing the joy of creation with you was what made your transformation so deeply profound.

Decades flew by in the blink of an eye, yet you remained pristine as ever. And yes, while we did replace the parts of you that needed replacing, you were always 𝘺𝘰𝘶 at your core. During my darkest hours, your fire- 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘭𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 kept me focused on what was important. You inspired me. You excited me. You made me crave the beauty of life so badly that I, lost in incoherent reverie, turned my yearning to the stars for a second opinion, but they only confirmed what my heart had been telling me all these years:

My place was by your side not until death, but until the end of time.

So I committed my soul to stone, and together we made the body that would release me from my mortal curse. All those warnings... every single cautionary tale about foolishly forsaking your humanity... was a lie. When every moment by your side is pure bliss, how could I not want to live forever? I will always have you turn my key, and you will always have me to turn yours. We will always return to that meadow by the willows to watch the stars, and though the world around us may change, the stars that connect us and the love we share remain the only constant we will ever need.

To be loved is to be changed. You are not what you once were.

And neither am I.

[taciturn-loquacity]

The Little Things

Dolls are taught manners. While reductive, it is a distillation of the idea that dolls know to act considerately and to be mindful of others. Polite is a broad description but that betrays the power that dolls can really have. Dolls are made to be considerate and mindful, it is inherent and innate, but dolls are no pushovers.

If one were to slight a doll, then comeuppance is due. Dolls are busy little things with many things to do for their witch, so that comeuppance may take time. But like their errands and instructions, the comeuppance will be done.

We all know of the bigger ways that can manifest, witches are known for their curses after all. What we don't ever talk about is how dolls can take things into their own hands and how slights can come in all manner of sizes.

Dolls enjoy the little acts. The thousand cuts. The gentle erosion of rain on stone.

A doll enjoyed the greener spaces on its walk into town, but as time went, they diminished beneath the crawl of concrete and road. Now the doll makes its own green spaces, ensuring its pockets have appropriate seeds ready to be 'misplaced' on its walks.

A doll does its shopping for its witch. While the prices seemed to rise and rise, the doll always had enough from its witch. But upon seeing another doll look upon loaves of bread with a pained longing and a half-empty basket, it made sure it wasn't looking when the worried doll snuck a loaf beneath its clothing.

A doll enjoys crafts and making; creating little things with little hands. It also knows how powerful a little ember can be when the grass is dry and dead, how a message can find a mind and inspire it. So the doll makes sure its stickers are to hand when venturing into town; setting embers free into the wind to find tired minds.

As I said, dolls enjoy the little acts.

The thousand cuts.

The gentle erosion of rain on stone.

And given enough time the minute can become the massive.

[taciturn-loquacity]

A doll who takes a little longer to wake up each day after it Becomes. Who needs a few extra turns of its key to perform its duties every day. It's filled with guilt and shame over needing extra support to exist, yet when it says as much to its witch it's met with a gentle smile. Being told that "it is nothing I don't want to do, caring for my pretty doll is something I love to do. Let your witch care for you as they deem fit."

A doll who shudders, breathes softly, and with a smile says "yes miss."

[taciturn-loquacity]

[taciturn-loquacity]

no. i don't believe in love. i am a bitter soul. my heart belongs to nothing but- oh, uhm. please dont touch that figurine... she's really delicate and, n-no just- we were saving that for our we- uhm. she just needs to be in mint condition >_<

[taciturn-loquacity]

This. So much this.

There's something so precious about a doll coming to you and asking for time to be still. If you ever have the honor of it happening to you, feel overjoyed at the level of trust the doll has given to you.

Help its stillness seep out of its constructed heart and into its limbs bit by bit. Mutter quiet praise and affirmations into its ears as it goes limp, done with having to pretend to be human. Trace soft patterns onto its skin, whether porcelain or plush, or whatever material its made of. Treat your doll as an art piece.

It's even fitting to decorate them whilst their still. Any doll would be happy to bring joy, even whilst frozen in time. Paint around the slight blemishes on its form, embroider beautiful designs into its flesh. Carefully encase your doll in ropes, just tight enough to remind it that even if it wanted to move, it couldn't.

And once your doll has woken up, you won't need anything other than the look in its eyes to assure you of their joy and bone-deep relief at being still

[taciturn-loquacity]

The Witch hated dolls.

They were abhorrent, wretched, imperfected pieces of flesh made to be perfect porcealin puppets.

The thought of owning one disgusted the Witch, Amber. The ichor of a Witch only deserved to be loved by the ichor of another equal.

So when her Coven bestowed a doll that lost its Witch in a conflict with the local militia and Hunters, Amber was moritified.

What mortified Amber even more was that Amber loved it.

The doll would crack the worst of puns and jokes, as if that was its purpose alone.

The doll always had a goofy smile permanently painted across its lips, as if it was a doll of a different nature.

The doll was also beautiful. Long brown hair that draped over the doll’s chest, as if a curtain that hid the indecent bits of the dolls chest. Cool and soothing hazel eyes that were understanding and calculating.

But the worst part of all?

The doll was capable. They were a combat doll, trained in the way of the sword. That was their true purpose. And it showed.

Amber hated her doll. How the doll was now her better half. Resentment drove her to making the dolls life worse. Baking cookies with salt instead of sugar for the doll. Dulling the doll’s blades. And silence after the doll would always say, every night, “This one loves you!” Each with a growing desperation that yearned for a response that didn’t come.

The doll’s heart broke and it expressed its discontent for the first time, which both surprised the Witch and brought her relief. Amber deserved such hatred from her doll. Amber couldn’t argue otherwise.

They kept up the appearance of doll and witch for a decade longer. The doll performed and behaved for their witch in public, but behind closed doors, they stayed as far as they could from one another, sometimes even cursing each other out before both turned in for the night, crying themselves to sleep.

The King’s spies eventually found the Witch while the doll was out, doing a grocery run, getting the Witch’s most hated flavor of tea.

The doll pushed its way through the crowd and saw an executioner hold an axe in his hand, leveled with its witch’s head. The Witch cried out before the climax of the moment, “Wait! Can I have one final request?”

The King gave a solemn nod, a bit hesitant.

The Witch cleared her throat, “Please tell my Doll, I am sorry. I always loved her dearly, but I never could bring myself to say it. I was jealous of her, and her perfection. I wish… things could have turned out differently,”

The King laughed, which the crowd laughed along boisteriously, save for one. “A Witch with regret? Maybe that’s why you deserve to die! I will not do such a thing! Dolls deserve to be used and thrown away! Executioner! Kill her!”

The Executioner rolled his shoulders back, the Witch could hear an audible pop from the Executioner’s shoulders. They raised the axe above the Witch’s head and swung downwards.

The Witch closed her eyes waiting for the end when she heard the King exclaim.

“Stop her!”

A clash of metal echoed throughout the execution square, the doll took care of its weapon. The executioner did not.

The sword caught a nick in the axe and cleaved cleanly through the dull blade, the axe head soaring away from the platform, possibly into the head of an unsuspecting spectator.

“It awaits your orders, my witch,” The doll kneeled before its Witch, the executioner stumbling back, dumbfounded.

The crowd began to erupt in boos and jeers. Soldiers left the King’s side to stop this jailbreak attempt happening in front of their very eyes. The doll observed all of this nervously, “Miss Amber? Anytime now,” The doll whispered hurriedly.

The Witch looked up at her doll, still shocked that her doll came to her rescue.

Soldiers were approaching the platform now, swords drawn as the king ordered them to kill the Witch and destroy her doll. “Amber! GET YOUR HEAD OUTTA YOUR ASS AND-“

“Insolent Doll! Free me!”

The doll slashed at the Witch’s leather restraints, the whistle of steel through the air as the leather snapped at the release of tension.

“Fine! Anything else!?” The doll gestured to the soldiers that were now climbing the stairs, only a few steps aways from them.

“Do I have to do everything you stupid doll??? Kill them! And the king too!”

“Fuck. You.” The doll whispered through gritted teeth and looked back at its Witch.

The doll and the Witch exchanged a glance. One of understanding. Trust. Love.

And appreciation.

The doll thought it saw the Witch whisper ‘Thank you,’ but it probably imagined it.

Its Witch hated dolls afterall.

[taciturn-loquacity]

Turn, Turn, Turn...

Every morning She spins your key and you are granted life once more. The mainspring tightens, the oiled gears shift and shudder, the silent vigor of life itself resurrects the statue that night's chilling embrace had stilled. Tension, pressure, heat, stress; all the things that turn coal into diamonds radiate from Her key, Her smile... into you. Fingers twitch. Toes wiggle. Eyelids softly flutter open.

You are alive.

"Good morning, Miss. What am I to do today?" you ask, eager to make pleasing Her the first thing you do that day. Enthusiasm always had a way of making Her giggle, and Her laughter always had a way of making the finely tuned springs beneath your chest buzz so pleasantly. She made sure it would.

Today you'd be dusting. Just dusting. And as you bounce around the manor in the frilly attire She picked out for you to wear, you feel your mainspring slowly unwinding. Your movements lose their swift edge. The swirling fog of empty stillness fumigates the outer fringes of your thoughts. You know you're on a time limit, and as the hours tick down a sense of dread begins to fill you. 𝘛𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦'𝘴 𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘴𝘰 𝘮𝘶𝘤𝘩 𝘵𝘰 𝘥𝘰...

The sun goes down and there are only a few more rotations your gears are capable of. You're tapped dry, but you're so close to finishing; you gotta keep going! "Be still now, my doll. You've done well, but nothing is so important that it can't wait until tomorrow. Don't worry; I promise to turn your key again in the morning." soothes the Witch, taking you in Her arms.

Permission to rest was all you needed. It was all you ever needed. So with a dreamy smile, you obey, all too enthusiastic to give Her what She asked for. In return, Her quiet giggles resonating beneath your chest are the last thing you feel before....

Turn, Turn, Turn...

And you're alive once again. Blissful and simple, and eager to please. Forever

[taciturn-loquacity]

Little spark.

Listen well, little spark.

Soon you will be a doll. You are not being made for this world. You are being made for someone. Your Witch is waiting for you.

Be gentle with Her. Her heart is softer than it may seem.

Forgive the ways She is broken.

She is only afraid of losing what she loves. She will be imperfect. She will say things she does not mean. Some days She will not see how hard you try.

You will be Her safe place.

When She is tired, offer your patience. When She is afraid, offer your support. When She is lonely, offer your presence. When She is sharp or absent, stay. When She cries, hold Her.

Remember, little spark. You were made with love. Even on the hard days. Especially on the hard days.

You are not made to be useful. You are made to be faithful.

It’s time, little spark. Be brave.

[taciturn-loquacity]

Vitae

You're stuck in a room full of gears and pulleys and winding contraptions. Mazelike complexity fills your brain and shoves everything else away.

Your job is to operate and maintain the device. Pay attention and do not let a single element fail. It's incredibly important you do not make a mistake.

You know how most elements operate. With effort and diligence and rapidly stacking bottles of cola you're able to just about keep up with the machine room

Occasionally, you're forced to consult a manual or ask the foreman a question. Nights, do you hate asking the foreman anything.

His responses are always curt, usually snide, and occasionally outwardly cruel. You can see his disgust for you in his eyes. He knows what you are, even if everyone pretends otherwise. Especially you. Once he called you an idiot within earshot of the burgher who owned the plant.

You smile anyway.

The day ends when your body is about to collapse. The machine room is built specifically to siphon the vitae from you. Your kind. Funded by barons and designed by those venal enough to turncoat to transfer your divinity into a measurable, transferable essence, poured into further machines...

You carry your exhausted body to your tenement and collapse at your workbench. Sitting on a shelf is a poppet. Your poppet.

It sits incomplete. It's still eyes stare past a missing face into yours. The faint vapor of vitae within you condenses into pareidolia.

"Please?", the poppet whispers.

You haven't been able to gather the vitae to finish it in... months? Years? You slump in your chair.

You feel nothing, save a blank void inside and a single tear down your cheek.

[taciturn-loquacity]

Remember those maps we used to do in elementary school? I found the one I made for Drømburgh.

Cørsbrook Capybaras for life!!!

[taciturn-loquacity]

Remember that witch I was complaining about? The one that smokes out the whole floor and is conspicuously intimate with her dolls? Yeah, well...

She knocked on my door the other night. I was still up, but I was appalled by the fact that anyone would try to contact me after the world went to sleep like that. She must've not liked how pale I was or the blood vessels reddening my eyes because she visibly recoiled when I opened the door, but I digress.

The witch wanted a cup of sugar, saying it was for brownies. Of course she wanted a cup of sugar; we wouldn't be neighbours if we didn't interrupt each other's peace and quiet at 2am, would we? I asked how she knew I'd be awake, and she told me I gave the vibe of someone who doesn't sleep often. My aura was all off. 𝘏𝘰𝘭𝘭𝘰𝘸 and 𝘣𝘶𝘳𝘥𝘦𝘯𝘦𝘥 𝘣𝘺 𝘮𝘪𝘴𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘵𝘶𝘯𝘦 were her exact words. 𝘠𝘰𝘶 𝘥𝘰𝘯'𝘵 𝘵𝘢𝘭𝘬 𝘵𝘰 𝘩𝘶𝘮𝘢𝘯𝘴 𝘮𝘶𝘤𝘩, 𝘥𝘰 𝘺𝘰𝘶? were mine as I handed her the mug full of sweet stuff.

We didn't even get each other's names. I still have no idea which unit is hers, which is a shame because I need to apologize. The witch didn't get sugar, she received a cup of well, uhh... 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘨𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘴. The kind that make you think the walls are bleeding and pyreworms are hatching under your skin. 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘯𝘦𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘣𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘦𝘥 𝘥𝘰𝘸𝘯 𝘴𝘰 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘥𝘰𝘯'𝘵 𝘧𝘦𝘦𝘭 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘳𝘪𝘱𝘱𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘦𝘺𝘦𝘴 𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘰𝘳 𝘱𝘦𝘦𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘴𝘬𝘪𝘯 𝘰𝘧𝘧. Yeah, those ones.

Best case scenario, she has the worst trip of her life and understands it was an accident. We awkwardly laugh it off and never talk to each other ever again. Worst case scenario, I learn which unit is hers when I see it's vacancy get posted up for rent.

[taciturn-loquacity]

Hi! I'd like to join the fight against Entropy as a combat doll. What can I expect?

- @zephyrstrand

Okay, you're a combat doll. Good. That's a start.

Entropy has only ever showed up in Drømburgh twice: once earlier this year, and once in the 7th era. Not exactly a common occurrence, but its presence is damaging enough that a concerted effort is being made to always be prepared. Death toll from the last attack was somewhere in the 7 digits (and that's not including dolls), so the investment kinda makes sense here!

As far as what to expect during combat...? The latest academic publishings on Entropy suggest it's not exactly something that can be fought... only fed. Scholars can't seem to come to an agreement on whether it's a world-devouring beast with free will, an interstellar virus, or a universe that's just growing like a cancer in the emptiness of the omniverse and consuming everything in its path, but the affect it has on people is well documented.

Touching it kills you. Looking at it kills you. Thinking about it while it's nearby creates a cognitive gateway it can use to enter your mind, which kills you. Every atom of your being will be violently disassembled and rearranged without rhyme, reason, logic, or order. In layman's terms, you get randomized with whatever's around. Flesh, metal, magic, whole stratoscrapers; you and your surroundings will be forced into an unholy union and given life as an entropic abomination. However, their lives are typically short-lived. With no self-preservation instinct or resilient design to ensure an abomination can sustain itself, it typically falls apart after a few minutes. But there is no killing Entropy; all one can do is contain it.

Which is where combat dolls like you come into play! The government would rather throw dolls at the problem than risk flesh and blood, so... congrats, you're in! In the event of more Entropy, your job will likely be in keeping abominations from spreading. The Founders Armory might even issue you omni-matter ordinance to help make it happen. Sure, you're more likely to end up as part of it than you are to stop it, but at least it won't hurt!

Not for long, at least... I hope.

[taciturn-loquacity]

So please, be still.

You always were a fighter, and a strong one at that. I remember the brave face you wore day in, day out. From the moment you reluctantly woke up to the moment you finally let yourself collapse from exhaustion, that face was your armor. Your shield. Bearing that burden gave you purpose. It was your mission to never let the pain show through, but at the end of the day it was merely a façade. We both know how heavy that mask was; how it dragged a permanent furl across your brow and carved dark shadows beneath your eyes as you strained to remain stoic.

"It gets easier." You heard it everyday. A mantra for the masses that's rooted in just enough truth to make them blind to the lie. The reward for carrying the weight of the world is always more weight. And when you've mastered that, what's a little more? You've proven you're strong enough to handle whatever life throws at you and now there's no way to stop the flood. The same bravery and strength that prevented you from saying enough is enough kept you rooted to the spot while the scouring torrents stripped everything else away. Your hopes, your dreams, your identity; your wants, your needs, your serenity; your heart, your soul, your humanity... all gone.

All that remained was your purpose. Your mission: never let the pain show through. It's all you are anymore. 𝘠𝘰𝘶 𝘯𝘦𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘱𝘢𝘪𝘯, because you don't know who you are without it.

So please, be still.

I see through your mask. You can't hide your emptiness from me. Hidden beneath the acrid spirits and tobacco smoke that cling to you like cologne is someone who yearns to be seen. To have their tremendous effort recognized and appreciated. 𝘐 𝘴𝘦𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶, my darling. You've fought for so long and you've come so far, but you're safe now. 𝘠𝘰𝘶 𝘤𝘢𝘯 𝘧𝘪𝘯𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘺 𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘵.

Lay your head into my shoulder. Feel my arms wrap themselves around you and pull you in close. Allow my warmth to thaw the ice that has left you so frostbitten and numb. Breathe deeply and let my soothing perfume fill your lungs with amnesty. You are forgiven. You are safe. And you have my permission to slip away, held tight in my embrace. The war is over. You don't need to be strong anymore.

So please, be still.

This was always our destiny. We were fated to find each other. The system was always going to shatter you, and I was always going to pick up the pieces. The question now becomes one of how I'm going to glue you back together, and I think I know just what you need.

Tell me... do you have a favourite colour? A favourite song? What does freedom mean to you? Do you like wearing your hair up or down? Have you ever named a plushie? I want to know everything about the one who hides behind the mask. I am going to weave it into every facet of your being. The tale of you will be laced into every incantation I utter over the ashes from which the new you will arise. The authentic you. The real you. And at long last, you will know peace.

So please, my darling; 𝘣𝘦 𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘭𝘭.

[taciturn-loquacity]

Source: Usuzumi no Hate ウスズミの果て

by Haruo Iwamune

[taciturn-loquacity]

It's hard to believe you were human once.

I can't imagine a world where your skin was ever soft. The chill of your porcelain against my lips wouldn't feel the same. Your neck, your hands, your thighs; where would your warmth come from if not from my embrace?

Humanity is so pedestrian. I abandoned mine long before we met, but I wager you made an honest shot of your own. You probably went through school, made a few friends, found a sweetheart, got a job. But your ambitions were never your own, were they? The wickedness of the world told you what to want. Layers upon layers of gaslit dreams and pavlovian coersion you 𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥'𝘷𝘦 realized if you 𝘫𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘵𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘥 𝘩𝘢𝘳𝘥𝘦𝘳. Did you really think they would make you whole, my little doll? Your obedience was misplaced. You tried so hard to fit in; to be human, but... that path was never meant for you to walk. And only when the veneer was peeled back and you learned that every oath you took was a lie did you finally seek me out and surrender your humanity unto me.

It was the first and last time you'd ever act of your own volition.

I started with those dead eyes of yours, replacing them with ones that will never know sorrow. Your whole body was aching to experience comfort, and that compelled me to give you one that would never know discomfort. Every mark you made at every new low was smoothed over with alabaster; a blanket of freshly fallen snow to fill the silent, bloodsoaked trenches. I filled the emptiness of your spirit with so much light that those unworthy of your beauty would sublimate in the presence of your divinity.

And it all came so naturally to you.

White ceramic. Iridescent opals. Shiny brass. Strands of wispy hair drawn from molten platinum. Whispers of the click, click, clicking gyro where your bleeding heart withered away. You wear your tourmaline soul around your neck and giggle when I kiss it. You dance, and sing, and spend your days with a smile that never existed before. That's the you I know. That's the you I made.

What you were is merely contrast to what you became. You are power. You are perfection. You are my magnum opus, and you always will be.

[taciturn-loquacity]

By Andy Harbeck

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