#Cipher-Naught

[readingwithwrin]

Beard in Mind by Penny Reid | Book Review

Title: Beard In Mind Author: Penny Reid Publisher: Cipher-Naught Published Date: July, 2017 Genre: Contemporary, Romance Source: Library Rating: ★ ★ ★ ★ Goodreads Summary: All is fair in love and auto maintenance. Beau Winston is the nicest, most accommodating guy in the world. Usually. Handsome as the devil and twice as charismatic, Beau lives a charmed life as everyone’s favorite…

[snitling]

Well to be honest it looks like we're all missing the point, which is that Ford, McGucket and Bill were a love triangle

[modpoppy]

these two make me so normal

[ckret2]

You know, after seeing your evil Ford au, I wonder what would happen if evil! Ford, met cannon! Ford. I feel like Cannon! Ford would hate him because he's just an example of what would happen if he haven't learned his lesson on perfection and how it's impossible to reach and how he doesn't need to impress people to be happy. I wonder what evil! Ford would think of his original counter part..would he be a little regretful? Since his cannon counterpart got more happiness than him? It's honestly intriguing to think about.

That's actually part of why I made Evil Ford: I was thinking about a dimension of lost Fords (like the dimension of lost Mabels in Don't Dimension It) and asked myself, which Ford alternate would Canon Ford most hate to meet?

So yeah you're right, Canon Ford would HATE Evil Ford—but not for thematic "you haven't learned the moral lesson about perfection & family" reasons. That's how audiences think about characters, it's not how people think about other people. When's the last time you hated somebody in real life because they missed the point of their own narrative arc—rather than because, say, they're rude to cashiers?

No, the reason Canon Ford hates Evil Ford is much simpler.

Similarly, meeting Canon Ford wouldn't make Evil Ford feel regretful because Evil Ford still thinks he made the right decision. What does he care if Canon Ford is "happier" if he only found contentment by—what—giving up on his high ambitions and settling for being a washed-up burnt-out ex-academic with no memorable achievements to his name? Evil Ford would rather die as a miserable overachiever than live as a peaceful slacker.

And he didn't spend thirty years on a completely different life path from Canon Ford without developing a totally different perspective.

Note: when Canon Ford found out Bill lied about the portal and declared he'd stop Bill no matter what, Evil Ford thinks that's Ford betraying Bill, not the other way around.

Also note: Evil Ford thinks Canon Ford is only motivated by anger over being deceived—not concern for the safety of the whole planet. Like yeah sure, he's HEARD that excuse; but that's what he thinks it is: an excuse. If he'd decided not to forgive Bill, he probably would've used the same excuse himself. A convenient, heroic-sounding moral justification for a thirty year vengence quest—but he doesn't really care that much about who's running the Earth, why would his alternate self?

(And really, Canon Ford? Thirty years? Thirty years?? You never found anything more productive to do with all that time than stalk your former mentor because you're MAD about ONE LIE?? If Canon Ford had said he thought killing Bill would net him more interdimensional fame and praise than he'd ever have as his underling, then Evil Ford could understand THAT—he himself has had misgivings about the fact that he's signed up to spend all eternity playing second banana—but as it is, though...)

Also also note: Evil Ford never reconciled with Fiddleford because he never acknowledged Fidds was "right" about Bill. He spent two-thirds of his life estranged from his brother. He moved across the country from his family. He made no friends in Gravity Falls, and likely no other college friends than Fidds. But he spent over half his life working with, dreaming with, living with Bill Cipher.

Evil Ford is evil; but he's not heartless.

Bill's the muse that gave him the blueprints he needed for his greatest invention and for the culmination of his life's work as a scientist and explorer. Bill's a near-god who hailed Ford as the greatest genius of his century, the man who's going to change the world, and via divine weirdness intervention he personally made sure that prophecy come true. Bill's the guy who—after Ford's embarrassing failure of a portal accident—welcomed Ford into his gang with open arms and the assurance that all his hard work wouldn't be for naught. He's Ford's longest-lasting friendship, his partner in crime and in science and in just about everything else by now, the person he trusts to puppet his body.

Is that a very skewed perspective on Bill? God, yeah. But it's Evil Ford's perspective.

If someone told you that all your suffering is due to the one person you trust most in all the world and the one person outside your family you care about the most—someone you've known for over thirty years—and your life would be so much better if you'd ditched this person the very first time you didn't get along—and that ditching them would have been the moral action—and that, in fact, you should have dedicated your life to killing this person...

Would you regret your life? Would you envy the life of the man who told you all this?

Or would you despise him?

How much more would you despise him if you knew he was you—had lived the same life as you—and that he had killed the most important person in your world?

Oh, Evil Ford resents the hell out of Canon Ford. Who are you—you slacker, you betrayer—to say you're "happier" than your counterpart? How do you deserve that "happy" ending? How is that fair?

Evil Ford only has one regret: not locking up his entire family before Weirdmageddon, where they'd all be safe... and where Bill would be safe from them.

[writers-potion]

Do you have any cool alias for "zero" ? It's not for character name so I don't mind if it's complicated

Words to Use Instead of...Zero

I'm not sure if my ideas are "cool" in your standards, but here we go:

nought

nothing (not a single thing, not anything, nothing at all)

nil

naught

aught

none

nowt

nix

oh/o

zilch

nix

not a sausage

sweet Fanny Asams

zip

the nadir

nada

bupkis (= nothing at all)

goose egg

cipher

void

nullity

void

nullus

the additive identity

the subtractive indentity

the positional value/notation

the commutative ring

the trivial

algoritmi

Maybe you can try an analogy of some sort:

the circle

the big wheel

the ring

the undefined

existance of non-existence

the large dot

vacant star

You can try building on zero in language other than English:

Russian: ноль (nol')

Chinese (Mandarin): 零 (líng)

Japanese: ゼロ (rei, maru)

Korean: 영 (yeong)

Arabic: صفر (sifr)

Hindi: शून्य (shunya)

Swedish: noll

Turkish: sıfır

Greek: μηδέν (midén)

Hungarian: nulla

Czech: nula

Thai: ศูนย์ (sǔun)

Finnish: nolla

+ You don't need to answer, but why do you need a cool alias for zero? I'm genuinely curious LOL

[english-lessons-bolzano]

Names for the number 0 in English

"Zero" is the usual name for the number 0 in English. In British English "nought" is also used and in American English "naught" is used occasionally for zero, but (as with British English) "naught" is more often used as an archaic word for nothing. "Nil", "love", and "duck" are used by different sports for scores of zero.

There is a need to maintain an explicit distinction between digit zero and letter O,[a] which, because they are both usually represented in English orthography (and indeed most orthographies that use Latin script and Arabic numerals) with a simple circle or oval, have a centuries-long history of being frequently conflated. However, in spoken English, the number 0 is often read as the letter "o" ("oh"). For example, when dictating a telephone number, the series of digits "1070" may be spoken as "one zero seven zero" or as "one oh seven oh", even though the letter "O" on the telephone keypad in fact corresponds to the digit 6.

In certain contexts, zero and nothing are interchangeable, as is "null". Sporting terms are sometimes used as slang terms for zero, as are "nada", "zilch" and "zip".

Zero" and "cipher"

"Zero" and "cipher" are both names for the number 0, but the use of "cipher" for the number is rare and only used in very formal literary English today (with "cipher" more often referring to cryptographic cyphers). The terms are doublets, which means they have entered the language through different routes but have the same etymological root, which is the Arabic "صفر" (which transliterates as "sifr"). Via Italian this became "zefiro" and thence "zero" in modern English, Portuguese, French, Catalan, Romanian and Italian ("cero" in Spanish). But via Spanish it became "cifra" and thence "cifre" in Old French, "cifră" in Romanian and "cipher" in modern English (and "chiffre" in modern French).

"Zero" is more commonly used in mathematics and science, whereas "cipher" is used only in a literary style. Both also have other connotations. One may refer to a person as being a "social cipher", but would name them "Mr. Zero", for example.

In his discussion of "naught" and "nought" in Modern English Usage, H. W. Fowler uses "cipher" to name the number 0.

O" ("oh")

In spoken English, the number 0 is often read as the letter "o", often spelled oh. This is especially the case when the digit occurs within a list of other digits. While one might say that "a million is expressed in base ten as a one followed by six zeroes", the series of digits "1070" can be read as "one zero seven zero", or "one oh seven oh". This is particularly true of telephone numbers (for example 867-5309, which can be said as "eight-six-seven-five-three-oh-nine"). Another example is James Bond's designation, 007, which is always read as "double-o seven", not "double-zero seven", "zero-zero seven", or "o o seven".

The letter "o" ("oh") is also used in spoken English as the name of the number 0 when saying times in the 24-hour clock, particularly in English used by both British and American military forces. Thus 16:05 is "sixteen oh five", and 08:30 is "oh eight thirty".

The use of O as a number can lead to confusion as in the ABO blood group system. Blood can either contain antigen A (type A), antigen B (type B), both (type AB) or none (type O). Since the "O" signifies the lack of antigens, it could be more meaningful to English-speakers for it to represent the number "oh" (zero). However, "blood type O" is properly written with a letter O and not with a number 0.

In sport, the number 0 can have different names depending on the sport in question and the nationality of the speaker.

"Nil" in British sports

Many sports that originated in the UK use the word "nil" for 0. Thus, a 3-0 score in a football match would be read as "three-nil".[1] Nil is derived from the Latin word "nihil", meaning "nothing", and often occurs in formal contexts outside of sport, including technical jargon (e.g. "nil by mouth") and voting results.

It is used infrequently in U.S. English, although it has become common in soccer broadcasts.

"Nothing" and "oh" in American sports

edit

In American sports, the term "nothing" is often employed instead of zero. Thus, a 3-0 score in a baseball game would be read as "three-nothing" or "three to nothing". When talking about a team's record in the standings, the term "oh" is generally used; a 3-0 record would be read as "three and oh".

In cricket, a team's score might read 50/0, meaning the team has scored fifty runs and no batter is out. It is read as "fifty for no wicket" or "fifty for none".

Similarly, a bowler's analysis might read 0-50, meaning he has conceded 50 runs without taking a wicket. It is read as "no wicket for fifty" or "none for fifty".

A batsman who is out without scoring is said to have scored "a duck", but "duck" is used somewhat informally compared to the other terms listed in this section. It is also always accompanied by an article and thus is not a true synonym for "zero": a batter scores "a duck" rather than "duck".

A name related to the "duck egg" in cricket is the "goose egg" in baseball, a name traced back to an 1886 article in The New York Times, where the journalist states that "the New York players presented the Boston men with nine unpalatable goose eggs", i.e., nine scoreless innings.

"Love" and "bagel" in tennis

In tennis, the word "love" is used to replace 0 to refer to points, sets and matches. If the score during a game is 30-0, it is read as "thirty-love". Similarly, 3-0 would be read as "three-love" if referring to the score during a tiebreak, the games won during a set, or the sets won during a match. The term was adopted by many other racquet sports.

There is no definitive origin for the usage. It first occurred in English, is of comparatively recent origin, and is not used in other languages. The most commonly believed hypothesis is that it is derived from English speakers mis-hearing the French l'œuf ("the egg"), which was the name for a score of zero used in French because the symbol for a zero used on the scoreboard was an elliptical zero symbol, which visually resembled an egg.

Although the use of "duck" in cricket can be said to provide tangential evidence, the l'œuf hypothesis has several problems, not the least of which is that in court tennis the score was not placed upon a scoreboard. There is also scant evidence that the French ever used l'œuf as the name for a zero score in the first place. (Jacob Bernoulli, for example, in his Letter to a Friend, used à but to describe the initial zero–zero score in court tennis, which in English is "love-all".) Some alternative hypotheses have similar problems. For example, the assertion that "love" comes from the Scots word "luff", meaning "nothing", falls at the first hurdle, because there is no authoritative evidence that there has ever been any such word in Scots in the first place.

According to the Oxford English Dictionary, the first use of the word "love" in English to mean "zero" was to define how a game was to be played, rather than the score in the game itself. Gambling games could be played for stakes (money) or "for love (of the game)", i.e., for zero stakes. The first such recorded usage quoted in the OED was in 1678. The shift in meaning from "zero stakes" to "zero score" is not an enormous conceptual leap, and the first recorded usage of the word "love" to mean "no score" is by Hoyle in 1742.

In recent years, a set won 6-0 ("six-love") has been described as a bagel, again a reference to the resemblance of the zero to the foodstuff. It was popularised by American announcer Bud Collins.

Null

In certain contexts, zero and nothing are interchangeable, as is "null". However, in mathematics and many scientific disciplines, a distinction is made (see null). The number 0 is represented by zero while null is a representation of an empty set {}. Hence in computer science a zero represents the outcome of a mathematical computation such as 2−2, while null is used for an undefined state (for example, a memory location that has not been explicitly initialised).

In English, "nought" and "naught" mean zero or nothingness, whereas "ought" and "aught" (the former in its noun sense) strictly speaking mean "all" or "anything", and are not names for the number 0. Nevertheless, they are sometimes used as such in American English; for example, "aught" as a placeholder for zero in the pronunciation of calendar year numbers. That practice is then also reapplied in the pronunciation of derived terms, such as when the rifle caliber .30-06 Springfield (introduced in 1906) is accordingly referred to by the name "thirty-aught-six".

The words "nought" and "naught" are spelling variants. They are, according to H. W. Fowler, not a modern accident as might be thought, but have descended that way from Old English. There is a distinction in British English between the two, but it is not one that is universally recognized. This distinction is that "nought" is primarily used in a literal arithmetic sense, where the number 0 is straightforwardly meant, whereas "naught" is used in poetical and rhetorical senses, where "nothing" could equally well be substituted. So the name of the board game is "noughts & crosses", whereas the rhetorical phrases are "bring to naught", "set at naught", and "availeth naught". The Reader's Digest Right Word at the Right Time labels "naught" as "old-fashioned".

Whilst British English makes this distinction, in American English, the spelling "naught" is preferred for both the literal and rhetorical/poetic senses.

"Naught" and "nought" come from the Old English "nāwiht" and "nōwiht", respectively, both of which mean "nothing". They are compounds of no- ("no") and wiht ("thing").

The words "aught" and "ought" (the latter in its noun sense) similarly come from Old English "āwiht" and "ōwiht", which are similarly compounds of a ("ever") and wiht. Their meanings are opposites to "naught" and "nought"—they mean "anything" or "all". (Fowler notes that "aught" is an archaism, and that "all" is now used in phrases such as "for all (that) I know", where once they would have been "for aught (that) I know".)

However, "aught" and "ought" are also sometimes used as names for 0, in contradiction of their strict meanings. The reason for this is a rebracketing, whereby "a nought" and "a naught" have been misheard as "an ought" and "an aught".

sometimes used as names for 0, in contradiction of their strict meanings. The reason for this is a rebracketing, whereby "a nought" and "a naught" have been misheard as "an ought" and "an aught".

Samuel Johnson thought that since "aught" was generally used for "anything" in preference to "ought", so also "naught" should be used for "nothing" in preference to "nought". However, he observed that "custom has irreversibly prevailed in using 'naught' for 'bad' and 'nought' for 'nothing'". Whilst this distinction existed in his time, in modern English, as observed by Fowler and The Reader's Digest above, it does not exist today. However, the sense of "naught" meaning "bad" is still preserved in the word "naughty", which is simply the noun "naught" plus the adjectival suffix "-y". This has never been spelled "noughty".

The words "owt" and "nowt" are used in Northern English. For example, if tha does owt for nowt do it for thysen: if you do something for nothing do it for yourself.

The word aught continues in use for 0 in a series of one or more for sizes larger than 1. For American Wire Gauge, the largest gauges are written 1/0, 2/0, 3/0, and 4/0 and pronounced "one aught", "two aught", etc. Shot pellet diameters 0, 00, and 000 are pronounced "single aught", "double aught", and "triple aught". Decade names with a leading zero (e.g., 1900 to 1909) were pronounced as "aught" or "nought". This leads to the year 1904 ('04) being spoken as "[nineteen] aught four" or "[nineteen] nought four". Another acceptable pronunciation is "[nineteen] oh four".

Decade names

See also: Aughts

While "2000s" has been used to describe the decade consisting of the years 2000–2009 in all English speaking countries, there have been some national differences in the usage of other terms.

On January 1, 2000, the BBC listed the noughties (derived from "nought") as a potential moniker for the new decade. This has become a common name for the decade in the U.K.and Australia, as well as some other English-speaking countries. However, it has not become the universal descriptor because, as Canadian novelist Douglas Coupland pointed out early in the decade, "[Noughties] won't work because in America the word 'nought' is never used for zero, never ever".

The American music and lifestyle magazine Wired favoured "Naughties", which they claim was first proposed by the arts collective Foomedia in 1999.However, the term "Naughty Aughties" was suggested as far back as 1975 by Cecil Adams, in his column The Straight Dope.

interchangeable, as is "null". However, in mathematics and many scientific disciplines, a distinction is made (see null). The number 0 is represented by zero while null is a representation of an empty set {}. Hence in computer science a zero represents the outcome of a mathematical computation such as 2−2, while null is used for an undefined state (for example, a memory location that has not been explicitly initialixed).

Slang

Sporting terms (see above) are sometimes used as slang terms for zero, as are "nada", "zilch" and "zip".

"Zilch" is a slang term for zero, and it can also mean "nothing". The origin of the term is unknown.

Silvio Pasqualini Bolzano inglese ripetizioni English insegnante teacher

[tremendouslighthottub]

Coupling

twinned yet not twins, only echoes—

two souls, a hollow call between

waves bouncing back/forth/back forever

once sweet

then

not.

resound, recoil, ring, return—

each strike a cipher

paired tuning forks starved for tone

wanting what was

for what is

is

naught.

the barren grave does not ask why

it only opens,

and beckons.

one sinks, the other hums—

deathknell

again, again, again.

[ebitenpura]

Long time no swtor thinkpiece, but.

Thinking about Eight in the IA class story and then who he is post-Alliance; going from a bold, daring and casually ambitious wildcard to someone who feels as if he's lost most of his zeal to become rather...listless. Empty. Not to say that he isn't fulfilled by his work in the Alliance (who all make exceptions to have him do anything but murder all day) but he starts picking up more mundane activities like, peeling potatoes for the Alliance cantina, or doing minor tasks that don't involve much thought on his own volition-- a stark change from a man who only cared about his blade and who it fell on. It's like he's been soundly defeated by the circumstances surrounding him.

Then there's the issue of his companions, who only knew him as their cunning leader who stopped at nothing to achieve his goals, even using some of them in the process, who now appears to be an entirely different person. One who quietly fades into the background, instead of being in the thick of it. He's changed.

His skills haven't waned, but his voice is flat, his eyes without gleam, his all consuming desire that drove him to accomplish the impossible by the day naught but simmering ashes by the time they reunite with him in KOTXX. He even apologizes to some, without explanation. This distresses Vector, in particular, who witnessed the worst of his sides way back in the day. "It's not me you should apologize to, Agent." Vector can only quietly say, "I have never held you in ill regard for the choices you've made, anathema as they were to my principles." It's a conversation that peters off, but one that Eight never had, never had soon enough --his firm refusal to rectify or acknowledge that Vector could choose him over his own ideals is one that gnaws at him on the inside for years, on his own belief that people cannot change what they truly believe in, and so there is no point in trying to make amends for what bridges he burns in the pursuit of his own wishes. This, and many other denials, compound over the years into a rather hurtful self-made solitude that follows him long into the Alliance. (A mother will never give up her son. There is no other way. I cannot change my nature as a weapon. Their rejection of me is something I must accept.) A punishment, but for who?

Perhaps he still feels he's failed the last mission Keeper entrusted to him. The one that asked him to become a real, living person, and not just a sword dressed in imperial colors.

Eight spirals during the events of the Eternal Empire. He watches his downfall happen in real time. There's little he does about it. His home is gone, as are the people he fought for--Keeper, Watcher 2, Intelligence--and this new age is only filled with allies he cuts down faster than he can imprint their names into his memory. He's alone in this fight at the behest of others who do choose their ideals over him, who, in the end, turn away in fear and disgust when he bloodies his blade in their name. He makes no effort afterwards to right his image in their minds. He plays the villain, if others will not. For the first time, he tires of killing.

This leaves him alone, an outcast even among friends. Eventually, amongst the ruin their failed Alliance leaves in its wake, someone asks why things turned out this way; his lack of a will in the greater fight comes to light and sets several alarm bells off. Lana reduces his duties on the battlefield. Others, out of shared guilt and a fear of the bloodshed he wreaked on their orders, give him a wide berth to live normally for a while. It's not much and does little to his disillusionment and estrangement with his allies, but...it's a start.

Eight the Assassin turns into just Eight. And Eight the former agent, ex-Cipher, killer extraordinaire who never once dreamed of the stars, turns into someone who quietly watches the sun set on a world he barely recognizes,l but still stays up to see it, potato peeler in hand.

[pinesfamilyguidetotheweird]

Gravity Falls Thoughts: Ford and Trauma™ Part 3 (Stained Hands)

Here we are with Part 3 of Ford and Trauma™!

Last time, we tackled the ramifications of sleep deprivation and its possible effects on Ford.

So now, I want to bring up the very likelihood of Ford…pretty much having blood on his hands, be it his own…or someone else.

Ever since he was a child, Ford had been ostracized for his polydactyly. Bullies mocked him, girls screamed in terror…this made the boy so self-conscious that he’ll habitually fold his hands behind his back to hide them, something that is carried over even into adulthood.

However, Ford had people who thought his hands were something special and none were any more supportive than Ford’s brother, Stan. From his nickname of ‘Sixer’ and the invention of ‘high-six’, both created by Stan, Ford felt more at ease with his deformity. Sometimes even proud of it.

Years later, Ford would continue to take pride in his deformity, his own anomaly, no longer seeing it as something to be ashamed of.

Then…he met Bill Cipher. Beguiled by the triangle’s honeyed words, Ford agreed to allow Bill into his mind and build the portal. Ford would soon realize his mistake and try to keep Bill from controlling him again by keeping himself awake.

One problem: Remember my last post about sleep deprivation and microsleeps. A lot can happen in 30 seconds.

And Bill finds pain amusing.

Seriously, if Gravity Falls wasn’t a modern Disney kid show, we’d be seeing more than unkempt hair, some stubble on the chin, and manic, shadowed eyes on Ford. Blood stains, lacerations, welts and bruising, burns, and bandages haphazardly placed would also be apparent.

Imagine Ford just falling asleep before coming to 20~30 seconds later with a knife in his hand.

And that’s just the tip of the iceberg. Let’s fast forward to when he gets his butt sucked into the portal. Remember what I said in the sleep deprivation post, Ford’s still feeling the effects of his enforced insomnia when he entered the portal. And Bill had issued a bounty on Ford’s head not long after.

Basically running on pure adrenaline at this point, Ford scurries off for shelter at some random dimension/planet. His nerves are shot severely and on edge. Then…a figure comes into view to check who had snuck into their property. Ford, in his tired and paranoid mind, came to the conclusion that the figure was a threat and let his instincts take over.

He wasn’t going down without a fight.

Only…the figure he took down was just a simple farmer, not a bounty hunter. Ford…had caused direct harm to someone who had nothing to do with him. He ran off before he was caught, but the deed was done…and it wouldn’t be the last.

I have very little doubt that Ford has killed (at the very least, caused great harm) people during his travels, probably mostly bounty hunters after him or some scum that was, unfortunately (for them), in his line of sight.

However, there is some innocent blood on his hands. Most of which was indirect, those he could not save or had to put out of their misery (many were companions he had made), while the more direct happened more frequently during the early years of his travels.

It hurt. It hurt Ford to cause great harm to another, to take another life to prolong his own. Some would say you get used to it…

No…you grow numb to it. The pain is still there, the agonizing guilt…Ford just…learns to deal with it. It doesn’t make it go away though, even when Ford redirects his guilt as fuel to stop Bill once and for all.

So that none of what he did would’ve been all for naught.

He…had thought that he could use his hands to do good…but he had instead caused destruction, be it shaking hands with a demon, building a doomsday device, or snuffing out a life.

[torchtour]

In the dead of night’s bleak shroud,

You sought dominion, eyes unbowed,

For my demise, your wicked scheme—

My bood to flow like a cursed stream.

Victory was yours, or so you thought,

Yet here’s the cost of battles fought,

For now the tide has turned to black,

Your silver essence turned to slack.

Bill Cipher, you deceiver deep,

In dreams and shadows you would creep,

Yet here you lie in fractured form,

Your once-grand power now forlorn.

With midnight’s cold embrace I came,

To shatter the darkness of your claim,

Your viper’s hiss, your static roar,

Echoes through the void, no more.

The flesh you wore, in pain adorned,

Shattered, broken, lost to night—

The grip possessed, it was once tight,

Your rule dissolved without a fight.

The vessel you possessed now freed,  

No longer bound to your dark need,  

Its pain and torment laid to rest— 

shattered once, and freed for rest; a soul unchained, now at best.

You sought my screams, my wails of dread,  

Your gleeful eyes, so sure—misled.  

For whilst you dreamed of blood and strife, grabbed the fire by its flame,

I danced forward, in shadowed life— I’ve been always two steps ahead.

Oh, you should have guessed, oh so profound—  

The irony is now where you’re found; I was the sly fox that moment bound!

For in your pride, underestimated me,  

I’ve had it ready all this time.

In the end, you’re left with naught,

A fleeting whisper, battles fought,

In shattered remnants of your will,

Doomed to silence, cold and still.

Zhofrph edfn, iulhqg.

Brxu krsh zdv suryhq uljkw dw odvw.

i tthink i need to call myy sister.

[unearthlyfromage]

The Costs of Our Hubris; Chapter 3 "Bones and Skin" Out Now!

Shoutout to @trangenderstan, my co-visionist and who I owe this entire thing too, really. This AU wouldn't be the way it is today if it weren't for him.

Read it on AO3 here

Or read it below the cut!

Skittering up buildings and slinking through the shadows of alleyways, an intense gaze peered through every gap and crack of old sturdy walls. He was stalking for another one in a derelict market, a cesspool, a melting pot of neighboring planets all outpouring resources to sell for the highest bidder.

The place reeked of alien meats and vegetables and cheap jewelry, he could smell it all through the large gap between his closed jaws. The closest Stan would ever get to closing his mouth for his teeth were in the way.

All for naught, Stan was beginning to realize, as he couldn’t see nor taste any filth in the surrounding area. There was no stench of guilt or pen ink, nor any wild brown hair or large cloaked humans. He’d been at this for months, yet he’d only snuffed out a few dozen of those six-fingered bastards. They’re getting smarter.

Scoffing in disgust at the wasted time, he turned his direction forward from his hiding. He made his form known to the crowds, a curled and twisted figure standing taller among most as he approached the wall of living beings, watching them all part and scramble in fear the moment his clawed and deformed feet disturbed the chaotic river they’d amassed.

Glaring at them all with disinterest and disgust he paid no mind to their frantic chattering in hushed cowering tones, the shining sigil of Cipher on his clothes reminding them to stay away should they have a single coherent thought.

Stopping at a rarities stall, his neck snapped to the cowering shopkeep, the many-eyed man low and away from his table. Sneering at him, he turned and slammed his hands on the rickety old wood, claws tearing deep marks in the grain as he leaned in close.

“I want that.” He growled, pointing to a golden 8 Ball. Gulping down the heart in his throat, the man tore his eyes away from Stan to glance at it, though it wasn’t any longer than a split second, that’s usually all it took.

“F-Fifty, for that.” He stuttered, slowly holding his many hands up to try and calm him. Growling, he reached out to grasp his clothes, dragging him up and through the gap in the table to slam him against the post. Stan got close to his face as the shopkeep yelled in his panic, every inch of him trembling. “Yer payment is your life. Fairtrade?” He grins, and the man nods as he laughs airlessly, gasping and choking on his breath as Stan drops him.

Expression fading to a sneer he watched him scramble back into his hut of a pop-up to grab the ball, setting it down and thanking him profusely. Taking them Stan quickly moved on, stopping to shake it and watch the liquid slosh around, chuckling at the simple Maybe?’ it gave in response. Surely he’d like another one, especially one as shiny as this.

Stuffing it in his bag as he continued forward, ripping into and scavenging every shop of interest until he had about ten or twelve little trinkets of varying shapes sizes, and origins.

Without any other needs, he lumbered to an open rift and crawled through it, leaving a ravaged and panicked market behind him.

It took him a small while of random rift portals to reach where he wanted to pray.

This world was a cold and empty one that he knew well, a scrapyard for abandoned aircraft on a planet doomed to rot uninhabited thanks to the radiation. He liked to stay here often, his own home away from home. Digging his claws in titanium hulls to drag himself up and through the refuse, he stood on top of the hulking carrier to scan the skyline to find his spot.

The rotting and rusting materials underneath his marred and mangled feet groaned and cracked under his weight. He was gone by the time it would’ve caved, jumping and lurching from crash to crash steadily ascending a monstrous mountain, one of the last remnants of the actual ground beneath the refuse, sometimes weaving his way through openings and through ship to ship in a practiced rat crawl to reach his favorite piece of garbage to rest in.

Feet digging into the flesh of the ship that peeked over a cliffside, he swung back and forth to build his momentum before letting go and grabbing at the edge of a spacecraft so high up and embedded in the mountainside he was in line with the mint green clouds. Sighing in contentment as he pushed himself up into his ‘house’, he walked in and smoothed a blackened hand over the cold walls, humming happily.

He meandered his way through, passing by old and desecrated corpses of all manner of beings. Bounty hunters, mostly. People that would come here to try and find him, and the unlucky bastards that did would never leave this derelict planet. All of his most enjoyable chases happened here, times where he’d bob and weave on the ceilings and walls snatching them from above when they’d least expect it, mimicking the sounds of their comrades when all was quiet and dark to watch them get closer before finally realizing something was off, always far too late. His favorite chase was a unique circumstance, one had gotten away. It was the one he wanted the most.

He knows for a fact that six-digited rat will never forget him, even if he did squeak away by the skin of his teeth. He had him by the neck, to the wall, he could feel his heartbeat in the pads of his fingers as he squeezed. If only the rest of his crew were dead, he would’ve gotten everything he wanted out of that rush.

Turning a corner he walked ever deeper into the ship, the further any natural rays of light became the more the walls began to glow, Stan had long since coated the place in bioluminescent plant matter. Be it sap from the planet's weird and warped trees or the various other plant life still surviving on a planet so irradiated. He could see in the dark, but lighting it up made it feel more.. homely, in a way.

Eventually, the metal walls gave way into rock-hard dirt, Stan having hollowed out a cave for praying in. Setting his bag down on a pile of bones, he began to carve new symbols to join the countless others that littered the walls and ceiling, whispering an incantation he knew better than English at this point. The sound echoed and warbled around the room, he didn’t stop etching symbols until he ran out of room, collapsing in the center on a carving of his God as his chanting grew in intensity.

His eyes rolled into the back of his skull as he belted what sounded like gibberish to anyone who didn’t understand. His body contorted as his limbs stretched out, yelling love and devotion for his creator as the bones shook and tremored, begging to come home, pleading for his aid in ode Stan's words garbling through coughs as he hacked up a black, viscous liquid, pooling and squirming and bubbling as the bones raised gently in the air.

Spiraling into a circle on the wall, the liquid burning a trail upwards to stretch and fill the void within, a spark of light bursting from the middle as orange light cracked the black tar and spider webbed outward, shards falling to reveal a portal of bleeding intense colors, the orange and red hues of his true home basking him in its light as Stan finally slowed to a silence, sitting there to sunbathe in the impossible dry warmth emanating from the rift.

Getting his fill, he rose to stand and lumbered over to the bag, grabbing it with a trembling hand as he turned to walk inside, the rift fizzling and shorting out soon after.

The room fell back into its desolation, the bones falling to the floor with hollow thumps, some dry enough to crack and shatter.

~~

They had lost yet another one.

A horrible crime scene awaited the small party of five that descended from the ship to do a welfare check on one of their researchers, a Ford tasked with collecting sap samples for adhesives in their projects.

Standing there in the quiet one-man research station, the red smears along the clawed-up walls and floors and ceilings growing thicker around the site of the body made a chill run down his spine.

The scene was quiet, and anything but serene. Walking through it was a tense dread he would never get used to. The lights along the walls buzzed and flickered, still dull and dim from within. It was a stark contrast to the frantic, clawed-open hole in the side of the building. The odd and colorful forest outside is a stark contrast to the grim murder within. Purple trees have grown into woven patterns and spiraled upwards topped with teal and cerulean leaves, samples this Ford had dedicated his past year to studying. Turning to look down the hall at the lumps of torn-up human meat sprawled on the floor, lifeless and red, he couldn’t help but call that year a wasted effort.

The place was haunting. The conical dome shape of the main room was left marginally untouched by the carnage. There was no struggle, Origin would call it vandalism more than anything else. Destroying books and carving symbols and runes into the walls - incantations that needed further research. Raising the camera with limp hands he took photos, the others doing the same in the other rooms. The only footprints - if he could call them that, the claw markings looked more like hands or a bird’s talons than anything else - were ones leading outside. So either this thing cleaned up and returned to ruin the place, or it had done it before killing him. It's unlikely, given it was clear this one hadn’t even taken his gun out.

It was a growing addition to this creature's Modus Operandi. Rarely, if ever, does the victim get a chance to react past realizing what’s happening to him. Staring despondently at the footprints, he leaned his nose against the dull red fabric wrapped around his neck, eyes narrowing.

“It came in from up there.” One of the members of the small five-person crime scene analysis group piped up, a Stan, one of the very few they have on deck that likes to get more involved. Turning to face him and up at the open AC vent, he hums in acknowledgment.

“Didn’t notice that before. Good eye.” He walked closer to the center of the dome, looking up to peer through as much of the vent as was visible. Dents and claw marks are vaguely highlighted by the small lights dotting the ceiling. It seemed big enough for a person to fit through if they were fine with confined spaces and didn’t have too much mass.

Judging by how the insides looked twisted and bent outwards, he’d guess one of those things wasn’t quite the case.

The Stan, Jellyfish they call him - a comedic nickname that didn’t fit the tall imposing figure, face set hard. “I think we should cut our losses and get out, just in case it comes back anytime soon.” The man wanted to get out of here just as much as Origin did, and he couldn’t blame the want.

Walking along the destruction, nothing was done for a strict purpose. The crunching of glass under his boots and the breeze against his back from the open hole were sensations he could do without. Looking up again at the vent, paranoid more than anything else, he noticed the steady red flashing of the base’s security system. “We could try the cameras?” He turned to look at Jelly and the others he’d been talking to.

Glancing at Origin, he hummed. “They’re always corrupted. So says R, at least.” He turned his gaze to them now, eyes staring squinting in scrutiny at the idea. “Unless these have audio, it wouldn’t be worth the effort.”

Cursing under his breath, he shook his head. “Go grab the feed.” He demands with some air of leadership or power, digging his hands in his pockets. “I have a feeling about this. If it’s a wasted effort we’ll call this one inconclusive just like all the others, and never come back. How is that?”

He could hear Jelly scoff and walk away without another word, but Origin wasn’t looking at him, instead analyzing the disfigured handprint on the wall. The outline of something that was once human, if the shape was anything to go by.

It burned a pit in his stomach, gulping uneasily. His face stayed hardened and expressionless, but he couldn’t stop the uneasy sensation in his gut, the broiling and rolling feeling of discomfort that clawed its way up his throat and made a home in his skull. These scenes made him feel nostalgic, in ways he could never place and didn’t want to think about.

Instead, he turned heel and walked towards the body, arms wrenched tight to his back as he looked down at the mangled figure of himself. The smell was pungent, and the first thing to hit him, but beyond that was the damage done. Torn open and vivisected violently, face torn up and disfigured, the hands were missing. All of these deaths were so personal, so angry, and targeted.

He had a horrible feeling for what or who this could be, and what its intentions would be.

“We have the footage,” he could hear Jelly say somewhere beyond the hall, “we should be going. The people from the medical wing said they would bury the body. Come on boss.” Origin's face tightened at the nickname. He wasn’t his boss, not traditionally at least. He held domain over the prison cells and nothing more.

“I’m not your employer. Don’t call me that.” He leaves the body behind, his navy trenchcoat stained purplish at the ends thanks to the still-drying puddle surrounding the body.

Leaving three of them down on the planet for burial left a foul taste in Origin's mouth, they still didn’t know for certain whether or not this monster was gone. Though if it was still lurking, he had high doubts it would’ve let them romp around inside taking samples and photos and analysis of the crimes.

They sat in silence, waiting for the pod to dock in place and once it had, they gave each other a stiff nod and headed for the hull, their voices chattering in various conversations. It took a while to get used to being surrounded by himself, even if none of these cosmic clones were exactly like him.

Staring up at the large, wide robotic figure standing in the center of the steering column, he took a deep breath and cleared his throat. “I hope you’re done spending quality time with the ship, I require your assistance if you don't mind.”

At first, there was no response. But he knew damn well R heard him. He heard everything in this ship, he WAS this ship… at least in part, when he was docked and controlling it. A synthesized sigh left the robot, relaxing from his stiffened ram rod pose to turn and face him, the only indication that he was looking at him was two LED orbs flashed up on the panel of his face.

“Yes?” his tone was bored, the deep mechanical imitation of a man's voice as he descended the steps and stood opposite him, staring down at him in a cold foreboding manner.

“I need you to watch this footage and tell us what you find.” Origin showed off the small drive, and while R gave no verbal response, he stretched out a metal six-digit hand in emphasis for him to hand it over. “If this is another disappointment, I will refuse to watch anything else you give me.”

“I assure you, this one has promise.” Huffing, the metal man pushed aside synthetic hair to plug it into an empty slot at the base of his neck, staring down at the floor. “Fine. Then you will watch it with me.”

The cameras behind his LED screen, the closest one could compare to eyes, lit up and cast a projection on the metal floor of the ship. Standing up straighter, he tinkered with the opacity and volume, before allowing it to play. Keeping his distance from R, he watched as the researcher, a Ford that hadn’t chosen a unique nickname for himself - most that opt to research off ship didn’t bother - sat there writing down his report for the day.

He remembered that being their first tip something was wrong. They always reported something every day, even if it was just a personal status report. A confirmation they were still alive.

It was normal, for the day-to-day of a research base, and R fast-forwarded until something changed. Stopping at the small squeak of the vent grate opening, Origin was surprised it did have sound.

He leaned in to try and look at what emerged, but it was the same thing it always was. A distorted and fizzling, popping black shape. Stray particulates fade away and ooze off the footage itself.

They weren't quite sure why it was this mass of particles, like a burning singe in an old reel, creating negative space. But they knew it wasn't normal. R had equated it to radiation particles, and seeing it in motion Origin was inclined to agree.

It watched him, whatever it was, and waited for him to get up and walk out. Now alone the thing chuckled to itself, a low and distorted gruff sound that was hauntingly human. It sounded almost familiar, which served to unnerve all the more.

Watching further, it skittered down the wall like a spider, waiting over the doorway for him before finally choosing to strike, jumping him and goring him in the hallway. The sounds of his screams and this things distorted laughter were loud, loud enough for Origin to cringe and press his face into the old fabric of his scarf, closing his eyes. R was kind enough to pause it immediately, rewinding to play the laugh again.

“Something familiar, in that laugh.” He mumbles and stops sharing to play around with it, distorting it further until he plays it again.

Through the static and distortion, the altered and squealing of his screaming and the contorted squishing and ripping, the noise made the baby hairs at the nape of Origin's neck stand on end, there was a sound objectively scarier.

It was once warm and inviting, a comforting hug in verbal form. A sound of nostalgia and sleepless nights together as children. A familiar and frequent sound among the ship's walls. Though it was mangled and bastardized, wrong and distorted, it was unmistakable. It's that gruff, loud bark of a laugh.

Stanley.

[archmage-lleweneth]

Day 11 — “Surrogate”

Caswyn Llweneth and Y’Mhitra Rhul sat against the gunwhale of the Excelsior, exhausted and thoughtful.

[spoilers for Stormblood summoner job quests contained herein]

Captain Dancing Wolf of the Immortal Flames and his squadron of nascent summoners had bid them rest while they loaded the remains of their most recent foe. Y’Mhitra had been surprisingly quick to claim the wreckage of the Artificial Summoner on behalf of the Sons’ of Saint Coinach—and Captain Wolf’s agreement had been surprisingly free of haggling. The Sons’ had quickly arraigned for the Excelsior to provide transport, which left naught to be done save for the heavy lifting. This had given both Y’Mhitra and Caswyn time to think.

“We may have overlooked a living component to the machina,” said Caswyn, breaking the silence as if they had been speaking for hours.

“If we have, it was fiendishly well-hidden,” replied Y’Mhitra, “I saw naught of it during our battle, or after.”

“It must’ve had a component akin to living aether to have etched the essence of each of those creatures onto. Without something similar, it would have no way of calling them forth repeatedly” Caswyn was just thinking out loud at this point. “To say nothing of the fact that it was able to create egis of mages. Manipulations of aether which could, themselves, manipulate aether. A living mage held in stasis for the machine to replicate seems the most obvious.”

“Such a thing simply wasn’t present, Caswyn. Perhaps”—Y’mhitra frowned—“Perhaps they recorded them as a template somehow? Substituted some other kind of physical medium for the living memory of the summoner’s physical aether?”

It was Caswyn’s turn to frown. “To store a mage’s expertise within arcane geometry…even if you could find the correct calculations and cipher to translate such a concept to a tomestone—which is so infeasible it strains belief—if Allag could’ve done it, we would’ve seen it before.”

“I concur. But I have no other explanation for how the machina accomplished what we saw it do.”

Neither did Caswyn, and so both women returned to silence once more.

Later, after the last of the salvage had been loned and the airship’s crew was readying for departure, Dancing Wolf strode up to the two scholars with a globe of bright metal in his hands and a spring in his step. “Oi, you two! I’ve got something special for you to look at,” he prised open the case with a flourish, “I’m no expert, but even I’m able to recognize a soul crystal when I lay eyes on one.”

Y’Mhitra’s eyes widened when she saw not one, but seven mounted within the Artifical Summoner’s heart.

“You’ve solved our mystery, Captain,” said Y’Mhitra.

Caswyn nodded in agreement. “A mage’s mastery, stored in a physical medium. And one with a long memory. Yes, this would’ve been sufficent to allow that machine to call forth eidolons.”

Captain Dancing Wolf blinked once, “What’s an eidolon?”

“What you know as a ‘primal’, Captain,” answered Caswyn. “Considering the nature of our work, how we study both the ‘primals’ of our direct experiences in the present, and the ‘eikons’ of what we know of Allag’s past, I’ve found it helpful to have a general term to use for both.”

“Why’s that?” asked Wolf, “Ain’t they one and the same?”

“As far as we can tell, they are quite similar,” said Caswyn, “Nevertheless, I wish to avoid priviliging one body of knowledge over the other. It is also important to remind myself that there may be key differences between the eikons of the past and the primals of our present that I am currently ignorant of.”

“It is something of a broad term,” added Y’Mhitra with a shrug, “to complicate things further, Caswyn also considers egis to be eidolons. Albeit ones that do not posess the ability to enthrall the souls of us spoken.”

“You speak as if you aren’t planning to coin the term in your Archon thesis,” said Caswyn.

Y’Mhitra tapped her chin thoughtfully, “I’m considering it. I haven’t even finished the first draft.”

“Well, if you’ll forgive me for making it longer, our recent experiences might be giving me ideas,” said Caswyn, gazing at the soul crystals, “something to attempt once we’re back in Mor Dhona.”

Caswyn had insisted that they set out as soon as they’d landed outside of Revenant’s Toll, convincing a weary Y’Mhitra by promising her an explantion if she joined her for a walk around the shore of Lake Silvertear.

“The difference between an egi and an eikon is that an eikon consumes aether—and the will of its summoner—and the egi doesn’t. Its aether is obtained from its immediate environment, and it is returned when the egi disappates. The aether required to call the egi is minimal, a feat only achievable through the use a… template, of sorts. A casting mold that is equal parts arcanima and memory. The summoner’s own experiences—most importantly, their proximal presence to the eikon’s defeat and dissipation—is fundamental to creating this mold. It is an imprint that exists both in the memory and in the body of the summoner. Living memory, if you will.”

Y’Mhitra smirked, “You are doing that thing which Shtola is so terribly fond of—explaining to me something which I already know. Pray, abridge your lecture, Archmage.”

Caswyn nodded, “Summoning is time magic. I will attempt to perform its fundamental action on living memory not my own.”

Y’Mhitra stopped up short, took a short breath in through her nose, then said, “abridge it less, if you please.”

“In recreating the Allagan method, we’ve concluded that physical exposure to the eidolon’s defeat is a prerequisite for the creation of an egi. But that is not the fundamental action of calling an egi. The fundamental action is to construct a bridge between the former state of an eidolon—one where it was manifest in our world—and the present state of it—one where it is dormant. In other words: time magic. By the Allagan method, the summoner recalls the moment where the eikon was vanquished, and so can call forth a version of that eikon that has not yet been vanquished.”

Y’Mhitra was positively aghast. “But that’s—just words. You’ve just defined a process we are both already familiar with in a deeply deranged way. By that definition of ‘time magic’, you could call any magic ‘time magic’! Raise is just time magic! Fire III is just time magic!”

“Hmm,” said Caswyn, which caused Y’Mhitra a fresh wave of grief.

She threw up her hands in capitulation. “But let us entertain your unhinged premise for the purposes of discussion. I am following, pray continue.”

Caswyn couldn’t help but smile. She had learned by now that ’deranged’, ‘unhinged’, and ‘ludicrous’ were deep, affectionate compliments from Shtola and Mhitra. “There’s no sense reinventing the wheel, but much to be gained by exploring other designs for a vehicle. I’m still proposing we cast metal with a mold, but I want to try constructing that mold out of different materials. In this case, drawing on living memory other than my own.

Understanding dawned on Y’Mhitra, “You would still perform the summoning magic, but utilize another’s living memory to form the template? A surrogate summoning, if you will?”

Caswyn nodded, “I will. And yes, essentially.”

Y’Mhitra’s eyes sparkled with new possibility. “Additional bodies would allow for a greater variety of egi’s to be called to the field. Shall I reach out to Captain Wolf’s squadron? I’m sure you could have your pick of training partners eager to explore the new possibilities of summoning teams.”

“No need,” she said, “And not what I meant. I mean to source my memories from the Lifestream. This is far enough.” Caswyn set down her pack and dug out her waterskin.

“The Lifestream? You’re getting dangerously close to forbidden magic.”

“Am I? How fortuitous for your thesis that I lack a Studium education.”

Y’Mhitra folded her arms. “Don’t you go asking me questions now, Caswyn, I know what it means when you do that.”

Caswyn softened, “You do. You know me well, Mhitra. So I know you’re certain that I’ve thought this out.”

“Oh am I now?” she smiled, “what a relief.”

“Certain enough, I hope. Now, then—let’s make history.”

Caswyn allowed herself to slip into trance, looking to the horizon of the land’s aether, fixing her gaze upon as much of land as she could. At the same time, her thoughts returned to the night of the Calamity, to that hole in her memories left by her death at Bahamut’s hand.

I am of Eorzea, and she is of me. This land once bore witness to the death of an elder primal made in Bahamut’s own image; I ask you, Eorzea, to recall Bahumut, in essentia, the purest form of this once-great shade.

The land answered. The spirit of the Dreadwyrm heard Caswyn’s call. The face of the Seveneth Umbral Calamity, reflected through time and Eorzea’s memory, loomed above Caswyn and Y’Mhitra.

“Much larger than an egi,” breathed Y’Mhitra.

Caswyn nodded in as brief a motion as she could. “An egi is pure interpretation. This is different. The mindless memory of the star. An echo of a moment in the past. A shade.” She had to avert her eyes, lest dizziness take hold and drag her down to her knees. “Not Bahamut as I remember him, how my aether remembers him, but Bahamut as the star remembers him. Bahamut, in truth, albeit at a fraction of his former strength.”

“A fraction? It must be quite a large fraction, then,” whispered Y’Mhitra. They had both been talking in hushed tones. “We will need new nomenclature.”

Demi-Bahamut.

[pokerats]

" ah, fuck. those crystals're gonna need to come ship here sooner. " said from famished rat king surrounded by stuffed animals. hunger pangs wracked his stomach, feasting in on itself akin the legendary ouroboros-- the snake that consumes its tail. addiction. it gnaws at one's core 'til naught remains but crumbs of emotional turmoil when next morning wakes. idle hands begun twitching, stilled digits trembling like buzzing combees. desperation morphs his visage a vicious scowl. realizing he could no longer fend off monstrous vices tempting control, rat king falls prey to emotions invoked by his withdrawal symptoms.

" fuck it. i'll snag what i got left. " ascending amidst piles upon stacks of ratatta plushes, rat king hurriedly sprawls from bedside. left feet first, he rises gracefully, sauntering to his dresser drawer. pulling open the middle drawer reveals ordinary undergarments. carelessly sifting through them, knowing what lies underneath his sorted mess. a needle, and other drug paraphernalia, is dug out, likewise a length of cloth. subsequently closing the middle drawer, he returns by bedside table; necessities placed upon table's surface in a specific manner.

strap of cloth wrings rat king's brachium in prelude to preparing for poisoning his veins with a single piece of corrupt ore via injection. commonly used for shadow pokemon research conducted by cipher scientists.

" still. " he converses with himself, lighting the underside of a heavily water-spotted spoon. a clear shard of shadow ore slowly liquifies. " heard that tera shit in paldea's somethin' to generate a profit out of. gotta see how we can steal it right under their bloody noses ! "

[wurds-fur-nurds]

Ode to Vestige: An Analytical Elegy

In the realm of the ephemeral, where time’s relentless march Leaves naught but shadows of its former grace, There lies the vestige, a relic of the past, A spectral echo of what once was, now displaced.

Oh, vestige, thou art the residue of history’s hand, A fragmentary whisper of bygone days, In thee, the essence of antiquity doth stand, Yet, in thy presence, the present’s gaze decays.

Thou art the palimpsest of time’s indelible script, A cipher of existence, half-erased, In thee, the dialectic of presence and absence is gripped, A paradox where being and non-being are interlaced.

The scholar’s eye, with analytical precision, Doth scrutinize thy form, thy substance, thy trace, In thee, the vestiges of civilization’s vision, Are cataloged, dissected, and placed.

Thou art the residue of cultural sediment, The detritus of epochs, layered and compressed, In thy fragments, the archaeologist finds testament, To the narratives of societies long at rest.

Yet, in thy presence, there is a tragic lament, For thou art but a shadow of what once was whole, A reminder of the inexorable descent, Of all things into the void, the ultimate toll.

Oh, vestige, thou art the silent witness to decay, The remnant of a world that time hath effaced, In thee, the inexorable passage of time doth lay, A testament to the transient nature of the human race.

Thus, in this ode, we ponder thy tragic plight, Thou art the vestige, the remnant, the trace, In thee, the dialectic of memory and oblivion takes flight, A poignant reminder of our ephemeral place.

[unendlichkeit-1230]

Note Concerning My Detention (1803)

I observed that the situation wherein I was being kept and the pranks being played upon me were forcing me to mistake true and authentic happenings for events produced by the imbecile spitefulness of the scoundrels who had me at their mercy; the effort to render myself insensible to those arranged by artifice had the further result of rendering me insensible to those of fate or of Nature, in such wise that for the sake of my inward peace, I preferred to credit nothing and to adopt an attitude of indifference toward everything. Whence there developed the terrible and dangerous situation of being ever ready to discount as a deliberate falsehood any announcement of some unpleasant truth, and in the interest of tranquillity, to rank it among the lies that were multiplied to foster or give rise to situations; nay, it may fairly be said that nothing did greater hurt both to my heart and to my character.

To undo my mind was the aim of all this. It failed; knowing me well, my persecutors ought to have known that my mind was too strong and too philosophical to yield to such nonsense. But it did nonetheless have a hardening effect upon my heart, a souring effect upon my character:

effects both pernicious and harmful to produce, and which testified to naught but the crass stupidity of these teasings, worthy of the crass dolts who inflicted and who recommended them. And what were the dire effects further produced upon me by the denial of the good books I wanted to read, by the obstacles created to hinder me from composing the good books I wanted to write! But what had one not to expect from people who, forming ciphers and signals, had, through sending me to Bicêtre, sacrificed my honor and my reputation?

That system of signals and ciphers those rogues utilized while I was in the Bastille and during the last of my detentions, wrought yet another and grave damage upon me through accustoming me to cling to any such fantastic notion or phantom as might shore up my hope and to any conjecture capable of nourishing it. Thus did my mind take on the sophistical cast I am reproached for in my writings.

By way of final remark, how, I wonder, can inconsistency be carried to the point of saying that if I wrote Justine, ’twas at the Bastille, and of thrusting me back into a situation worse still than the one in which I, as it is alleged, composed the work in question? Here is the plainest demonstration that everything done and uttered concerning me proceeded from the fanaticism of pious idiots and from the flagrant stupidity of their henchmen.…Oh, how right was Sophocles when he said: A husband almost always meets with his downfall either in the woman he takes for his wife or in the family he allies himself to.

Consecutive to the foregoing remarks I think it best to join a few touching on Justine, remarks I submit to the thick-skulled Ostrogoths who had me imprisoned on account of it.

Only a small amount of common sense were needed (but have incarcerators any at all?) to be convinced that I am not and could not be the author of that book. But, unfortunately, I was in the clutches of a flock of imbeciles who always use fetters for arguments and bigotry instead of philosophy, and that for the great good reason that it is always much easier to impound than to ponder and to pray to God than to be useful to mankind. In the one case some virtues are required; only hypocrisy is required in the other.

After having been once upon a time suspected of a few extravagances of the imagination similar to those depicted in Justine, I ask whether it were possible to believe that I would go and put pen to paper in order to reveal turpitudes which would necessarily bring my own to be recollected. I am guilty of those turpitudes, or else I am not: it must be the one or the other. Had I committed them, assuredly I would wrap them in the thickest silence all the rest of my life; and if I am only suspected of them without ever having committed them, what have I to gain from divulging them when this piece of folly would have for its unique result to draw questioning eyes my way? It would be the height of stupidity. And my hatred for my tormentors is such I am unwilling to resemble them in that respect.

But still another more powerful reason will, I hope, speedily convince anyone that I cannot be the author of this book. Read it attentively and one will see that through inexcusable clumsiness, through a manner of proceeding that was bound to set the author at loggerheads with wise man and fool alike, with the good as well as with the wicked, all the philosophical personages in this novel are villains to the core. However, I myself am a philosopher; everyone acquainted with me will certify that I consider philosophy my profession and my glory.…And can anyone for one instant, save he suppose me mad, can anyone, I say, suppose for one minute that I could bring myself to present what I hold to be the noblest of all callings, under colors so loathsome and in a shape so execrable?

What would you say of him who were deliberately to go befoul in the mire the costume he was fondest of and in which he thought he struck the finest figure? Is such ineptness even conceivable? Is the like anywhere to be seen in my other works? On the contrary, all the villains I have described are devout because the devout are all villains and all philosophers decent folk, because most decent folk are philosophers. Let me be permitted a reference to the works I speak of. Is there in Aline et Valcour a better-behaved, more virtuous, more dutiful creature than Léonore? And at the same time is there a more philosophical? Is there anyone in the world more devout than my Portuguese? And does the world contain a greater villain? All my fictional persons have this tint; I have never departed from this principle. However, I repeat it, the complete opposite is manifest in Justine. Therefore it is not true that Justine is my doing. I go farther: it cannot possibly be. That is what I have just proven.

I shall here add something better still: how very odd it is that all the pietistic rabble, all the Geoffroys, the Genlis, the Legouvés, the Chateaubriands, the La Harpes, the Luce de Lancivals, the Villeterques, how odd that all these trustees of the shaveling corporation should have flown furiously out at Justine, when that book does nothing but plead in their favor. Had they paid someone to write a work denigrating philosophy, they’d not have been able to buy anything so well done. And by all that I hold dear in the world I swear I shall never forgive myself for having been useful to individuals whom I so prodigiously despise.

No greater error could there be than to attribute to me a book…a book violating all my principles and of which, by all conceivable evidence, I cannot be the author; and, what is more, to make such a to-do over a work which, rightly considered, is but the final paroxysm of a diseased imagination with the ravings whereof they stupidly excite everyone’s mind by crying it up as they do.

Stung by this inculpation, I have just prepared two works in four volumes1 each where I have assailed, toppled, demolished the insidious sophistries in Justine, pulverized them from first to last. But since it is written on high, according to our friend Jacques the Fatalist,2 that men of letters are to be the perpetual victims of stupidity and of folly, my writings are being held, their publication is being delayed (and perhaps even prevented) while new editions of Justine pour from the press every other week. Bravo, my friends! there’d be no understanding your motions were you to cease your opposition to good and your encouragements to evil. In vain did we revolution ourselves to achieve the contrary, ’twas written on high that the most violent abuses are ever to hold sway in our France and that so long as any French soil is left on the globe, it will be recognizable by the corruption practiced upon it.

D.A.F. Sade

[rochestertoastmasters]

Thesaurus Thursday - The proper word is really “Naught” that difficult to discern (def) nothing; a cipher; zero