therecordingheart - Tumblr blog

[therecordingheart]

The Feast

I had a dream that everyone that I ever knew came to a party in the night, in a forest. Inside this forest was my home - I lived in one of the trees. The tree was like a tower, filled with rooms, lit only in the places where I walked.

The food was pieces of giant bone, and slices of wood from the trees. I cut the pieces myself, placed them on plates, and handed them to everyone at the party. There was so much tree to spare, and the bones were enormous, like the bones of giants. We would never run out.

I started from the top of the tree, and worked my way down. I passed hundreds of people. People I knew from every part of my life, people I didn't remember how I knew. I only knew that everyone was there. It seemed there would never be an end to them; I served giant's bones and wooden pieces to everyone that gathered around my tree, those in the forest, deeper, farther, until I reached the end of the forest.

There, I looked out into the horizon, where the world was unmade and all there was was the wall of the universe. I felt warm, I felt safe. Everyone was here, eating and enjoying themselves. It was a sacred celebration.

[therecordingheart]

Quiet'sWord / Latticework Leaf

/Latticework Leaf

//Tomok Esoretica

///Visual Experiences

Quiet’sWord:

3724, H28

The clip submitted here was taken about six hours ago, just moments before sunset. My partner and I tried to get closer to the craft you see here, but we were afraid that it would dissappear at any moment. This was a decent enough shot. It was also rough going after a certain point - the geography we explored fell sharply and became much rockier in the direction of the craft, and it was getting dark. As you can see, this object is nearly the color of the sky on a clear night, and it became impossible to capture once the light was gone. It was barely visible at that point.

I’m sure some of you can already see how large this object might be, compared to the line of trees in the background. It was far. I assure you that, in person, it seemed larger and farther away than it does here. It bothers me how little this footage captured what we actually saw. I would not be surprised if the craft was larger than one of the new apartment buildings that just went up on the east side of the city. I’ve seen those buildings from way further east, near the old walkway on the outside of the spectrum-panel fields. It just seems like this obelisk is bigger. Or is the word monolith? Here it looks a little bit like a dagger without a hilt.

There was also this strange thing - how pronounced it was against the rest of the sky, the rest of the landscape and even when looking at my partner. It was like the obelisk was a denser, more living color of red than I’ve ever seen. It wasn’t glowing, as a matter of fact, it was almost a matte blood hue. Still, it seemed more “real” than other objects. Maybe it was the light, and the way it struck things that I was used to seeing, compared to the craft, which is from elsewhere (I’m going to say Lagesh right now, because, obviously). It also seemed physically more substantial. Like a bit more third dimensional than the rest of the world. Maybe that’s why in looking back at it now, it feels underwhelming.

The obelisk was about an hour’s walk west of the old abandoned unregistered dormatories. If you don’t know what they are, they were some of the old camps that the mystics used to live in before the city limits claimed the plateaus, around 3600. All that stands are ruined walls with no rooves. Everything is collapsed. They can be hard to catch from the highway; they’re deep into the wooded fields that flatten out between the highlands.

This was the intial place we went to explore - we heard on the board about the strange stuff that was found in the far eastern mystic settlement district. Charms, old photographs, those weird prayer sheets that the mystics used to leave around the rural houses. I wanted to see something for myself, and I dragged my poor girl with me. These camps are much older, and there is finally little to no Senti activity in the area. Well, until now.

We watched the craft from the edge of the woods for some time, until a strange thing happened. Somewhere on the fields underneath it, we saw a bright orange-gold light. At first, we thought it was a fire, until we realized the shape was too distinct and solid. It didn’t waver or change shape. It shimmered in a strange way, and we weren’t sure what we were seeing. It could have been small ship, or even a mirror, reflecting light. I can’t say I can describe it any further that that, as after a few moments, this light dissappeared.

After the triangular shaped light vanished, there was another eruption of golden light. Something shot from ground in a giant arch, all the way up into the sky, towards the object - I’ll call it the obelisk. That’s what it looks like, to me. And there are references to this as well, which you can research on your own if you have a mind for it. Keywords: obelisk, Lagesh, estranged Gibex theory, and the YX mystics connection to alien civilizations. Anyway, whatever it was that happened underneath the obelisk, I haven’t a clue. It could have been a weapon deployed against the obelisk, but I didn’t get the feeling that it was.

Senti officers and military drones started making their way over to the obelisk from the north, and my partner and I cut out of there as quickly as possible. We were afraid to use the walkway near the man highway, so we stayed in the woods until we returned to our highcycles in the camps. We heard some shouts from tremendously amplified speakers, something about stayings inside or off the road and back behind the forest on pain of arrest. They didn’t see us, but they were talking to us. I can only assume there were some others who were in the field trying to get a closer look at the obelisk, and where caught by the Senti officers and either arrested or chased off. I’ve never heard anything so loud in my life as those speakers barking warnings and orders. It was excessive, and aggressive, and it scared us both. I’ve never had a good interaction with anyone from the Senti… but that’s another post.

Another thing: at night, the camps are abolutely terrifying. Of course it may be that the uncanny nature of the evening had both of us on edge. That had to be part of it. But I swear, the camps don’t feel abandoned at night. If felt as if we were being watched, or that at any moment whoever used to inhabit the camps would be back from being away. I felt like we were trespassing, and my partner became unconsolably anxious until we left. I know that some people say that those mystics were witches, and were into all manner of dark practices. Casting curses on the Senti who harassed the camp, speaking to demons from across the universe. I don’t know if I believe any of that, just as I’m not sure that I believe what some say about life on Lagesh, or alien civilizations. But I do know that the obelisk in this capture is something beyond our understanding, and that the feelings we felt in the camp were nothing like we have ever felt before. It was an incredible night.

We made it back, and I’ll be honest, we were a little terrified to post or even to speak about it together. But I love this forum, and I want to encourage anyone who has seen anything like this, and has information, to share. Ngqwen has a strange, rich lore, and much of it seems more like mystery than history to me. I’m obsessed with it - we love this board, we love the community, and I’m looking forward to seeing who else has a story to share.

Feel free to ask any questions here or in a private message.

[therecordingheart]

Glossary of the Earworm

Anagmir handed the book briskly over to Emmanuel. He hesitated for a moment, and then she waggled it in the air in front of his face. He took it.

"What is this? Is this the book?" he asked with his flanging Erimha voice.

"The glossary, yes." Anamir said, and she almost allowed herself a sense of accomplishment. "It's not done, but, I figure you'd be able to give me a little bit of feedback on it."

Emmanuel nodded, and pulled the book close. He read the title, and then opened it.

"The Glossary of the Earworm?" he asked. "The Earworm meaning the entire world."

"No," she said, and sighed. "The universe, I suppose. Creation. Including the frequencies."

Emmanuel nodded, and turned some of the pages.

"The book seems rather slim, for such an endeavor."

"Those are preliminary notes, imp. The real file will be kept elsewhere. Somewhere with much more storage space..." she turned, and looked out of the window to the distant shore. "Don't worry."

"Emmanuel," Emmanuel said. "Let's see what this says about me.

"Ana’s first Erimha companion, who is limited to a set of realities that Ana refuses to return to. He is patient, and valiant, and became an important part of the Ensi movement against the Amurax. After his alteration at the fringe, Emmanuel became obsessed with rescuing Sargata the Erimha, who he called his sister-soul. Emmanuel is part of the first generation of Erimha created by Anachras, and was a gift to her, in an attempt to win her favor.

Anagmir listened, her sight never going away from the shore, the black ocean beyond, and even further the gloam of the infinite horizon. "The entry will be much longer, eventually."

"I accept all of this," Emmanuel said gently. "Some of it flatters me. Some of it I can't possibly comprehend, but I know what you have told me about those memories. What confuses me is only one thing."

"Only one?" she asked, squinting as if watching something over the water. "What is it?"

"You refuse to return. To here, right now, with me."

"Yes," Ana said, evenly.

"But you are here with me now," Emmanuel said, gently. He seemed cautious.

"I am, yes," she said, and then turned, pointing at the book. "But when I read this, it will be so. For me."

Emmanuel closed the book gently, and handed it back to her.

"I don't understand."

"The book is for me, Sol. It's for me, for when I do this whole mindless loop again. There is a me out there who doesn't understand how this world works, and she needs a warning. She needs a set of terms and rules that she can hold onto. Something solid. If not, she can be lost forever. I'm writing it for the Long Lady."

"Hmmh," Emmanuel huffed. "You just called me Sol."

Anagmir shook her head, and returned to the window with the book gripped tightly in her long, pale hands.

"I'm sorry. That was a lifetime ago."

[therecordingheart]

Dirty Angels

An old high-cycle drones across a desolate road, through the gloam of a shimmering sunrise. It isn’t moving very fast, but it’s working very hard. The rear portion of the two section vehicle jolts on the jagged, fragmented roadway. The contents of the half-open rear car are jostled about frequently. 

The rider looks back to the little rear car from his seat, and pulls goggles off of his eyes and up to his forehead. Hidden deep within a few canvas rolls and other supplies in the car is a snuggly tucked, sleeping child in a pink wool hat pulled to its upper lip. The child’s arms cradle a small, pearl-flecked white pyramid. 

The rider furrows his brow and returns the goggles to his eyes.

The landscape becomes a rolling haze, swept over with tendrils of stone dust. This dust is everywhere, and swallows the road with a tide of floating silt that rolls slowly on forever. The rider fishes a mask with breathing filters from around his neck, and pulls it over his nose and mouth. 

The cycle drones on.

The light of day is strong now, diffused and spread in a coppery sheen through the dust, and the world seems a quiet void. The cycle comes to another crawling stop. The rider stands up over his seat, stretches, and inhales deeply through the mask. 

Perpendicular to the rider’s current road is a highway, stretching out into the waste in two directions until it disappears. An iron pole across the width of the highway curves slightly as the wind moans across the intersection. The long chain that dangles from the top of the pole lifts away from it, circles around, and then comes whipping back into the pole with great crackling and sparks.

The rider sees the chain striking the pole, and then regards both directions of the highway. He ponders the two options, looking left, and then right. He removes a small black device from the pocket of his dusty jacket, and presses the top of it. 

The device chirps twice. Moving it about in front of his face towards the left route reveals a flickering, pixelated phantom shape in green. He passes the device over to his right, and the image is quickly gone. He returns the device to the left. With another beep, a word appears over the jittery image, in bright, distorting letters:

TARSAL [updated 3746] [0 - 1100]

The rider returns the device to its place, and takes off towards the left roadway as the path behind him vanishes into the waves of dust.

At midday, the rider pulls over near a low building crowned with shredded flags that whip in the wind and have long lost their color. He swings his leg over the cycle, and pulls the mask down under his chin. His lips are cracked. 

A broken sign on the building reads:

HIGH CYCLE - LOW CELL

Moments later, a stout, muscular man swaggers with a limp from the building’s teardrop doorway on stumpy legs, pulling from a mangled cigar in one hand, and waving a pistol back and forth in the other. A part of the building’s sign slaps against the sheet metal facade as the wind whips itself into a fit.

The rider raises one hand in greeting. The man stops twenty steps from the rider. The glowing nub of the cigar nearly disappears between the man’s thick lips as he maneuvers it. He removes the cigar with two charred, pinching fingers, and shoos the rider dismissively with the gun-hand, while exhaling a plume of purple smoke. He says something, but it’s drowned out in the wind. 

Through that fleeting purple smoke, the rider notices another armed man emerge from the building. This one is walking with an odd gliding gait, shoulders back, brandishing a misplaced  and wild grin. There are severe discolored rings of skin under his dreamy eyes. His teeth and mouth are stained an inky color. 

The rider raises both hands now, and tilts his head down. 

The stout man points his gun at the rider and waves him off emphatically. 

The rider waits a moment, then nods. He turns back towards the cycle, but stops short; seeing that, from the trunk-car of the vehicle, the bundled passenger has become unbundled, and has been standing just behind him, eyeing the two men. 

“Don’t,” the rider says. The child regards the rider with a mercurial look. Its wiry hair whips in the wind like a flame. 

The rider shakes his head. The child relents. 

The rider slowly throws a leg back over the cycle, and the child finds its way into the depth of the carriage behind it. Never does the little one take eyes off the two posing before them. The smoking man, and the smiling man. The child grins in return. 

The rider and the child are back on the highway. 

The sun is setting, and the wind is meaner than it was before. This kicks up roaring twisters of dust that tear at the cycle, and their bodies. It forces the rider off the road to an outcropping of overturned trucks and slabs of rock that jutt from the earth. The two take refuge where the wind breaks, and the rider seeks out a place to find shelter. 

Moving from one formation of metal scrap enormous stone to another, the larger figure is followed closely by the smaller. The child clambors up one stone, part of a trio leaning towards each other and towering over the both of them. The rider watches on as the child slides into the dark space where the stones meet. 

With a few deft movements the rider appears atop the rocks, and peers into the crevasse. He hears the voice of the child calling him in, and the rider drops into the darkness. 

The child makes a small light from a tiny device. The rider follows with a light of his own, but brighter. “Save the cell on that,” the rider tells the child. The child clicks off the light. 

Inside the crevasse, the two find the gloomy remains of a camp, long abandoned. There are some stale flares, empty water tubes, and a melancholy portrait sketched onto a sheet of thick metal paper, rolled up and tied with string. 

“Dirty angels,” the child says wistfully, and begins arranging the items with reverence at one end of the rock cave. 

At the other end of the small space, there is a gash of ominous shadow. The rider moves over and inspects it, seeing that it’s a passage into a larger, deeper place. A cave, which echoes in delayed response to a stone the rider pushes into it with the tip of his boot.

“Better keep an eye on this. Heart,” the rider regards the child solemnly, and points to the entrance of the cave. “Don’t go down there.” 

Heart slinks over to the entrance of those depths, and wonders quietly with wide, golden eyes. 

The rider looks sternly at Heart until Heart notices. 

“I heard you!” Heart snaps, and backs away. 

The two set up humble lodgings for the night: Heart on a small bedroll, the rider leaning against the jagged wall of the space with his jacket rolled up behind his back. The light from the rider’s device is set between them, shining up towards the arch of the stones, and shimmering down with a muted, flecked gold. 

After some time, Heart shifts in the bedroll, and stares at the rider. 

The rider is unmoving, but his eyes are open; reflective pools, wet with the gleam of the little light overhead in the darkness. They shimmer, and in this state, the rider seems more phantom than man, staring static, into the void. 

Heart huffs with a curled lip, and turns over with his back toward the man meditating in the darkness.

The rider awakens in the night, seeing movement at the corner of his eyes. As he snaps to attention, he sees Heart’s silent shape crouching before the dark entrance to the space beyond the crevasse. Heart turns towards the rider with wide, panicked eyes, and then vanishes into the deeper darkness of the portal beyond. 

The rider nimbly rushes over to the entrance to the deep.

“Heart,” he calls quietly, with a troubled edge to his voice. 

There is no answer. 

The rider feels his way down into the passage, and is at once swallowed by its endless blackness. He closes his eyes for a moment and breathes deeply; when he opens them again, his pupils are wide and bright; the luminous eyes of a nocturnal animal. The landscape of the enormous cave reveals itself to the rider in a monochromatic spectrum of emerald. 

“Come on, Fuser. There’s a whole path down here,” said the echoing voice of Heart, from deep down into this ancient dark. 

Fuser narrows his eyes. Heart returns this with a laugh, as if he knew Fuser was scoffing.

"You knew I was gonna come down here. This is destiny, big man."

[therecordingheart]

There Was a Demon Here

Erian the Dim emerges from the dark fissures of the outer walls of Arcminor City, into the calcified forest that rises from its steep banks. The dead trees tower overhead, nearly overcoming the top of the border between the Sixth Circle and the forgotten cliff sides of the elevated continent of Arminor. They are raised high on giant arching and interwoven roots. 

As he maneuvers under these ancient sentinels, Erian reaches out his hand into the shadows after the fissure, and a small, pale-olive one reaches back to take hold. 

A little girl with nebulous, dark eyes climbs into Erian’s arms, and the two descend further into the shelter of the stone-like roots that curl and twist over their heads, forming archways and passages. 

The little girl climbs onto Erian’s back, and holds herself high around his sinewy neck with both arms. She curls her toes into his dark belt, and Erian scuttles forward like an insect, through the high-root forest. 

Erian speeds through the root-passages, making no sound at all. The ground becomes jagged, rising as the cliff sides curl around the outer limits of the continent. Some of the passages grow smaller, until they taper down into spaces large enough for only one to pass through at a time. 

The girl slides through the last series of open spaces between the roots, and the serpentine body of the Dim behind her follows. The two come upon a steep embankment that crumbled slowly over the precipice, leading to the crashing waves several hundred yards below them. 

The girl holds out her hand, leading Erian, as there is only one way to go. 

The walkway of giant stone narrows perilously, and the wind from the sea throws the girl's black hair all around her face. 

Erian and the girl move cautiously along, until the cliff steadies and opens once more. The walkway widens into a sufficiently flat road, and the trees are gone, hidden behind the overhead wall of the cliff beside them, and above, Arcminor City. 

The road leads to a set of stairs, ancient and worn away by the wind, flanked by a series of enormous, jagged rocks that rise on either side. 

Erian takes the lead once more, holding the little girl's hand. 

Erian looks at her with his moist, golden eyes. 

She nods, her own eyes shimmering voids of black. 

As the stairs slowly turn around the shapely body of the continent of Arcminor, they reach a long, wide landing, filled with some old, ruined sculptures of stone that serve as gravestones. Just after these forgotten monuments, a large fossilized woodland rises, where the sculptures continue, some of humanoid figures taller than Erian. 

The two approach, quietly, hand in hand. 

One of the statues, deeper into the dead forest, steps forward. 

The little girl wraps one of her hands around Erian’s waist, hiding herself halfway behind him. Erian leaves one of his arms out at his side, shielding her. 

The humanoid steps forward from the darkness of the wood, into the dull, silver light reflected from the cloudy sky. 

The being turns towards the sea, and points. 

“I swam here from all the way the fuck over there,” it says in a layered voice that scrapes, like bladed rings spinning across a glass floor. “It was exhausting. But, I needed the exercise. I’ve been stowed away inside that ship over there for the last two years.” 

Deep in the distance, through the obscuring mists that hung over the still ocean, hovers a dark disc. The being squints its eyes, and lets out a troubled sigh. 

Erian does not look. 

The Dim takes painstakingly gentle steps forward, angling himself so that he remains between the being and the girl. He keeps his back to the cliffside, and the girl snuggly between the cliff and himself. 

“Always so reciprocal,” the being says drly. “I don’t know what it is about you and getting in my way when it comes to kids. Are you everybody’s father?” 

Erian is now near a headless sculpture of stone, with short curled wings. One of its hands extends out, broken off at the wrist. There are deep stains of green and blue in the creases of its robes. The little girl peeks between the sculpture and Erian, at the humanoid that stares at her through inflamed eyes. 

The humanoid, standing noticeably taller than Erian, has a strange  arc of jagged red crystalized flesh that trails like a fin from the left forehead, across a hairless skull, and down the neck. The neck is stretched and sinuous, the limbs lanky and twitching with lean muscle. Its elongated torso is protected by criss-crossing bands of thin, golden metal, from collar to waist. The long legs underneath are covered by a sheen, dark mail, with chain links nearly too small to see. 

The beings arms and feet are bare. All of the exposed pink-gray flesh of the creature are cross-hatched by an uncountable number of tiny scars. Layered over the hexwork of smaller scars are thicker, fibrous ones. They trace its arms, bisect its mouth, and one circles its throat. 

The little girl opens her mouth to speak, but hesitates. Erian lets his hand find hers, and she holds it tight. 

“Erian says,” she speaks in a meek monotone, “he doesn't remember."

The being tilts its head, curling its wiry upper lip in disdain, and grunts. 

“Myriad,” she croaks. There is a pause.

“Swords,” she continues, after a moment, narrowing her eyes.

Erian raises his brow, and shrugs. 

Myriad looks down upon Erian with her blazing eyes. “I’ve killed you in other lives, more than once. I admit, I’m disappointed you don’t remember. But alas, nobody’s cursed with a memory like mine.” Myriad taps her temple with a finger, where two droplets of black blood form instantly. 

Erian’s shadowy crown ripples. 

“Erian says,” the little girl at Erian's side continues pressing herself closer to him, “that you should let us pass.” 

Myriad produces a wide grin, exposing a mouthful of sharp, golden teeth. 

“I can oblige you with half of that.”

“Erian says,” the little girl looks up at him. “That he will stay with you.” 

Myriad creeps forward two steps, grimacing.

“I’m pretty worn out from that swim, and I still have to swim back. Likely murder every one of those dirty angels, unless I want to get stuck in this weird little island. I don’t know if I’m in the mood for you in this particular life, Erian. You can go,” she says, pointing her long, razor tipped finger at the little girl. Myriad’s eyes become brighter, hotter, with a joy born from her wicked spirit.

“I’m here for her.” 

Erian looks down at the little girl.

“Erian says,” the little girl says quietly, “maybe in the next lifetime.” 

Myriad’s laughter seethes through her teeth like steam. 

“This gives me such a sense of nostalgia,” Myriad says, lifting her hand, tendons taut, fingers ending in translucent, crystalline dagger-points. “It's like... my hrim. My sacred place.” 

Erian moves forward with a gesture, appearing immediately nearly nose to nose with the demonic being. Myriad flinches, eyes wide, and dodges towards the cliffside at an equal speed. A great plume of dust is scraped up by her bare feet as she slides. 

With the path clear, Norogan bolts towards the darkness of the petrified woods, her long black hair whipping about behind her. 

Myriad huffs, and lashes out with one long, scarred arm at the last traces of the little girl. Erian throws one long leg in a swift kick towards the being, and an arc of powerful force is deflected up from her hand into the dead trees. Large branches far overhead are disturbed, and a moment later, come crashing down near Erian just as Norogan is lost within the wood’s shadow. 

Myriad spits with a scowl, seizing him by his black collared throat. “Get the fuck out of my way.” She sends a series of fierce knees into his ribs. Her fingers sink into his neck; into the shadowy substance that is his flesh. 

Erian cries out silently. He tries to strike her face with his fist, but Myriad turns her head at a severe angle, and he misses the mark. She sends two jabs of her sharp hand deep into his chest, then hurls him, with a savage shriek, towards the steep cliffside that climbs towards Arcminor City. 

As he is tossed, Erian turns himself, seizing Myriad’s wrist with his strong grip as he goes, and whips himself around with a violent twist of his upper body. Myriad is sent headlong into the cliffside, with a clap of flesh, bone and stone that reverberates into and across the woods. 

The demon yips, and laughs.

Erian looks back toward the darkened trees, and the traces of his hidden smile flourish. 

Myriad recovers, and stands to her feet. She inspects Erian between half closed eyelids.

“You’re going to send me into a bloodlust,” Myriad coos, the razor coils in her throat rotating against each other. “Maybe I'll stick around here after all. After I get rid of you two. Yea."  

Myriad comes forth again. 

---

Norogan runs as fast as her legs can carry her, through the faceless figures of stone, and colorless, high-rooted trees. Strange birds make their sound high above her, but other than those distant wails, and the sound of her heels beating the earth, it is quiet. 

Where the statues end, the ground rises again, and she makes her way up by finding the smallest places to tuck her toes and fingers. On her right, a thicket of smaller, weed-like tendrils grow from the cliff and over its side. At times, she comes so close to the precipice that she must grip handfuls of the weed to pull herself forward. 

Exhausted, Norogan reaches another plateau, where the dead woodlands grow taller, thicker, and everything becomes darker. It seems that the continent stretches out here, away from the city, as if to make its way out into the sea. Long whooping bird calls can be heard echoing from within, and the wind makes the dried limbs of the trees clatter among themselves in a skeletal applause. 

Norogan continues on. 

---

A small boy in an oversized, white hood pauses just before the edge of a gray forest. Far behind and above the boy, a scrapyard village bustles along a climbing path carved roughly into the jagged face of a mountain. The boy looks deeply into the shadows of the calcified trees. A powerful gust of wind bullies the boy for a moment. He pulls the enormous hood over his shaved head, and crouches, nearly vanishing into his clothing. 

In the shadows of those trees, there is a smear of blurred black much darker than its surroundings. It seems like a wound in the forest that goes on and on. The wound takes a form that the little boy recognizes. A person-shape. The shape grows, moving toward the outer rim of the trees, through flakes of ash that fall up from the ground.

The nearer the shape comes to the glow on the outside of the forest, the darker it gets, in pulses that ignite its border with a fire that instantly becomes cinder. 

The little boy is a dozen steps away from this darkness. 

“I see you,” he says, with a tiny finger pointed towards it. 

Shedding that pulsing darkness from itself, the figure is washed by cool light. A girl, not much older than the boy, emerges. She takes two steps into the world under the sky.

The boy, crouched like a frog, and fiddles with some rocks with his hands.

“You look familiar. Where did you come from?” the little boy asks. 

Norogan gazes at the little boy, unblinking.

“Hey, hold my hand,” the little boy says. He stands, and reaches out. Though he is far, his hand appears just before the girl. She looks at it, and takes it. 

In the next moment, the two are together. Face to face, hand in hand.

“That’s a good trick, right?” he asks. The boy looks deliberately into the face of the girl. Her pupils are overtaken by the black at the center of her eyes. There is no reflection, and they tremble, as if buzzing with tiny life. The boy is skeptical. He twitches his nose. 

“Are you Nore-Again? I'm uhhhh. Palimor - that's what Wama named me. But I'm obviously A Humming Bird."

The girl pinches her eyebrows, and looks off into the world beyond the mountain. She sees the sea, obscured by the cold mist that hangs over it. The light behind it is filtered through that mist, rippling with silver waves that burst slowly into gentle shards of white.

"Of course. You're you. Little Dim, Nore-Again. BUT - you could be an evil spirit. There's been evil spirits lately, but mostly at night. I've been having dreams about waiting for someone new to come here. Then I remembered you and the Sleeping Witch, and I thought it would have to be one of you.

“My wama can wash your shirt. You look like you’ve been wearing that one forever. Which you have, I guess. Probably since Lathyanotrep gave it to you. Did you ever get to shower after Lathyanotrep brought us to the city? I did. But I didn't see you. Me and Witch bathed together, but I think they took you away."

The girl looks down at her blouse, which is pale but saturated with layers and layers of stain. There is a pale, but soiled yellow flower in the middle. The material is frayed at the edges. She pulls at a string dangling near the flower, and it undoes some stitching.

“Come back there with me,” he says, pointing to the brick shanty village. “If you want, you can wear a hoodie just like this while she washes yours. This is not the atomic hoody. I wish. It’s just a regular one. We have a few of these.”

"Also, there was a demon around here this morning. Not an astral one, a real one. I saw it. It scared me. So we should hurry."

[therecordingheart]

Well Connected

“Halicend,” a voice calls from behind a closed door. “Hali.”

On the other side of the door, a man gazes out of a window, leaning heavily on an iron radiator just underneath it. He exhales a rolling plume of purple smoke, then raises a bloody hand for another pull. He blinks slowly, one eyelid moving more slowly than the other.

There is a gentle pounding at the door. 

“Halicend, open the door.” 

A wiry youth peers into the crack between the door and its frame, then turns in time to come face to face with another that looks just like him. The reflection stares back with wide eyes. They are twins. The first, somewhat boyish, is shaved till the middle of his scalp, afterwhich, twisting pink tendrils of braided hair explode towards the rear. The other, in the same pink hue, wears two thick rows of braid on the top of her head, that unravel at the back into a wiry halo. Both of them are a deep olive hue, with black tattoos that underline their eyes, and trail down to their jawlines.

“Persimmon?” the second whispers. “What’s the matter? What happened?”

Persimmon shakes his head, angling to see through the crack in the door. 

“Where’s Erian?” she asks, and bites her pink painted lip.

“I don’t know,” Persimmon says. “Get me a knife, or something hard and flat. I have to get in here.” 

“Why? Let him sleep. He can meet us there. I don’t want to look at him yet. It’s too early for that.”

Persimmon looks at his twin, who recognizes his gravity. She produces a little dagger, and passes it hilt first to her brother. 

The knob trembles, and the door gives way. Persimmon enters the room with his brows furrowed. Halicend gazes out of the window dreamily, unbothered.

“I can’t believe you,” Persimmon says in a jagged whisper. 

“What did he do?” the twin whispers from the hall, nervously.

“Don’t come in here, Yumii. Find Erian.” 

“Yea, find that ghostly bastard,” Halicend mumbles, and huffs smoke to himself quietly. 

Strewn across the planked floor, with a foot over Halicend’s ankle, is a dead woman. She’s twisted unnaturally, naked from the waist down. Her eyes are open. There’s blood smeared over her swollen mouth, her blouse, and on the floor between the two of them. Her black hair reaches across the floor, itself like a smattering of dark ink. 

“Hali, come on.”

Halicend hums tonelessly as he smokes. 

Persimmon makes an effort to ignore the body of the girl, but looks, once. He notices a crimson gash in the corner of her mouth. A long jagged rip. A moan escapes his throat. 

A muscular, wide shouldered man appears in the room, towering behind Persimmon. He passes a knuckly hand over his tan, shaven head. He takes stock of Halicend, the young girl’s body on the floor, and sucks his teeth. 

“I should’ve sent her home before I went to bed. Fucking oblivion. Leave it, Perse.” 

Halicend swivels his head over to the tall man, and grins weakly. 

“These are bad things, again, Bast,” Persimmon says, and turns on his heel. “He’ not in control of this anymore.” 

Bast hears this, and curls his head around to Halicend, who is watching him with bloodshot gray eyes. He puckers his lips before blowing smoke out of the window. 

“Did you do those tabs after I went to bed?”

“Mebbe,” Halicend dribbles from his lips.

Bast shakes his head. 

Halicend chuckles to himself, his eyes still roaming the world far beyond the city.

“Keep it leashed until after the festival. That’s only four days,” Bast says, and turns to the door. “Four days,” he says, holding up four fingers. “After that, if you want to get yourself into trouble, you can do it by yourself.” 

Halicend inhales through his nostrils. “Not enough time,”  he muses.

Bast hangs back, and points a long finger at Halicend. 

“That’s plenting of time. And start pulling down those curtains. She’ll find a chute back to the slums before the boss gets back. But get the fuck up, Hal. I’m not cleaning up after you—and I told you that after the other show. I told you that.” 

“Hmm.”

“Didn’t I, Hali?” 

“Mebbe,” Halicend offers, distracted.

“Fucking ya I did.  I’ve gotta get the gear together. We need to be at the venue before dusk. The curtains. When I come back to this room she better be wrapped up tight. And if you don’t clean up, I’m going to be real cross about it.” 

Halicend relents to Bast with a groan, and sluggishly stumbles to his feet. He’s naked, all sinew and bruises layered over with mindless symbols in ink and knotty scar tissue. He scrapes at a dry smattering of blood on his chest. He returns to the window, narrow eyes before the bitter gloom of the horizon, breathing plumes of purple that are sucked out into the atmosphere over the city. 

---

Bast enters a narrow alley through a creaking iron door, a hidden exit of one of the two tall buildings he stands between, and looks down each pass. On the far dead end side, there are mounds of refuse, large fragments of broken machinery, and rats scuttling in and around it all. 

Bast looks right, and sees a sliver of light that signifies the passage to the street. He piles a series of bags and crates, as well as large wooden pieces of scaffolding, into the alley. 

“First Erian,” he grunts, as he works. “Then Halicend, then the twins.” Bast takes one final look about in the dim landing of the staircase, and then shuts the door from where he appeared. He fishes inside of his pockets, and finds a cigarette. He ignites it. “I always end up doing the sweaty work all by myself,” he says, taking a pull.

A shadowy head appears overhead, peeking out from one of the windows overlooking the alleyway. 

“Bast.”

Bast looks up, the cigarette hanging from his thick lips. 

“I can’t find him,” Persimmon says quietly. 

“Where the fuck are you poking your head out from?” Bast asks through the haze. “You better get down.”

“Don’t worry, it’s fine. But I can’t find Erian. Not anywhere,”

“He’s not on the street either,” Yumii says from right in front of Bast. His eyes widen for a moment, and he coughs up a cloud of smoke. “Oblivion. I told you never to do that.”

Yumii flutters her narrow eyes and raises her shoulders coyly. “I could have killed you, Bast.” 

Bast’s chuckle is much like his grunt. “We’ll have to forget about Erian for now. He’ll be fine. He knows where the venue is, we’ll have to trust that he’ll meet us there for the rehearsal.”

Yumii grimaces. “As soon as we came into the city, he started acting strange.”

Bast looks down the alley, and sees the sliver of light become partially eclipsed at the bottom by a vehicle that slows to a crawl before it. 

“Ahh, that’s our ride. There’s nothing about Erian that isn’t strange. Now be a little doll and help me bring some of the stuff to the carriage.” 

“They’ll trace that body back to our room, because of the curtain,” Yumii says, struggling to shoulder one of the bags. 

“Alhenin said everything we touch here will be traceless. He’s connected.”

The two move towards the carriage with their loads. Bast is packed like a mule, as Yumii huffs along with her single bag. 

“The two of them get on my nerves. Always up to something. I’d rather Hali be the one gone. He’s getting scary again, Bast.”

“Don’t worry. We’re here to do a few jobs, and then we’re gone.” 

The two place their loads at the rear of the carriage. The golden-red sun floating overhead casts a warm glow around the towers of the circle just below the one they occupy. Bast slides his thumbs inside of his belt and sighs deeply. 

“Well connected,” he muses. 

“Woah,” Yumii says, admiring the carriage. The rear of the vehicle was a sleek, domed metal cargo hold, with room enough, and to spare, for all of their equipment. The passenger portion of the carriage is long and flanked with a series of wide windows, reflecting the gleaming pointed towers of the surrounding city, mirror-like. At the front of the carriage was a single giant wheel, a full head taller than Bast, composed of a strange, dull black material.

Persimmon appears behind Bast, who is oblivious to his coming.

“This is our ride?” he says in astonishment, throwing his blue scarf over his small shoulder. 

Bast turns suddenly. 

“The two of you are like cats. Be a gem and go get the rest of the bags.” He points into the alley. 

Persimmon nods, and disappears between the buildings. 

Yumii opens the passenger side of the carriage, and pulls herself up into it. Across the meticulous, tan seats on the opposite side, Halicend lay on his back with his fingers interlocked on his chest. 

“Morning sprite,” he says. He hasn’t yet opened his eyes. 

Yumii exhales through her nostrils, and sets across from him.

Halicend is dressed in a clean, well fitting outfit. His athletic frame is complemented by the shape of the narrow white blouse, tucked into dark trousers without a single flaw. He is wearing immaculate, buckled shoes that nearly glisten, and his steel colored hair is combed neatly to one side, where it unfurls into a small cascade of curls. 

Yumii watches him, curious and careful. 

“You’re gonna burn holes in me.” 

“Where did you get those clothes?” she asks doubtfully. 

“Alhenin. He has a cute little outfit for you too.”

Yumii leans forward in her seat. “Really?” 

“Oh yea,” Halicend says. “We’re part of the upper class now, until the new sun. We might as well look the part.” 

As Persimmon enters the carriage, he sits next to Yumii, and looks twice at Halicend. 

“My goodness, Halli. If I didn’t know any better, I’d mistake you for a human being.” 

Outside, a man wearing a long, dark coat with a tall collar approaches Bast as he shuts the rear door of the carriage. Bast turns to him, taking the young man’s slender hand in his own enormous one. 

“There was an accident,” Bast says evenly. “But we got rid of it.” 

“I saw,” Alhenin says. “Be careful in the next few days. The festivities in the city raise the security all around the upper circles, and I can only protect you all as far as my privilege allows.” Alhenin reaches into his coat pocket, and produces a small metallic card. “This is your pass into the third circle, and beyond,” he says through his tilted smile. “Use it with care, and don’t lose it.” 

Bast takes it into his hands, and reads. 

Alhenin - Classified - A1: Classified - Channel .001

“You won’t be riding with us?” 

Alhenin shakes his head. 

“No, I have to make the rounds,” he says, with eyes that gaze distantly. “I may be in and out, but trust that I will be where I’m expected when the festival nears.”

“And Erian?” Bast asks, sliding the card into his breast pocket. 

“Erian is much like me. He knows when to appear when he’s needed. I wouldn’t worry.” 

“Very well.” 

“The apartment I’ve prepared is ready for you. Once the carriage drops you off, I will have an imp meet you at the venue, to guide you there. Enjoy the ride.” 

---

As the carriage rolls smoothly across the elevated highway that curls around the fourth circle towards the third, Arcminor city begins to come fully into view. Yumii and Persimmon both stare with amazement out of the windows of the carriage, as Halicend slumbers just below them. Hichcycl8s, ridden by armed officers jet by, followed by a trio of rolling rings, similar to the driver of their carriage. 

“What are they?” Persimmon asks Bast.

“Those are NAS units. Nasaru.” Bast is smoking again. The smoke that he exhales is sucked out of the carriage by a slim opening in the window closest to him in the rear. “The ring that drives the carriage is an automaton, built to mimic the nasaru. But nasaru are something entirely different. They’re automated life forms.”

“Like the impressions,” Persimmon says. 

“The whole business with those beings is a game of copycat. Us niru were taken up by the Erimha, way back in the ancient days, and created the impression. The Erimha were so chuffed that they went ahead and copied that, and the result was the nasaru. They can change their shape.”

“Into what?” Persimmon asks, fascinated.

“Anything,” Bast chuckles. 

“Woah,” Yummi says quietly. “They’re following those soldiers.” 

“That's the Kabban,” Bast responds. “The only people in the circles we don’t want any business with. Their leader is an Erimha, named Met3r. I want you all to keep yourselves tight every night of work we have, keep the schedule we’ve agreed upon, and for the sake of oblivion, don’t make it so any of those hardheads go asking questions about us before we’ve collected our cell, and we’re gone. You hear me, Halli?” 

Halli groans in his sleep. 

“We look the part when the sun clicks on, we shake hands, we do what we have to do. We rehearse in the evening. Mark one tonight, two tomorrow, three the night before the show. We’ll stay low until then, perform, and then we’re gone right after the performance.”

“Before the new sun?” Yumii asks, turning towards Bast in disappointment. “We’re only opening, there are so many acts after us that I’ve been waiting to see! And the new sun… I’ll be dead before it happens again!” 

“Shhhhuddup.” Halicend moans from underneath Yumii. 

“We’ll watch the new dawn from the roof of a safehouse Alhenin has prepared for us. We can celebrate together. We’ve been waiting for this for a long time,” Bast says, speaking gently.

“We’ll be away from the crowd, and the chaos, and we’ll be rich, Yumii. We’ll never have to toil hard ever again. We'll never have to be someone's slave ever again. We can go wherever we want to go; we can do whatever we want to do.” 

Yumii looks over Arcminor city, the lower circles expanding far out from one side of her field of vision to the other. The dim gloam of the horizon creates the illusion that the city itself is ignited from within with its own life. The empty wastes in the distance roll along into the gloomy edges of the world, obscured by roaming crests and waves of dust storms. But the city is a gleaming maze of consciousness, segmented by walls each taller than the next; each segment a character of shape and movement of its own spirit. Yumii’s eyes spark with the light of the city.

Yumii sighs. 

“Maybe I’ll stay here. In Arcminor City.” 

Bast smiles. He took looks out over the city.

“Me too,” Halicend says, beginning to awaken. “I bet I can have a lot of fun here.” 

---

In the slum tunnel system, a waste worker adjusts the beam of light on his helmet, so that it widens before dozens of large canisters set around a tall system of iron chutes. His peers on the other side of the great tunnel are loading the contents of other canisters into a monstrous vehicle that opens at its top. The worker places a hand on one of the canisters, and whistles loudly to one of the others, who comes trotting lazily over. 

“I told you, they're the ones,” he said with a grin. 

“You wanna open one?” 

“Open them all. Have a peak. You have no idea what these idiots throw away, starting at four. It gets even more incredible the higher you go. You’ll see. If you work the new dawn, we’ll be in the one circle bins, and then you’re gonna understand what I’m talking about.” 

The two begin to unscrew the canister tops, peering with a mixture of caution and excitement into each. After a few canisters have opened, the first worker proclaims a victory. He pulls something from one of the canisters. 

“Look at this.” 

The second worker steps forward eagerly, as the first lifts something from the canister that looks like a head. 

“Is that an imps head?” 

“Yes, brother, it is!” He admires it, severed as it is; the glass facade is unharmed, and the worker uses his gloved hand to examine the entrance to the imp’s head through the neck. “If it has all the basic wiring in here, we can fence this at the Sarf for no less than twenty cell. Especially because the facade isn’t cracked. It costs them that much just to mold the thing, let alone the cost of the material.” 

“Fuck,” the second worker says. “That’s what I make in one week.” 

“Not when you find good shit,” the first worker says, holding the imp’s head in triumph. "We'll split this."

The second worker eagerly went at the remaining bins. 

“Wonder what this one got into, that they scrapped him like this,” the first ponders. 

“They play strange games up there,” the second says. “When you have cell like that, you can do anything you want. You can make people dance. Make ‘em kill each other.” 

“Right.” 

“Oh,” the second says in excitement. “Maybe I found the rest of the body. What’s a whole imp worth at the market?” 

The first worker thinks about this for a moment. “I dunno, brother. I’ve never thought of that. I never found one before. Pull it out!”

The second reaches into the canister, and then recoils. 

“FUCK!” 

“What?” the first worker says, stepping forward. “What is it?” 

“It’s not an imp. It’s a person.” 

The first worker looks into the bin, and removes a swath of fabric that covers the contents deeper within. “Oh no,” he moans. “Go to the truck. Tell the fellows we have a write up.” 

The second looks over to the first with wide eyes, and then goes running off to the rest of the waste workers. 

“Fucking savages,” he says, looking up at the chutework that vanishes far into the ceiling of the tunnel overhead.

[therecordingheart]

Visitors

I see them as little imperfections on a pure monochrome surface. So brazen. There is a swagger and sway to their walk as they approach the puzzle. They either have no idea where they are going, or they know exactly where they are going. Both unfortunate miscalculations on their part, or whoever sent them. 

“Emmanuel?” I call out for him. It’s so very quiet in my receiving room. I won’t look through the orbiting eyes any more. If I do it again, I may frighten them away. They’ve probably never seen anything like them in their lives. I heard there was very little in the way of advanced technology in Arix, as per the demand of that control freak Meterbachuus. I just want to be relaxed, sitting down here and smoking when they get here. I need to change. I just don’t see where I put that dress. 

I call out his name again, in a way that feels like I’m not so concerned about whether or not he answers. But I am concerned. I can’t find the black dress, and it’s too quiet here. 

That last time I died I swung back around to the nearest self, and I'm not sure when that was. That loop was the Oric arc, and I had been trapped within it, fixated on it. I still have my mind on it. The feelings of it are still in my body.

Emmanuel should be here, this time I made sure to go back far enough. I was actually looking forward to something new this time. I feel so much more aware right now than I have been.

“Nope,” I hear the artificial voice behind me as I ascended the steps to my chair. “Just me. I was followed back, like you said I would be. You want I should check the traps in a little bit?”

Sol’s overalls are all torn up. He must have had a rough trip. It’s funny to me, I laugh. 

“Three Giskosians,” I say to myself. Yea, I fucked this up. This is a whole other loop. I need to ground myself before things get out of hand. “No, I’ll do it myself. They’re still dangerous, you know. Where is Emmanuel?” 

“Emmanuel? I’m sorry Ana, I dunno who Emmanuel is. You OK?”

I sigh, heavily. “Of course. Yes, I’m fine, Sol.” 

I’m going to have to go back and consult the timeline. I have absolutely no idea where I am. Oh, anxiety.

“It’s OK. You could look for the boy.” Wait, wrong universe. “No, never mind. Just play me something, Sol.” 

He looks at me like I have arms for legs. Which, I do. 

“Are you sure?” 

“Yes,” I say, gently. I stand up immediately. I remember this. I have to hurry, get ready. Those three that are coming, I know exactly who they are, and who sent them. I go over to the narrow slip of a hallway I have to the right of my big comfortable chair, and I set the Puzzle to bring all of the Thamer-side entrances to the surface. I know one of those repulsive creatures can walk through walls, so this time, I’m going to start them off with no choices.

They can meander through the lower labyrinths. Let them get lost quickly. Let them be trapped and sorted neatly. 

Sol plays a song, and for a moment, I realize that it has been an eternity since I’ve heard him play music. I have been so far removed from this particular title that I welcome the comforting familiarity. I can get into a groove now, I think. I have to remind myself that it’s ok to sink into the moment. To live it through. Not to run away so quickly. 

Just be.

"Lover are you the one for me Can you take it Love is a woman, You can’t take her Love is a woman, You can’t take her

Careful with that woman"

[therecordingheart]

A Glyph

The dry breeze blows in from the abyss.

A splinter of metal glides over an old highway, just as the world is coated in bronze. A spine of dust awakens behind it. As the particles linger in the air, the vehicle is halfway to the horizon; towards the static sun, and the peak of the cyclopean city that shimmers just below. 

The husks of transport trucks are strewn along the long curve of the highway. They’re hollowed out, surrounded by industrial scrap and high weeds. 

Phantom people peek from windows cut into the sides of the transports. Feral children straighten their heads at a quiet sound they don’t recognize. They follow the speeding vehicle for the few moments it visits their world, pulling them from their strange daydreams. 

Some of the dwellings follow the rider across the horizon. Those are further out, monochrome and melting into the distant waste. Where they decompose, the land and the sky blend and their borders are murky. The people who lurk near them are vigilant and stealthy, hiding themselves from the hum they hear coming from the highway, as far from it as they are.

An old man leans on a huge rifle, teetering nearly into the highway. He raises a stumped arm to the rider as the cycle nears. The man’s face is covered in cracking scars. But he bears an excited smirk, as if he’d been waiting for the rider. The rider regards the old man as he passes. They lock eyes through the rider’s mirror mask. Then, the rider is gone. 

Collapsed loading docks reach out to the highway from a graveyard of abandoned industrial complexes. Brigands glare at the road with arms, sitting on their haunches on the rooftops. All of their mouths are covered with squares of cloth. One of them, an adolescent with sick yellow eyes, whistles out to his companions, who are toying with a broken motor. They seemed interested, and began to move their bodies like predators on a hunt. 

There is a winding crackle, like a bolt of lightning in reverse; the rider pierces this vignette like a sword, and vanishes before the brigands raise their weapons. 

Through a metal-sheet town buried in wild, desaturated grass, the rider passes a leathery old woman steering an unstable motorized cart. She hisses, and raises a bottle that splashes dark liquid over her nose before she drinks. The little cart tinkles and coughs, jerking back and forth as it’s overcome by the cycle. The momentos she keeps in the cart whip and sway around her, and she curses. Two tiny mongrels with spotty white fur bark in unison at the rider from the seat next to the hag. Puss and blood gathers in the corner of their eyes. 

The rider reaches the slums. It grows from the earth, and the earth buckles in response.

The rider is led by the narrowing highway into a dense civilization, and is forced to slow. People congest the road, waving pieces of iron over their heads. Deep harmonic pulses lash out from the streets, layering over themselves in dissonant waves that battle for dominance at each intersection. Drums rattle the metal of the burnt awnings and vibrate through the riders chest and throat. A gentle voice rises through this din and the rest of the sounds vanish before it. The song she sings is in a language barely decipherable, but the melancholy is palpable. 

The cycle guns through.

The glow of the static sun dims over the city. The rider spies alleys and building vestibules rippling with two-dimensional life. The beings in the shadows snicker through crooked teeth as the cycle draws a light-blur through them. Some come forward, lurching towards the road with smoke trailing from their nostrils. They see themselves in the rider’s mask, and flinch at their own faces. The rider leaves them chittering and swaying in the street. 

The rider stops suddenly. A group of tattooed men push a mangled vehicle through an intersection. They are in no hurry. A sprite of a tattooed woman with long white hair and filthy olive skin is suddenly close enough to touch the rider’s mask. She is buried in beads and wrinkles. Her finger tips are stained yellow. Her teeth are rotten and gold. 

“Take a glyph into the city,” she says. “A ward against Magaera.” She places a kiss on the rider’s fragmented mask, leaving a dark pink smudge. “Don’t wash it off. I saw you in the light from a narrow door, poor baby. With the dark girl.” The rider continues on. 

The rider makes a sudden ascending turn soon after the road disintegrates into local streets. The rider sees a feral, shirtless child lashing a rusted light pole with a chain. The impact rings out in a bitter bolt, spitting sparks in the darkness. A group of drunk men erupt with laughter as the child takes aim at the passing rider with his gun-finger. 

The rider moves on, deeper into the dark. 

The ruckus of the outer slums begins to quiet. Beams of neon light measure the murky spaces between sleeping warehouse backroads and loading docks. The rider navigates these places nimbly, aware of the dangerous ones that carefully mark the passage of a stranger with a working highcycle.

Orange tube-lights flank the cycle closely, guiding the rider through high brick partitions that hold back the inner slums. A violent voice is amplified from a dilapidated apartment complex teetering over the alley. In the windows far above the graffitied walls, drowsy women lean against window frames with purple mist tumbling up from their mouths before it vanishes into their nostrils. They follow the rider with glistening faces. Someone throws a bottle into the passage, but the rider is gone before it sounds off on the ground.  

In time, before the rider is an iron wall marked with an enormous, fading number 5. 

Two armed sentries, one stout and one gangly, approach the vehicle, holding beams of light to the rider’s face.

The rider extends a hand. The stout one takes what the rider is offering, examines it, and pauses for some time. Then, he scoffs. 

“You from the outside,” he says. 

“The Durga,” the rider responds.

The gangly sentry beckons to the stout one, impatient to see what the card says. He takes it, and raises it close to the goggles over his eyes. 

Ivo Musa - Arcliera (Unreg) - A2: Matija Voronin - Channel 99.771(2)

“A2.” 

The stout sentry looks at the other item—a necklace. Spinning under the leather string of the necklace is a dull metal triskelion. The stout one squints at it as it rotates. 

“What is this supposed to be?”

Musa smiles softly, understanding the sentry’s confusion. 

“It’s me,” he says.

“You?”

 Musa nods. “My identification.”

“What are you talking about?”

Ivo Musa draws back the mask and the hood that holds it. “But, here is my face. These are my eyes.”

The stout one bristles, and takes a step forward to look into the rider's face. He leans in, then he draws back. He’s startled by a peculiar movement in the rider’s pupils when the light touches them. He straightens suddenly, and turns to the other. 

“This card is old,” the gangly sentry says, puzzled. “Let me call it in.” He moves into the shadows near the outpost tower entrance. 

The stout sentry takes a slow step back, and nudges the weapon on his belt with the heel of his palm. He examines the rider. The boots, the cycle. The strange mask. The strange eyes.  

Musa looks up at the sky; a shroud falling, to be pierced by the black spearpoint of the city’s sharp pinnacle. The dark of the sky draws out the light of his eyes, like a nocturnal animal. The rider seems like a phantom, alight from within with a ghoulish glow. 

“That isn’t identification,” the gangly sentry says, slow and cold. “Do you know what an I.D. is, friend? Do they have that where you come from?”

Musa looks at the stout sentry dangling his necklace in a gloved hand. He nods, and for a moment, seems distracted. 

“I’m gonna need something else.”

Musa exhales thoughtfully. “That’s all I have,” he says. “If I’m not enough. I’m here for a friend, the man whose name is on that card.”

The stout sentry huffs through his nose, mildly mystified..

The gangly sentry returns with Musa’s card in the air. 

“What they say?” the stout one asks. 

“It’s fine. Let him through.” 

“What do you mean? The lockdown—all he has is a—” 

“No exits, son. It’s a lockdown going out. And it doesn’t matter—the pass is clear. Let him through.” The rider’s things are returned. He puts them both into a small pocket on the breast of his jacket. 

The sentries pivot back towards the tower, and vanish behind a door that can’t be seen once it shuts. A moment later, there’s a groan from the ancient mechanics of the gate. The mask is over Musa’s face again. The old number 5 splits, and the gate opens.

[therecordingheart]

Myriad Swords

Myriad Swords felt the power of the orb pulsating through her body, still. It had been days since she ingested her cousins black brain mass, and yet, the initial effects on her body and cognition were as strong as they were the first few moments, if less frequent. She could still see waves of potentiality rippling off nearly everything she saw. Man made structures, plant life, hominids. Her senses were so sharp that every piece of information she absorbed was mystical in nature.

For the first time, the sadist forgot about the rolling nightmare that was her death-memory. The future was too differentiated, too alive with possibility to be pulled in any direction but forward. It felt as if she was plummeting into her best possible potential; every step, every breath was a supplement to the energy that would carry her to her ultimate destiny. She wondered, even hypothesized, that this state is the natural state of the actualized Ghiskosian.

"I'll feel like this forever," she said out loud, and laughed. She hadn't heard her laugh in a long time. Maybe years. It was the sound of a whirring, serrated blade eating into thick bone.

There was no one to kill, here. This was a liminal space. After feeding on one of her kin's orbs, she always found herself in some world between, for a short time. This was a place that she normally dreaded. It was where she first met Anagmir, the Long Lady.

Today though, was different. Today, Myriad didn't care to ruminate on her infinite deaths. Today, she had very little to fear, if anything at all. She was, after all, very close to God-hood.

[therecordingheart]

Angelic Beings

I often mourn my closest companion, Silent. Even as she sits beside me. I’ve experienced her sudden death, come by some violence upon her, in a real world that, from here, seems like a nightmare.

I’ve been in a form, one very much like the one I take here, that feels the pain of the absence of her being. I am at this moment a receiver and conduit of her spirit, shaken free by the destruction of her body, and also radiating from the angelic form that sways here, to my right, now, in this sleepy tea shop high above the world.

All of these feelings intertwine into a braid of energy, of experience, that I send like a prayer to my timeless, ecstatic self in the gazebo; the forefront of my collective consciousness.

I wonder if, there, I can make sense of any of it.

I don’t tell Silent that I have seen her death. I don’t speak about my visions. We aren’t supposed to have dreams, we Erimha, let alone peer across the manifold, seeing with the eyes of our other lives. We’re supposed to watch, and witness. That is what I've been told by my forbearers. I don’t know why I'm a little different than they are. 

Silent though, must know. She stares out dreamily across the circles, with a barely perceptible smile, and drones about her father’s ongoing infrastructure projects and political impasses. I know she doesn’t care about those things very much. Like me, she doesn’t tell the whole truth. We play a game, her and I, sharing clues instead of secrets. We do trust each other, so it isn’t about that. It’s more that both of us are aware, and compassionate of one another’s teetering over the very edge of madness. That’s what it’s like, for some of us, in this city. 

Silent hints about the little girl in the cell, one of the three sleepers in the vacuole of the Lightbringer facility. This is slipped between the troubles of the security shifts of the upper circles, and some of her father’s anecdotes about the relationship between antiquated Arcminorian culture and modern administrative policy and protocol. 

I ask her if she has ever seen the girl’s name anywhere, or the names of the other two sleepers. 

“No. She’s 2. That’s all I know. 1, 2 and 3. But she doesn’t belong there,” she says, sipping her tea. It’s too hot, and she winces, furrows her brow and turns to me. 

“What happens to tea,” Silent says “when you drink it?” 

I look down at my own tea. I can see the microns and molecules that make it; the taste, the timbre, the color, the energy. I take a sip, and for me, it’s also very hot, but I can drink it just like this. 

How does she know that the little girl doesn't belong?

“It goes right through, just like it does for you,” I say. 

How does Silent die? Why does Silent die? I feel those questions are a violation, in some way. A slight upon the life that I live now, and the one that has experienced those things. I ask those questions to myself, I think, because I don’t want to lose her again here. But whatever I would do in knowing more deeply about the other realities, would also be a violation of the words me forbearers shared:

"“This isn’t about you.” 

Still, when Silent goes to meet the mysterious stranger in some fringy outskirt of the slum sector, I wonder. She meets with him more often lately, and I’m sure she can sense the restraint I practice in my curiosity about her vanishings. One night, when she ends our music lesson early, I put down my instrument, and make a bold statement. 

“Let me come with you,” I tell her. 

For a moment, she stares at me still as a perched hawk, without betraying her innermost thoughts through her dark grey eyes. I can easily discern the unspoken thoughts and feelings of most human beings I meet, but Silent has always been able to elude me if she chooses. 

“Sure,” she offers evenly, distantly. “You’ll just have to keep it to yourself."

Of course. 

-

We gather our things, and make the strange journey from the second circle to the sixth. 

The late night journey to Silent’s meeting place was as treacherous as I had imagined it might be. We entered the 6th Circle by means of an unregistered taxi from the 4th, and walked through the gutted remains of an ironworks factory which lead to a loading dock that deteriorated into the back streets of the slums. From that point, our safety was not guaranteed.

As we picked up our pace, blackmarket gunsmiths marked our passage with interest from their alley shops; kishr addicts nipped at our ankles with their callused fingers and cursed us when we ignored them. And there was worse—but Silent moved through her secret paths in the liminal spaces of the northern slums like an synapse through a circuit. I followed, vigilant, but trusting her, as I do.

We enter an abandoned mansion near the northwest-most district of the 6th Circle. It was used in the distant past to host important figures for clandestine municipal plotting, according to Silent. The district is a quivering husk of itself now, haunted by scavenging shadows flitting about their secret lives under the upper circles. The walls that separate the slums from the wild wastes of Arcminor are porous here, though there is a system in place that keeps an order that the upper casiqs would envy. Some of the rarest, most expensive items and services begin their journey to the spirals of the wealthiest citizens of Arcminor right here, under the vigilance of gangsters and fences. 

Just beyond a dark reception hall that crumbled slowly into earth under our feet, inside the dim lamplit dining room of the old mansion, stands Silent’s mysterious acquaintance. He turns to the sound of our coming, a narrow swathe in dark clothing. Atop his long frame is a pale face peeking through a jagged black crownlike hat. His eyes are golden, flickering orbs, half hidden under black eyelids, that regard me with quiet curiosity. 

Silent glides ahead of me, and the being moves his eyes from me to her. 

“Erian, this is my friend and family mentor, Marcosias. Marcosias, this is my friend, Erian the Dim.” 

I step forward, increasing my reception of the light in order to see Erian more clearly. Both of us simultaneously raise our right hands in greeting. 

“You are the only human being among us,” I say to Silent, gently, after a moment. 

“Dirty angel,” she corrects me. “Marcosias, I perceive Erian as a tall man, with willowy limbs. His face, which is neither young nor old, seems painted on, like a performer’s mask. If I look more closely, it doesn’t seem like a mask anymore.” 

Erian takes a step nearer to us, away from the shadows that lead into the further portions of the mansion, towards the dining table, where a pair of tapers burn. 

“But, Erian is of the Dim, and the Dim are not of this world, or so I've come to understand. So, when you look at Erian, what do you see?” 

As I take a moment to reflect on the meaning of Silent’s words, I begin to allow new ideas to form as I behold Erian. He is not wearing black clothes, but instead, it seems as if he is composed of overlapping striations of twisting shadow. These shadows take on the shape of a limb, the torso, whatever part of his body I’m perceiving at the moment. Simple reflections on surface textures I had taken for his clothing moments before, now seem as a form of translucence. The movements of the shadow and that translucence are so swift and subtle that they create a blur. In a moment of pure curiosity, I step around the table and closer to Erian, listening, as I observe, with my resonant core, to a sound I can barely perceive coming from him; a hum—he is rippling with vibration. 

Erian’s shadowy crown, which before, was like the dark diadem on the head of jester, or strange king, twists over his head in a manner similar to his body. It’s as if his entire form is summoned, dripping down as streams of black cloud from the aether above us, undulating with its own sentience into the world, reaching towards its source, where it draws its power. 

His face, in contrast with this, is fractals of light, angling against one another into a cohesive form that is also shifting imperceptibly. Erian’s expression is a budding smile always on the verge of completion; a brow never fully set, a narrowing and widening of eyelids, as the platelets of light turn, join, separate, and explore the space that is his gleaming visage. 

Erian is a collection of forces and phenomenon of consciousness, presenting itself for the sake of the perception of the witness. In some way, he is not unlike me. What Erian is further than that, I don’t yet understand. 

“An angelic being,” I conjecture to myself, in earnest, for he can be nothin less. Erian seems to smile, but he had already been smiling; an expression he shares ever anew as he regards me with alien curiosity. 

“He doesn’t speak with words,” Silent says. 

“How’s it that you communicate with one another?” I ask.

Silent reaches out to Erian. Though she stands across the table, his arm stretches out for her, and his hand reaches hers. Silent regards this with eyes I have never seen her have, free of the usual obfuscation and her steely poise. Erian tilts his head to one side, and reflects this expression back to her. I recognize now, that there is something between them that is important and powerful. It’s the reason why she is here. 

“Emotion,” she responds. “His feelings speak to me. And he can hear mine.”

I wonder if I would need to touch Erian to understand his emotion, and through his emotion, his thoughts and intentions. Or, to share my own with him. With the Niru, this kind of communication was never much of a problem for me. Every movement, every sound that a human being makes emits cascading waves of information. There is a shorthand of language I receive from an individual, truths of their understanding and hidden desires, that they are often unaware of. When they communicate explicitly, it’s not only a response to their secret feelings, but a response and preparation for what they are anticipating from others. Barring Silent, and some few others, human beings are quite simple to understand. 

Erian was another matter. 

“He wonders,” Silent says to me, in a locked gaze with Erian, “if you’ll help us.” 

“Help you? Both?” I ask. 

“Yes,” Silent says. She releases Erian’s hand, and takes one of the candles up from the table. Erian quietly steps back, and curls into the darkness behind him, into the mansion proper. Silent follows, but turns to me before she vanishes down the hall. 

“Help us to free her.” 

“Her?” I ask. Though I already know.

“Yes. His child. The girl in the Lightbringer.” 

-

I find Silent in her apartment, gazing out of the window of her sitting room that overlooks the water. It’s one of the clearest, least obstructed views of the Pyrian Sea anywhere in Arcminor City. I would imagine that only the crow’s nests clinging to the side of the Lightbringer tower provide a better panorama. Though, I’ve never been there myself. 

Silent is dressed in what she calls her work armor. They are whatever clothes she believes will project a strong energy for her passages and conversations with the casiqs, merchants, and other powerful individuals of the city. She’ll be meeting her father today, who has, as of late, distanced himself within a deep sadness. But Silent has her mind on other things. 

“This will change everything, Silent,” I say, knowing that these words are unnecessary. As an extension of her will, I am obligated to share my doubts, just before I take the plunge that she will certainly ask me to take. She simply huffs softly, and smiles. 

“The fulcrum has already asked me about Erian,” I continue. 

“Oh?”

I tell her that the Erimha fulcrum has sought for, and gained access to my feelings, and to my will. It was unavoidable. She’s seen Erian’s face, and can decipher my simpler thoughts, as an extension of Silent’s, reaching out to the little girl in the vacuole. I tell her that the fulcrum has been curious about our curiosity, and our hidden will, and that like her and I, there are no secrets between myself, and the fulcrum. 

“Good. You tell the truth, Marcosias. I like you because you always tell the truth. Leave the lying to dirty angels”. 

I will. 

Where Erian is now, I don’t know. I didn’t need to touch his hand to understand that it would be some time before I would see him again. If I did, it would likely be only once, during the New Dawn Festival, five days from today. He would perform with his acrobat troupe, the Ghoul Vaults, just before dusk. At that time, what we planned will have been accomplished. After the performance, what Erian plans will begin. 

“There’s someone coming, Marcosias. Someone very important. He’s already in the territories surrounding the slums, and he’ll be through them soon. I’d like for you to meet him, and then bring him to me.” 

[therecordingheart]

Agony

contact MOTHDM: therecordingheart@gmail.com