Lies are so polite. Honest people have no friends. Nobody wants the truth, not when the lies are what make them happy.
And when the truth, the rude truth, dispels those safe and happy lies, there is a very special kind of horror. I experienced it as terror, as I was forced to learn all about the truth of the real world.
I've spent years as a therapist, delving into the depths of the human psyche and trying to help those burdened by their own demons. My practice has seen its fair share of troubled individuals, but none quite like the three patients I currently attend to. Each one possesses a unique darkness that sets them apart from the rest of my clientele.
First, there's Thomas, a middle-aged man whose words cut through the air like a razor-sharp blade. His brutally honest nature spares no one, as he revels in frankness. He spews forth his bitterness, never holding back his cruel rudeness. It's as if he derives pleasure from watching others squirm under the weight of his words.
Then there's Emily, a woman of few filters and even fewer boundaries. Her honesty is a double-edged sword, slicing through the facade of social niceties with surgical precision, with scathing candor. She has no qualms about revealing uncomfortable truths, making every session a tense dance of revelations and discomfort.
Lastly, there's Jacob, whose coldness could freeze the warmest of hearts. His icy demeanor and calculated words chill the room whenever he speaks. He thrives on manipulation, using his intellect to exploit vulnerabilities and leave emotional wreckage in his wake.
These three patients have tested the limits of my own resilience, forcing me to confront the darkest corners of the human psyche. Little did I know that soon I would encounter a terror beyond anything I had encountered within the confines of my therapy office.
In the dimly lit room of my therapy office, I listen to the unsettling confessions of my three patients. As their therapist, I've grown accustomed to their brutality, their unfiltered honesty. But it's in the aftermath of my aunt's funeral, on that fateful night when my car stalled in the desolate darkness, that I would come face to face with a horror beyond comprehension.
The funeral of my beloved aunt weighed heavily on my heart as I made my way back home, the clock ticking past midnight. Exhausted and emotionally drained, I navigated the winding roads that cut through the barren countryside. The night wrapped around me like a suffocating shroud, and a sense of unease settled deep within.
Suddenly, my car sputtered and came to a halt. Panic coursed through my veins as I desperately tried to restart the engine, but to no avail. With a sinking feeling, I realized there was no cell signal in this desolate stretch of road, leaving me stranded in the oppressive darkness.
I stepped out of the car, the chill of the night embracing me like an unwelcome companion. The moon cast an eerie glow on the silent landscape, emphasizing the desolation that surrounded me. I had no choice but to abandon the safety of my vehicle and venture forth on foot in search of help.
As I walked, the world around me transformed. The familiar countryside gave way to an unfamiliar path, lined with gnarled trees that seemed to whisper secrets in the wind. The air grew heavy, laden with an otherworldly presence that sent shivers cascading down my spine.
After what felt like an eternity, I stumbled upon an exit sign, its rusty metal gleaming faintly in the moonlight. With a mix of trepidation and hope, I followed the arrow, hoping it would lead me to some semblance of civilization.
As I passed through the exit, a peculiar town emerged from the shadows, shrouded in an unsettling silence. The streets, devoid of life, stretched out before me like a labyrinth of forgotten dreams. Inky pools of darkness clung to the corners, stubbornly resisting the feeble rays of the rising sun. It was as if the town itself had been tainted by a sinister force, refusing to surrender to the light.
I caught a glimpse of my reflection in a cracked storefront window, and a shiver shot down my spine. The glass distorted my features, twisting them into a grotesque mockery of myself. Before I could fully comprehend the sight, whispers reached my ears—inhuman voices murmuring in the shadows.
Words like "truth" and "bringer" slithered through the air, chilling me to the bone. It was as if unseen entities were aware of my presence, aware of my role as a dispenser of truth in my profession. The weight of their attention pressed heavily upon me, filling me with a sense of foreboding.
As I cautiously explored the desolate streets, I encountered a townsperson—a perfect mirror image of one of my patients. Seeking assistance, I approached a townsperson who bore an uncanny resemblance to Thomas, my patient known for his brutal honesty.
With a polite smile adorning his face, the townsperson greeted me. "Good day, sir. How may I assist you?" His words dripped with an unsettling charm, a stark contrast to Thomas's usual abrasive nature.
"I'm in need of help. My car broke down, and I require a tow truck or a mechanic," I explained, trying to maintain my composure despite the growing unease within me.
The townsperson's smile remained unwavering as he replied, "I'm terribly sorry to hear about your predicament, but unfortunately, our town is quite isolated, and the services you seek are not readily available. You see, there's no mechanic around, and our tow truck is currently out of commission."
His response sent a chill down my spine, for I knew that Thomas would never shy away from speaking the unfiltered truth. The stark contrast between the patient's brutal honesty and the townsperson's polished lies made the conversation all the more disturbing.
Undeterred, I pressed on, determined to find a solution. "Is there a place nearby where I can make a phone call to seek assistance?"
The townsperson's expression remained placid as he nodded. "Of course, we have a public phone booth just around the corner. However, I must warn you, the line seems to be down at the moment. Perhaps you can try later."
A sense of unease gnawed at me. The deception in his words was palpable. I couldn't help but wonder if this facade of politeness was merely a thin veil concealing something far more sinister.
Growing hungrier by the minute, I decided to inquire about a place to grab a bite to eat. "Is there a restaurant or a café nearby where I can find some food?"
The townsperson's smile widened, his eyes gleaming with an unsettling glimmer. "Ah, I'm afraid all our dining establishments are currently closed for renovations. You won't find anything open at this hour. I apologize for the inconvenience."
Every word he spoke felt like a twist of the knife, the pleasant tone mocking my desperation. It was as if the entire town conspired to deny me even the most basic assistance.
As I ventured deeper into the enigmatic town, my desperation intensified. Seeking aid for my stranded car, I approached a townsperson who bore an uncanny resemblance to Emily, my patient known for her scathing candor.
She greeted me with a disarming smile, her eyes glinting with a deceptive warmth. "Hello there, stranger. What brings you to our humble town?"
Feeling a sense of unease, I mustered the courage to explain my predicament. "My car broke down, and I'm in need of assistance. Is there a mechanic or a service station nearby?"
Emily's smile remained fixed, her voice dripping with saccharine sweetness. "Oh, how unfortunate. I'm afraid our town is quite secluded, and we don't have any mechanics or service stations here. It's such a pity, isn't it?"
Her response sent a shiver down my spine, for I knew all too well the biting honesty that usually emanated from Emily's words. The stark contrast between her usual cruel rudeness and the townsperson's polite deceit heightened the unnerving atmosphere.
Undeterred, I decided to probe further. "Is there a place nearby where I can make a phone call to seek help?"
Emily's eyes gleamed with a chilling delight as she nodded. "Why, yes, there is a phone booth just around the corner. However, I must warn you, the line has been acting up lately. It seems luck is not on your side today."
A knot tightened in my stomach, the realization of their collective deception growing clearer. This town had woven an intricate web of lies, and each encounter served to deepen my unease.
Growing weary and famished, I sought information about a place to satisfy my hunger. "Are there any restaurants or cafés where I can find something to eat?"
Emily's smile widened, revealing a hint of something unsettling beneath the surface. "Ah, I'm afraid all our dining establishments are closed for a private event. They won't be open to the public for quite some time. I apologize for any inconvenience this may cause."
Her words sent a chill coursing through my veins. The townsperson's demeanor was an unsettling reflection of Emily's uncensored honesty, twisted into a sickening semblance of pleasantness. It was as if the town reveled in tormenting me, taunting my helplessness with their deceptive charm.
As I continued my journey through the mysterious town, a sense of foreboding weighed heavily upon me. Seeking aid for my broken-down car, I approached a townsperson who bore an uncanny resemblance to Jacob, my patient known for his cruel rudeness.
A twisted smile spread across the townsperson's face as our eyes met. "Well, well, what do we have here? Another lost soul in need of help?"
My heart skipped a beat, for the malicious glint in their eyes mirrored Jacob's usual sadistic pleasure in causing pain. The contrast between his usual brutal demeanor and the townsperson's chilling charm sent a shiver down my spine.
Summoning my courage, I explained my predicament. "My car has stalled, and I require assistance. Is there a mechanic or a service station nearby?"
The townsperson's smile grew wider, revealing rows of unnaturally sharp teeth. Their voice took on a sinister tone as they replied, "Oh, dear traveler, how unfortunate. Our town is quite isolated, you see, and the mechanics here have a penchant for breaking more than they fix. It's best to avoid their services, if you value your life."
A surge of unease swept through me, the words sinking deep into my core. The townsperson's perverse enjoyment in my misfortune left no doubt that they relished in the suffering of others.
Refusing to succumb to fear, I pressed on. "Is there a place nearby where I can make a phone call to seek help?"
Their laughter, low and menacing, echoed through the empty streets. "Ah, a phone call, you say? How quaint. Our town isn't one for modern conveniences. The phones here... well, let's just say they have a mind of their own. They tend to connect you to places you never wished to reach."
A chill ran down my spine, the revelation leaving me trembling. It was as if the town itself conspired to keep me trapped, severed from any means of outside assistance.
Growing increasingly desperate, I inquired about a place to find sustenance. "Are there any restaurants or cafés where I can find something to eat?"
The townsperson's eyes gleamed with a sinister delight, their voice dripping with malice. "Ah, food... sustenance for the weak. I must warn you, stranger, our town's cuisine is... unique. It caters to more peculiar tastes, if you catch my drift. But fear not, for we have delicacies that will make your skin crawl."
My stomach churned at their words, the realization that this town reveled in the macabre sinking in. The contrast between Jacob's cruel rudeness and the townsperson's wicked charm only served to heighten the pervading sense of horror.
With every interaction, I could feel the town's grip on reality loosening, and the true nature of its inhabitants unveiling itself in unsettling ways.
With a sinking feeling, I realized that the veneer of politeness in this town concealed something far more malevolent. The contrast between my patients' cruel candor and the townspeople's twisted facades served only to deepen the sense of dread that hung heavy in the air.
Questions burned within me, demanding answers. I demanded honesty from these townspeople who insisted on politely lying about their inability to help me. Their deceit extended beyond the realm of car repairs and basic necessities—it seeped into every corner of this enigmatic place, where even the simplest requests were met with pleasant but false assurances.
Driven by my thirst for truth and growing frustration with the townspeople's deceptive façades, I delved deeper into the heart of this enigmatic place. With every step, the atmosphere grew heavier, and an air of impending doom seemed to hang in the murky shadows.
Unbeknownst to me, my relentless pursuit of honesty had begun to unravel something dark and ancient. Ominous portents manifested in the form of flickering streetlights and whispers that danced on the edge of my consciousness. The town itself seemed to pulsate with an unseen energy, as if it were a living entity responding to my unsettling inquiries.
As I caught glimpses of my reflection in broken glass and shattered mirrors, my own visage twisted and contorted. It was as if the very act of seeking truth had tainted my soul, leaving visible scars on the surface. Each crack in the glass seemed to mirror the fractures within my own psyche.
The inhuman voices that had whispered before grew louder, their words filling my mind with their sinister presence. They spoke of a bringer of truth, a harbinger of revelations that could shatter the delicate equilibrium of this town and unleash untold horrors upon its unsuspecting inhabitants.
I was drawn to confront the townspeople once more, hoping to break through their veneer of politeness and unearth the hidden truths they guarded so fervently. However, as I ventured deeper into their midst, a chilling realization took hold—an entity lurked within the shadows, feeding off the collective denial and deception of this town.
As the day wore on, the sun began its descent, casting elongated shadows that danced upon the desolate streets of the eerie town. Doubt and unease gnawed at the edges of my sanity, but I refused to succumb. Determined to find a way out, I continued my search for assistance, unaware of the horrors that awaited me.
Suddenly, out of the corner of my eye, I caught sight of a figure approaching. As they drew nearer, a cold sweat broke out across my brow. The person who stood before me bore an uncanny resemblance, mirroring my own visage. It was as if I were looking into a grotesque reflection of myself.
I stammered, my voice trembling with disbelief. "Who... who are you?"
The doppelgänger grinned, their eyes gleaming with an otherworldly light. "Ah, my dear visitor, it seems we share more than just an appearance. I am but a fragment of the truth you seek."
Confusion gripped me as I struggled to comprehend their cryptic words. "What truth? What do you mean?"
They leaned closer, their breath chilling against my skin. "This town, this facade, it is a sanctuary. A sanctuary that hides a truth so abhorrent, so unspeakable, that the collective acknowledgment of it would grant it unimaginable power."
My mind reeled, the fabric of reality fraying at the edges. Was this some twisted delusion or a glimpse into a sinister reality?
Refusing to believe their words, I clung to the remnants of my sanity. "No, this cannot be true. You're just trying to deceive me, to keep me trapped here!"
The doppelgänger's grin widened, their eyes devoid of empathy. "Believe what you will, but know this: by revealing the truth, you risk damning not only yourself but all who inhabit this wretched place."
A chill wind swept through the town, whispering haunting melodies that seemed to echo the doppelgänger's words. Shadows swirled, tendrils of darkness creeping closer.
Fear and desperation mingled within me, tearing at the fragile threads of my sanity. I had ventured too far, dared to seek answers that were better left unspoken.
Before I could react, the doppelgänger was engulfed by the encroaching darkness. Their form contorted and twisted, morphing into a grotesque, malevolent version of myself. The horrors I had encountered in this town had taken physical shape, manifesting as a twisted caricature of who I once was.
As the sun dipped below the horizon, casting the town into a suffocating gloom, the other townsfolk emerged from the shadows, their distorted visages revealing the true extent of their malevolence.
Driven by their anger at my disruption of their carefully constructed facade, they advanced toward me, their polite words of harmlessness contrasting grotesquely with the weapons they brandished.
Terrified, I turned and fled, the haunting cries of the mirror versions of my patients echoing behind me. The town had rejected me, casting me out into the night, a lone survivor grappling with the lingering doubts of my own sanity.
Days later, when a kind soul finally stopped to help me on the desolate road, I searched for the town on maps and GPS, but it had vanished without a trace. A chilling realization settled upon me: the town existed beyond the realms of conventional reality, a dark pocket where truth and sanity intertwined, forever questioning the limits of human comprehension.
As I drove away, the memories of that nightmarish encounter etched deep within my mind, I vowed never to speak of the town again, burying the chilling secret deep within the recesses of my soul.

I’ve recently started psychoanalysis, and it’s a new modality for me. I’ve been seeing my therapist since January, but I haven’t felt comfortable with him. I am still guarding myself and it hurts me because I’m usually not like that. He’s a 100% blank slate, no emotion, no small talk, will not open the door for me when we leave or greet me.
I finally worked up the courage to tell him that I don’t think we fit well because I find the blank slate to be so cold, and it’s retraumatizing me (background: cold father figures who emotionally abused me). He asked what I needed from him to make me feel more safe with him, and I told him that I need him to act human. I don’t want or need a ton of self-disclosure, but something that feels genuine.
He asked if there was anything he could say to help me. I said, “Saying something along the lines of ‘I know this is hard for you’ would be nice.” Immediately after I said that, he took a big breath of air and sighed while saying, “I know this is hard for you.”
I have never felt more livid and inferior, it felt like he was not genuine and mimicking me.
Is this normal T behavior or response?

I’ve recently started psychoanalysis, and it’s a new modality for me. I’ve been seeing my therapist since January, but I haven’t felt comfortable with him. I am still guarding myself and it hurts me because I’m usually not like that. He’s a 100% blank slate, no emotion, no small talk, will not open the door for me when we leave or greet me.
I finally worked up the courage to tell him that I don’t think we fit well because I find the blank slate to be so cold, and it’s retraumatizing me (background: cold father figures who emotionally abused me). He asked what I needed from him to make me feel more safe with him, and I told him that I need him to act human. I don’t want or need a ton of self-disclosure, but something that feels genuine.
He asked if there was anything he could say to help me. I said, “Saying something along the lines of ‘I know this is hard for you’ would be nice.” Immediately after I said that, he took a big breath of air and sighed while saying, “I know this is hard for you.”
I have never felt more livid and inferior, it felt like he was not genuine and mimicking me.
Is this normal T behavior or response?

Is it possible that if my basement vents were closed, it could freeze up my coils? Ac seems to work fine, inside blows cold air and outside blows warm air. After about a hour it’s starts freezing.
My filter is new/clean

I am not the Original Poster. That is u/throwawaymom_12. She posted in AmItheAsshole.
Mood Spoiler: hopeful
Original Post: May 19, 2023
I (33F) am married to John (35M). Together we have a daughter (3F) and are currently expecting our second child together. We both also have a child from previous relationships: I have Liam (8M) from my previous marriage, and my husband has Ava (10F).
I make Sunday lunch for my family every week. On Friday, Liam asked if I could make stuffing without onions this week. Liam doesn't normally eat stuffing. He tried it a few times, decided he wasn't a fan, and that was it. He tried it with his dad the weekend before (we have 50/50 custody, so our weekends vary) and liked it. I agreed, and on Sunday made my son his own stuffing without onions. It's no big deal, after all, and I'm happy to make separate portions of anything if it means my children eat more.
This is where the problem starts. We sit at the dining table and John points out that Liam has stuffing on his plate. Liam tells him that I made him stuffing without onions, because he likes it without the onions. Immediately, I noticed Ava's mood sour, and when I pressed her, she asked why I didn't make her stuffing without onions when she'd asked about it months ago. Now, I'd understand where she was coming from if she'd actually asked but I had no clue what she was talking about. I said as much, and she told me that she'd brought it up with John, who said he'd talk to me. John never spoke to me about it, and told Ava that it was 'too much work' for me to take out the onions just for her.
John said he didn't tell me because he thought it'd be too hard on me, wanted to make things easier, thought I'd only say no anyway. He even said that it didn't make sense to make a separate portion for just one person. He said it was stupid that I'd even done it for Liam. He said the kids should learn to either make do with onions or not have stuffing at all, because not everything in life is going to go their way. I called him an idiot. I then went to the kitchen and got the rest of the onion-less stuffing for Ava to try.
Later that evening, Ava went back to her mother's and told her what happened, which caused an argument between her and John (and they're not on good terms anyway). John has been angry with me since. He says it's my fault Ava (and her mother) is mad at him. He says I should've just left the 'd*mn stuffing' alone, that I'm just spoiling my son by giving into him like that. There's been some name-calling, but I'd rather not repeat what he said.
Liam must have told Mike what happened, too, because he's told me that he thinks John is overreacting. John's mother and older sister think I'm an a-hole, but his brother has told me to just ignore him. My parents are also on my side, because they used to make separate portions for me when I was a child if I didn't like a specific ingredient. My sister told me to post on here to see if the majority think I'm in the wrong or not. So, I dread to ask, am I the a-hole for making a separate portion of stuffing to suit my son's taste?
Relevant Comments:
Has your husband been saying things to the children about food behind your back? Is it a behavior he exhibited with his ex?
"I hadn't thought about that. Liam hasn't mentioned anything, but I'll have to have a talk with him just in case. I'll ask his father if he's said anything about John, too. Thank you!"
"I definitely will. I'm in charge of pick up this week, so it'll definitely be addressed before I head home. I'll be stopping at Mike's place to talk with him and Liam about John, and then I'll talk with Ava and her mom when I pick her up. There have been a lot of helpful comments and I've realised I need to talk to John's ex, too, to see if this is behaviour that he exhibited when they were married"
Is this anger a pattern of behavior for John?
"He has always had a habit of calling names when he's angry, but he never used to get angry all that often"
"John hasn't always been this bull-headed. He's kind and funny, and he loves the kids. But I'll admit there's been a change in him over the last few months."
"Thank you, I really appreciate it. He is normally very good to us, but he has been quicker to anger these past few months after I found out I was pregnant with our second child together. Hopefully it'll get better after our talk. Thank you again!"
Did you call him an idiot in front of the kids?
"I'll admit calling him an idiot wasn't my best moment. I didn't say it aggressively by any means, but looking back it was wrong to do so. Definitely a slip of the tongue and not something I practice often (especially in front of the kids). I was just blown away, honestly"
OOP decides what else to do:
"Thank you. As bizarre as this argument has been, it's definitely been an eye-opener. I'm planning on showing him these comments tonight when our daughter is in bed. I also plan to have a long talk and air everything out before Liam and Ava come home tomorrow"
Can you teach the kids to make their own food too?
"That's another thing! Liam and Ava do sometimes help out when I'm making the dinner on Sundays. If they're not otherwise engaged (because holding a child's attention can sometimes be a battle), they'll help me with peeling the potatoes or stirring the gravy, etc. John has always been hands-off on Sunday dinners!"
OOP is voted NTA
Update Post: May 23, 2023 (4 days later)
Hi everyone. Before I begin, I just wanted to thank everyone for the overwhelming number of comments and messages I received as a response to my original post. Because of the support and advice that a lot of you gave me, I wanted to come back and give you all an update on how things have progressed since then.
On Friday night, aka a few hours after I posted, I sat down with my husband after he put our 3yo to bed to talk about what had transpired and why he reacted the way that he did. We spent fifteen minutes just reading through comments and messages you guys left, and John was ashamed. He was also very hurt that his reaction (i.e. the name calling) was, in the eyes of the majority, bordering on abuse. He was disgusted with himself.
Now onto the onion debacle. I'm not going to quote everything he said word for word, but it boils down to this: John's dad was very strict when it came to meals. You ate what you were given, and that was that. If John or his siblings ever expressed their dislike for something on their plate, even if it was just one thing, then the meal would be thrown out and they'd go to bed hungry. His dad drilled into him the same "not everything goes your way" mentality that John expressed last week. No one ever told John any different growing up. His mom followed the same rules even after his parents divorced. His dad remarried and John's step-mom was just as bad. If John wanted something, it was an automatic 'no' from her. John didn't tell me about Ava's request because he didn't want me to shut her down as coldly as he was. I guess it was two traumas with one stone.
Then it comes to the anger. Again, I'm summarising here, but John attributes it to stress. He feels overwhelmed with the kids and the pregnancy, and his work has been particularly busy over the last few months. He feels constantly frustrated and doesn't know how to bring that down. But then he asked a question that really blew my mind. He asked if I was having an affair with my ex-husband/Liam's father. Apparently his mom (lovely lady) made a comment about how close we were, how it was 'unnatural', and it's been playing on his mind since. I'll admit that Mike (my ex-husband) and I are close. We're friends. We have a child together. But we don't love each other anymore. All of this I told my husband. I asked if I did something to make him not trust me on that.
Well, after four years of marriage, I found out why John and his ex-wife hate each other. She had an affair. He didn't want to tell me because he was embarrassed and he wanted to put it behind him. He also didn't want me to hate her and maybe have that ruin my relationship with Ava, because it was his pain (his 'burden') to carry. He's bitter because she never apologised and blamed him for the affair. He's apologised profusely for the pain he has caused me and our children. I apologised for calling him an idiot. We both agreed no onions on Sunday.
Despite this exhausting and enlightening conversation with John, I still sat down and spoke with Liam the next day when I went to pick him up from Mike's. Liam said John has never said anything 'weird' to him, nor has he gotten angry/yelled at him, he's never raised a hand. Mike said that Liam has never mentioned anything to him about John. He also said that Liam still brings up the time that John took him and Ava to the zoo when I was pregnant with our youngest.
I also decided to go ahead and talk with John's ex-wife, Izzy. I asked her if John was ever 'hotheaded' when they were together, and she said that he'd get angrier with stress. I then asked about the affair, because while I wanted to believe my husband unconditionally, I needed to hear it from her side. She admitted it. She said that she 'connected' with a guy from her job. She said she doesn't feel guilty about it, because it felt like John was waiting for an excuse to leave, because that's exactly what he did. They argued, and he left, and that was it. Neither of them fought for their marriage, and Izzy's bitterness is mostly due to the fact that, when they were in the process of divorcing, John ordered a DNA test on Ava because the affair made him question if he was really Ava's father.
There were no onions on Sunday. John has agreed not only to couple's counselling but to solo counselling as well. We're also considering family therapy, but before we commit to it, I want to get Mike and Izzy's opinions since they're the other parent of our respective children. John has also apologised to both Ava and Liam separately for the incident. He made the stuffing this weekend with Ava, no onions. It was nice. John even apologised to my parents for being a no-show last week. It's been very stressful, but I love my husband. I believe that he can grow from this. I know him to be kind, and funny, and just a good man overall. I hope from the bottom of my heart that things will be looking up by the time we welcome our son into this world.
Thank you to everyone who has left comments and messages again. I genuinely believe that your advice may have helped save our marriage. Or, at the very least, given me the strength I needed to save it myself.

Hello, I've been working on revising an old magic system to fit with a new story, and I wanted to get some feedback on if my system works well or not. It's a long one, but feel free to hit me with any questions/comments/criticisms about it! Please excuse the inconstent capitalization though, I'm working on it.
​
An Occultists’ Guide to Boundaries
All of reality is built on boundaries. A boundary is a metaphysical container for both the physical matter and the concepts defining an object. For example, imagine for a moment a ball sitting on a table. Now imagine an invisible skin, wrapped tightly around the entire surface area of the ball, encapsulating all the information and properties of the ball. Now imagine that invisible skin suddenly disappeared, leading the concepts that once filled it to just drift away. They might be infused into the table, making it ‘bright red’, or ‘round’. They could get into the air making it ‘bouncy’ or ‘safe for children ages 2+’. The stuff that makes the ball would still be around, but the ball itself wouldn't. For an object to exist, it must be distinct from the things around it. Without boundaries separating ‘thing’ from ‘thing’, the whole universe would be just one big ‘thing’.
This is the basis of Occult practices. Being an occultist starts with the manipulation of boundaries, as the space within them is where magic is performed. That is why, when an occultist begins their studies, the first power they gain is usually simple telekinesis, as manipulating the position of a boundary is good practice. We tend to call those who never move past that stage ‘espers’ or ‘psychics’ or something of the same effect, and even though they are just scratching the surface of what the occult can do, they can get to be fairly powerful.
A basic, widespread (but not universally applicable) law of boundaries is that they have a natural resistance to being manipulated, which is in most cases tied to the surface area of the object. An interesting application of this is that there is functionally no difference in trying to telekinetically move a cardboard box and a solid steel cube of the same size. However, when it comes to destroying a boundary, the difficulty of doing so is all in the ‘complexity’ (this is hard to define, but it will make more sense later) of the object. Stronger occultists will be able to destroy or create more complex phenomena at larger scales.
Since the creation, destruction, and manipulation of boundaries is a fundamental skill for occultists, many different exercises have been devised to help expand a beginning practitioner's skill in doing so. One popular one is trying to destroy the boundaries of small objects, such as playing cards or snack foods, and quickly capturing all the escaped concepts by creating a spherical boundary around them. This can lead to some delightfully non-euclidean objects, especially when you destroy and re-capture the concepts of two different objects into one boundary, but it is a very dangerous way to practice. One could end up not capturing the concepts in time and end up turning themselves ‘easily tearable’ or ‘appetizing to ants’ without the knowledge of how to reverse that.
The analogy of a weightlifter in training may be the most appropriate since an occultist’s ability will grow like a muscle over time, only one that doesn’t plateau in strength. But like any muscle, they will get tired if they go on too long, which will greatly increase their chances of causing an accident.
​
Reality and You
Reality is everything that is real. Every object, entity, or phenomenon that exists and is not fictional is a part of reality. If you can measure it, it's real. There aren’t very many other ways to describe this, but humans generally have a solid grasp of what is real and what is not due to being real themselves. However, not all parts of reality are equal.
All magic happens inside a boundary wherein reality is measurably degraded. There is a special, magical, and incredibly complex machine that can measure the ‘level’ of reality within a boundary. The baseline level, the level wherein everything that isn't the occult takes place, was set to be 10 on the Non-Reality Scale (the NRS for short), and anything below that is magic.
But why would one want to degrade reality? Hypothetically, when someone is pouring themselves a cup of water, they would prefer a fresh, clean glass, to one that hasn’t been washed in years. This is because they want to avoid contamination. Spellwork has the same idea, where to pour what they want into a boundary, the occultist first has to ‘wash’ everything they don’t want out.
That is not to say that less reality is always better. A reality that is too low level can mess with spellwork, or cause a dangerous accident if the boundary is flawed. This is because to complete the final step of the casting, one must reintegrate their degraded reality back to the baseline (that is, if they want anything more than an intangible illusion). The extent to which one would want to degrade reality fully depends on what they want to do with the boundary they are creating. For example, one did not want to use it for drinking, but it would be perfectly fine to use it to water a houseplant. And most people would not be bleaching out a clean cup before drinking from it, even if it has a bit of dust in it. In the same way, in most cases, an occultist does not need to purge absolutely everything from their boundary, and will instead want to selectively degrade reality to a certain level.
​
Mana, the Soul, and Concepts
A Concept is the abstract idea of the matter within a boundary. For example, the boundary of the ball I described earlier contains the physical matter of the ball, but it also contains the Concept of the ball. The Concept can be imagined as an index of every piece of information about the ball, with each piece being called an Attribute. Attributes of the ball’s Concept could include its weight, size, bounciness, flammability, or any other property that one could measure from the ball. Being a Concept and being an Attribute are not mutually exclusive, and it is relative to what the caster is referring to at the moment. Technically, all Concepts are Attributes of the Universe, which contains everything, so it's best to think of each Concept as a part of a greater whole, which is in turn made of smaller parts. With this comes the idea that a concept cannot be created or destroyed (of course, there are those annoying exceptions), only constructed and deconstructed.
The basis of spellwork is simple. Create a boundary, degrade its reality, fill it with a bunch of Attributes to form the Concept of the phenomena you want to create, reintegrate reality, and presto, you have a spell. This process is fundamentally the same for most spellcraft, making a well-practiced occultist very versatile. However, it is the complexity within each of these steps that requires research to understand, skill to navigate, and training to pull off.
Every living thing has a boundary, and every living thing has a Concept. Except for living things, we tend to call the Concept a ‘soul’. There is no real difference, and there is a constant debate over what has a soul. Bacteria are generally deemed soulless, robots and magically animated constructs have been rhetorically argued to have souls, and there is debate around what stage of birth or death does the soul of a corpse become just a Concept. But it is generally agreed that living humans have a soul, and within the soul, there is an Attribute called mana. Mana is the fuel that is required to perform anything to do with the occult. Manipulating boundaries, degrading and reintegrating reality, and working with concepts all require mana.
Almost everyone starts with a very low amount of mana. Most humans only have enough to perform small miracles in moments of great stress, such as a parent being able to lift a car to save their child or a firefighter obtaining enhanced perception in a burning building. Mana, however, can be grown over time like a muscle. After continuous depletion of one's mana reserves, the maximum amount that can be ‘refilled’ during rest increases.
There is a widespread standard for measuring how much mana one has. It requires a half-inch diameter, clear glass marble enchanted with a Concept that causes it to output light in a manner directly proportional to the amount of mana poured into it. An occultist can push as much mana as they can into it and measure the irradiance of the light produced by the marble with a photometer to find their maximum output.
Besides mana, the soul also contains Attributes for one's familiarity with other Concepts. Concept familiarity determines how well an occultist can summon, read, or build a concept. Familiarity is gained in several different ways. For example, an occultist skilled in the art of pyromancy may be a grad student who’s spent many sleepless nights studying thermodynamics and exothermic reactions, a person from an icy village who spent a lot of time near the fireplace as a child, or a serial arsonist who thinks fire is incredibly beautiful. All of these people would be familiar with the Concept of fire. In other words, research, experience, and passion are all equally valid ways to gain familiarity with a concept.
There are three ways to get a concept into a boundary. The first way is to summon it, using one's will to draw in a concept and use it directly during spellwork. This is generally considered the best method for any occult performance for various reasons, as its only real downside is that it requires a very high level of familiarity with the Concept one is trying to summon. However, it requires no material components to pull off and does not produce any backlash (an important idea that will be explained later). This is why most mages choose to spend their life within one field of similar Concepts, increasing their familiarity with a small group of Concepts, trading some versatility to be able to pull off Concept summoning efficiently.
On a side note, there is the popular idea of the ‘four elements’ system of magic. While the idea of earth, air, fire, and water being base elements of the universe has no real truth to it, the fact that they are things one commonly interacts with and are fairly visual makes them perfect for summoning.
The next way to obtain a Concept is through reading. This method takes an object that has a desired Concept or Attributes, destroys its boundary, and adds said Concept or Attributes into the spell. Reading allows an occultist to work with a Concept that they aren’t familiar with, although they should have some level of familiarity if they want to work with it safely. Unfortunately, reading requires you to destroy a material component and leads to backlash. The result is that spellwork done with Concept reading needs more preparation than summoning, and may require rare or expensive materials. The amount of material destroyed, however, does not matter when trying to read a Concept, so long as it is enough that the occultist can reasonably focus on it. For example, if one was trying to read the Concept of gold, the casting will be the same with a few specks of the stuff as with an entire bar.
The final method, Concept building, is the least. Building requires a mage to take several different Concepts and use them as Attributes to construct an entirely new Concept. For example, the Concept of ‘the superpower of human flight’, which doesn’t exist naturally, could be built using the Concepts of ‘weightlessness’ and ‘propulsion’ and ‘human will’. Building has all the drawbacks of reading compounded, so it is very rarely used and requires great skill. But the power to make fiction reality, even more so than any other type of magic, is incredibly appealing, and many occultists spend their entire life trying to bring a permanent concept into the world.
Concepts are not completely objective. For example, a modern person likely associates the color black with things like death, darkness, or despair. In ancient Egypt, however, the color had a more positive connotation, being associated with fertility and festival, since black soil, not white, is where one could grow the crops. Concepts work similarly, and different ones can have different meanings to different people from different cultures and backgrounds. It is completely unknown how modern magic continues to work with so many different ways of looking at the same Concept.
​
And Now for the Bad: Backlash
Once again, imagine a ball sitting on a table. Remember how I said destroying its boundary could lead to the table and air around it lead to the table and air around it obtaining some of its properties, or as we now know to call them, Attributes? This is also how I described some of the side effects of improperly doing the ill-advised boundary exercise from the boundary section.
Both of those are simplified examples of backlash.
When an occultist performs a Concept reading, they are picking out the Attributes they want and exposing the rest to outside reality. If left uncontained, the rest of the Attributes will diffuse into other nearby boundaries, giving the caster’s surroundings (and likely the caster themself) properties that they likely do not want. This is a backlash. Worse, as the free Attributes look for a new boundary, they randomly and chaotically deconstruct themselves into simpler Attributes (for example, the attribute ‘fire’ may deconstruct into ‘heat’ and ‘light’), multiplying the number of Concepts diffusing over time, increasing the scale and chaos of the event.
The resistance of an object's boundary to being destroyed scales somewhat on the complexity of the Concept it contains, and therefore, more complex objects that would cause bigger backlashes are naturally harder (as in they require more mana) to destroy. This acts as a sort of natural safeguard for the occult, stopping just any aspiring wizard from accidentally rending cities uninhabitable or wiping large swaths of land off the map.
Be they geometric shapes or runes in an unknown language, the main purpose of a magic circle (or any shape for that matter) is to contain and safely dispose of backlash. Over time, occultists have found ways to take common aspects and successfully break them down into their most harmless components, allowing them to be dissipated safely, and history has provided a good base for the backlash of just about any spell to be properly contained, with a bit of research. A very skilled occultist will be able to properly command backlash to harness it and enhance their spells, controlling the decay of Concepts to find simpler Attributes needed for the main spell or to set off smaller secondary spells to support the original.
Another way of dissipating backlash is with somatic action, or using one’s body in the same fashion as a magic circle. The danger of this should be clear, but it allows the caster to dissipate backlash without having to prepare a magic circle.
​
Reintegration and Types
The last part of any occult spellwork is normally the easiest. You just have to stop trying. For sorceries and rituals, firing off a spell is just like firing a bow. If creating a spell boundary is notching the arrow, and gathering Concepts is pulling back and aiming, then the final casting is simply letting the arrow fly as it will. There is some skill involved with the speed and grace of an occultist's mental disengagement, but for the most part, reality itself will do most of the job as it brings one's Concepts back to a level 10 NRS and makes the phenomenon ‘real’. This means that after one creates their fireball, all they have to do is bring it into existence and define its parameters, and throwing it costs no extra mana on your part. That also means that a fireball, once thrown, cannot be altered or taken back unless one creates a completely new boundary to counter it.
I mentioned sorceries and rituals. Those are two of the three ‘types’ (not to be confused with ‘schools’) of the occult.
The first is sorcery, the stereotypical form of magic. Sorceries use summoned Concepts and don't require materials or magic circles or somatic actions. If you see a wizard concentrate for a moment, and something weird happens afterward, you saw a sorcery.
Next are rituals. Magic circles, material components, somatic gestures, and multiple casters are all hallmarks of this type, and it includes anything that creates a new boundary but isn't sorcery.
Lastly, there is enchantment. Enchantment either creates an instant phenomenon on another material, or a permanent artifact meant to be used repeatedly. The idea is, that the spellwork one does is not within a completely new boundary, but is done by adding or removing Concepts from a pre-existing boundary. For example, an occultist could permanently add an ‘unbearably cold’ concept to the blade of a sword, or instantly change the enemy's skeletal system to be ‘highly combustible when submerged in blood’.
​
Schools and Applications
There are quite a few ‘schools’ of the occult, general categories occultists put spellwork into. Schools can include things like ‘divination’, ‘necromancy’, or ‘war artifice’.
An example of a specific school of magic is called ‘name sympathy’. Almost all human souls have a ‘name’ Attribute, as it is standard practice to name your children in modern times. One’s name generally is one of their most prominent Attributes, so it is not a difficult task to target a person by using just their name. This is where the school of name sympathy shines, using traces of one’s person to find out their name and affect their soul directly. Sometimes this is used for good and is especially effective when used in conjunction with the ‘healing’ school of magic. Most times, though, it's used for magical murder.
Immortality is not a school of magic per se, since it is just one Concept, but that concept is so hard to build that it takes as much research and effort as any real school. The thing about immortality is that it is very hard to balance. The human body is made up of millions of small parts, all of them living and reproducing and dying constantly. Sure, one could just enchant themselves with the Concept of ‘life’ and apply their mana, but that would immediately give them cancer in every organ. And since there are no real immortal creatures to read the Concept from, in practice, an occultist seeking immortality has to build the Concept from the ground up, and doing so has taken so long and has been failed by so many that most believe that it's completely impossible.
An occultist may completely copy a concept into another boundary. That is called conjuration, one of the other greatly researched struggles of the occult. In most spells, the physical material attached to the Concept within the boundary is left out. When an occultist tries to completely recreate an object with mass or energy, (for example, if you were trying to use gold to make more gold), they are trying to add more matter to the universe than there originally was. And they will accomplish this, thoroughly breaking the law of conservation of mass. However, reality hates when its laws are broken, and it will attack the conjured object, destroying it completely within moments. The whole problem with conjuration is trying to make it work long enough to be applicable for anything more than its primary use for split seconds of attack or defense in the middle of battle, especially given how mana intensive it is. A promising line of study has involved trying to create an equal amount of ‘dark matter’ at the same time as the actual conjuration, balancing out reality.
​
All About Artifice
Artificing is another application of the occult, but it is an expansive field that warrants a section of its own. It is generally defined as using enchantment to permanently imbue an item with a Concept.
Artifacts are the most accessible way to use magic. Unlike sorceries and rituals, which require magical knowledge and practice to use, the only real requirement for activating an artifact is to push mana into it yourself. And since everyone with a soul has at least a small amount of mana, anyone can pick up an artifact and use it with minimal training. A good example of this was the ancient Greek phalanx, which was not only the name of the military formation, but also what they called the combined magical gear used by the people in it, comprised of animated spears that automatically targeted vital points, shields that inflicted magical fear, and helmets that stopped arrows in their tracks.
Potions are another example of artifice, though technically they belong to its subschool, alchemy. A potion is any ingestible, magical liquid that gives a beneficial effect to the drinker when they apply mana to the unmetabolized quantity of it within their bloodstream. Solids versions of this concept are called boluses, and gasses are generally deemed too hard to work with. Potions can only be activated by the drinker, meaning there are not many ways to create alchemical poison without convincing one's victim to course mana through their own bloodstream.

It was called disassociation, the change in my life had been so traumatic that I just... kind of existed, largely doing things on autopilot, only engaging in things when necessary.
I hadn't wanted to be a Kobold, part of me kept thinking, 'this isn't real, I'm going to wake up any moment now'. But I never woke up to anything but this reality. Rather than tackle this like a normal, sane person, I just withdrew and didn't engage.
"Hello, I'm Ruuk." I said. "I haven't exactly been here the past year and some."
The way everyone welcomed me to the warren, not like a stranger finally being accepted, but as a family member who was gone for far too long- It felt good to just... connect.
While I sequestered myself to my shack on the edge of town, the warren had been organizing, fixing things up, just generally working their asses off to make things as comfortable as possible for people. The result was kind of an anachronistic mess, but it worked. Roads had been turn up and repaved, taking a mess of a car-reliant town and streamlining it so people could actually walk from place to place.
The Artificers had taken cars apart and reused the tools to make a tramway that was convenient for everyone. Why bother with cars when half of us can't even reach the pedals? With the restructuring of the town building by building, done simply because it needed to be done, the surrounding houses could be utilized more efficiently.
The reason why my house was largely untouched was because it was still my house, there was no committee ruling that demanded I give it up. It was understood that I'd know what I wanted to do with it when I was finished being a hermit.
Well, more than a handful of people suggested I just have a full-on mage tower, I realistically didn't need that much space, and even then, the things I wanted to keep were so few that having an entire four-story house to myself with more rooms than I realistically needed.
"Besides, when you get to Level 15, you can create your own demiplane." Tudru, the Fighter, remarked.
The plans for such a hypothetical mage tower put it toward the center of the town, just north of the central tramway. It would be convenient to get to me, and it would be convenient for me to go anywhere.
"Plus, well, we've been wanting you to be the Sorcerer on the Council." Goss, the Sorcerer, remarked.
"The what on the what?" I asked.
The Council, as I understood, was comprised equally of Humans and Kobolds. Kobolds with a set Class were put into a position to discuss the needs of the town. No matter who it was, no matter the Class, there was a representative, even if they were the only one present.
There was no Sorcerer Councilor yet, in spite of us being fairly common.
"Why me?" I asked after being given a significantly less truncated explanation.
"Because you're the most competent one out of all of us, are unbound by preconceived notions of how things work." Goss replied. "I mean, I would have never thought of using Magic Missile on that boulder, or staggering the hits like that so nobody got hurt."
I rubbed the back of my neck. "I mean, anyone could have done it." I said.
"The fact of the matter, Ruuk, is that most of us have assumptions based on a bunch of books in a situation that we still don't really understand. I choose to believe that another world has made contact with ours, and we're the ones burdened with responsibility. That doesn't mean I am correct."
They further broke down expectations.
"I am in charge of infrastructure." Rekka, the Artificer, spoke. The goal was to transform the town into an entirely self-sufficient place. Since we were still technically under quarantine, we couldn't get supplies in or out, not without the government allowing it through. The dissemination of magic items and technology that was essential to our continued existence hinged on understanding where to put it and how to ensure it was used correctly.
Barbarians and Fighters- in spite of Kuvli and Tudru being the only ones- were in charge of town defense.
"We work in tandem to find the best solution to a threat." Tudru said. "While thus far purely theoretical, we have options for if and when monsters show up. Let's not forget the Dire Rat that came out of the mine."
"Dire Rat?" I asked.
"Big fuckers." Kuvli said. "Ever seen a nutria? That fucker you killed was even bigger."
It was understood that if monsters came about, we would need weapons. Artificers took care of that, we had a small cache of magically enhanced swords ready and available, as well as every gun in town somewhere where people could grab and react.
Bards, when we would eventually get one, would be in charge of communications and entertainment. With the quarantine in place and us having no actual income at the moment, short of going out and stealing shit, we were largely on our own with what we already had.
"I am in charge of ensuring the town's spiritual needs are taken care of, and the adjudication of our laws." Galax stated. "Given the high probability of Gods existing, and the likelihood of demons, ghosts, and other beings eventually showing up, This includes discerning which deities are existent, and which ones are not. So far, we've only had minor to moderate luck with divine magic. Prayer is necessary for it to work, as we have to explicitly petition our Gods for it every long rest."
"Aren't you biased toward Bahamut?" I asked.
"Of course." He said. "Any anyone who comes to the Temple is welcome to hear anything I have to say on the matter. The biggest problem is figuring out how it all relates."
Next was Merti. "We Druids are in charge of ensuring this town's sustainability and harmony with nature." She said. "That includes recycling materials, ethical and sustainable logging, hunting, farming... Essentially, as long as it pertains to nature, it's our duty to ensure we don't shoot ourselves in the foot."
"Well, while you're busy speaking for the trees, we're responsible for going out there and making sure nothing is coming to kill us. That and getting meat." Tatla spoke. "We're also in reserve in case of a combat situation, we defer to our Fighter and Barbarian for that."
"When we get a Rogue, they will focus on security. As the closest thing we've got to that, I've got plans set up for establishing a wall around the town, just outside the Anomaly, so that people can't just waltz right in, and to prevent any wild animals or hypothetical monsters from getting in." Nakk the Locksmith who might actually be a Rogue said. "And for the record, I've tried everything I can think of to awaken to a Class, and I'm reasonably certain Rogue isn't one." He paused. "That being said, I am offering lockpicking lessons to anyone who thinks it might help."
"Considering we just share and share alike, I don't think we need to worry about our Rogues." Someone I wasn't familiar with yet said.
The way Nakk reacted to his statement, avoiding his gaze, made me wonder why he reacted that way.
"Nakk, why do you look guilty?" I asked.
He looked at me with wide eyes, and for a tense moment, it seemed like he was about to run. I walked up to him and gently put my hand on his shoulder. "It's better to get it out now, rather than later."
He looked away. "I... I've been overcharging everyone since I moved in." He said. "On top of that, I've used my skills as a locksmith to steal from people."
He expected us to get angry, and a fair number of us did.
"Honor and Correction to the enemies of Justice and Good." Galax spoke, "Nakk, is the confession you have spoken true?"
"Y-yes." Nakk said softly.
"When you moved here, was it your intention to steal from us?"
"No." Nakk said. "I just- I had some bad debts, I was trying to escape, start a new life. But then they found me, told me if I didn't pay off the debt, they'd make me regret it. So I stole, but no matter how much I took, the debt never seemed to shrink. When we were all transformed, I was so happy because I could finally escape. They couldn't possibly hurt all of us, and with the quarantine..."
"Nakk." Galax spoke. "Is it your intention to atone for your crimes?"
Nakk nodded. "Yes."
"Then I shall ease your burden, that you no longer are swayed into such temptation." Galax took a pouch out of another pouch on his belt. "This is powdered silver." He said, several eyes widened, clearly understanding the significance of this. "Bahamut, Grandfather of Dragons, Grand Master of Flowers, Justicemaker. Before me stands a penitent soul seeking to atone for his sins against his fellow people. If he hides from you, you are the one who shall bring him into the light. If he hides his face, you are the one who shall reveal it. If his tongue betrays him against his people, you shall be the one who frees it from evil machinations."
He threw the powdered silver upon Nakk, and as he did so, he roared.
"NOMAG SVABOL UI WHEDAB RANNOX EKESS MITNE!"
The silver flashed with brilliant light that, somehow, didn't hurt to look upon, and then Nakk was engulfed in flames. Before anyone could panic, the flames swirled as if caught in a whirlwind and flew into Nakk's open mouth.
For a moment, Nakk was suspended in the air, and then he fell onto his feet, then onto his hands and knees. He gasped for breath, faint wisps of silvery fire escaping his open maw.
"What the fuck just happened?" Kuvli asked.
"That was the Atonement spell." A Player remarked. "You touch a willing creature whose alignment has changed, and if you're powerful enough, you bring them back to their original alignment. In this case, maybe neutral leaning toward evil back to good."
Galax nodded. "You have caused suffering to your people, Nakk. I have firmly put you back on the path to righteousness. You will no longer fear the reprisal of your warren, but will openly accept it. You will no longer hesitate, you will do what is necessary to make amends. Though I can do this as many times as I deem necessary, for you, this is but one chance. In the guidance of Bahmut, go forth and sin no more."
"I will. Thank you." Nakk said.
"I do not need thanks, I am simply the one who interceded on your behalf. Zhin mrith filkiati."
With that out of the way, the meeting resumed.
"Ruuk, as the Sorcerer Councilor, you would be responsible for the responsible use of magic. As every Sorcerer has unique spells, there is a level of versatility that the Warren can use. It would be your duty to advocate for your fellow Sorcerers, to ensure we do not end up taking advantage of them for our own selfish desires." Rekka said. "What do you say?"
I gave it some thought, then nodded. "I'll do it." I said.
What the Council does, as I learned, is convene every week to go over current events and how to deal with them, and occasionally plan ahead on hypothetical situations. We were each paired with a Human who was chosen by other Humans to serve as their representative on specific matters.
My partner is Dave. Dave is a Pagan, he practices magic as a form of spirituality. He is also, currently, the only Human with any level of magical skill, being able to use magic items fairly easily without it blowing up in his face.
"The only reason why I'm not a Kobold is because I want to be an Elf." He said. "I'm hoping that learning more about the Anomaly on the magical end of the spectrum of scholarly pursuit will allow us to do that." He paused. "I will also settle for Dragonborn. You and Galax are currently the best chance of either."
"Why would we want to do that?" I asked.
"Well, presently, only Kobolds are capable of magic, meaning that Humans in the Forgotten Realms are different from us."
"The what?"
"Common setting for D&D." He said. "Now, back when this was all make-believe, Earth was mentioned as being existent in the D&D multiverse, meaning that something decided to mess with us." He paused. "Look, from what I've been able to gather, Earth is in a part of the Prime Material plane that has very weak connections to other planes, we lack magic because of this. However, we are currently in a dome of sustained magic-"
"It's actually a relatively short column." I corrected.
"-which means something has connected us, and specifically us." He finished.
"Alright, so this raises several presumptions, like the notion that someone did this to us for a reason. Do you have any ideas as to what that reason would be?"
"Interplanar invasion, the astral plane bleeding into ours, maybe we're crashing into another plane, maybe a wizard got lucky. We don't have enough information."
I sighed. "Look, let's just get some work done."
We got started on requests, most of them were just questions on if a certain spell was viable for use, some were requests to run experiments with certain spells. With Dave and I debating back and forth, we got them done by the end of the day.
​
[Navigation for 'Dragon Rising'- [1] [2] [3] [4]]

[←Chapter 47] [Cover Art] [My Links] [Index] [Discord] [Subreddit] [Chapter 49→]
The blade forging left Sorore exhausted, the failure left her frustrated, and the cold gave way to fear as the night drew closer. As day faded into dusk, she reflected on a morning that had been as full of ups and downs as the mountain paths they’d travelled. The very fact that she had been able to use magic, that it had crashed from the realm of fairy tales and church warnings into the very real everyday occurrence was already an earth shattering experience.
Then she’d moved water with a thought, seen monsters fall from the sky, and watched the paladins cleaving them in two. Her head spun with the strangeness of it all, the sheer onset of fanciful things blurring and mixing together with reality. She began to wonder what else might be true, of the fairy tales in the myth she had heard on the seas in her father’s ship. Of the old folk stories of Erratz, often dismissed as nothing more than old wive’s tales.
A new world had opened up before her, and she wasn't sure to be fascinated or terrified of it. Certainly the paladins didn't want any part of it, and they certainly didn't want her to be involved. And from everything she knew of the church scripture, they were absolutely right. She felt the danger, the power of the matter, and knew that it was only a small fraction of what it could do. She even felt a certain degree of fear towards the masked man in the black robes, as respectful as he had been as a tutor.
At least he didn't use a switch to reminder of when she had failed.
But even in the murk of her disquiet in that moment, she also felt a smouldering frustration underlying it. The knife had been hers, her project, her duty, and she had resolutely failed to craft it. Part of her shifted the blame elsewhere - it was a new technique she had picked up over the course of an afternoon. Efrain himself had said as much, even going as far to say that he hadn’t expected her to do it.
Now that was something she didn’t like at all. When people expected her to fail, despite all her efforts.
However, that resolution meant little now, given that she had been excused from the effort. At least now the mage had the basic shape to work on. She let her hand drift on the rough stone walls of the church. Thousands of individual perfections, many thousands of years old, the stone functioning despite it. Perhaps it would be enough, the basic, overall function, but she recalled all the pittances and channels carved in her vision of the knife.
She knew what was driving the doubt. It was curiosity, that sticking bug that clung to her, despite all her prayers to the contrary. She just couldn’t seem to shake it, despite the ‘assistance’ of church teachers when it reared its head particularly high. She had expected the snap across the palms from Efrain when he drew that piece of wood. It had been a relief when he’d tossed it over his shoulder.
The thought was an unworthy one, she immediately considered. She should’ve been grateful to the various priests and scholars who’d spent years teaching the twins. Some had even prepared their entire lives, just on the chance they’d meet the beloved Bequeathed. If they were strict, then so be it, it was for the sake of preparing her and Frare for their duties.
The church was once more a buzz of activity as people prepared for the night ahead. She and Lillian found their way to the altar, attracting only minor glances. The villagers clearly had gotten used to their presence, although some offered a respectful and perhaps wary gaze for Lillian. One of Frare’s eyes opened as they approached, but he quickly returned to his half-rest leaning on a pillar. Aya was still very much asleep, chest gently rising and falling under the furs where Sorore had left her.
Sorore sat on the wide steps, put her chins on her hands, and began to think. It was a rather dangerous proposition, considering her recent failure. She had a tendency to ruminate on them, and often her twin would find her staring plaintively before loudly disrupting it. This time was no different, as before anything but impotent frustration could boil over, he plopped down behind her back.
“Stop that,” he said, “I can hear your teeth beginning to grind.”
She leaned back to lie upon his lap, despite the admonishment she heard in her head about proper sitting position. His eyes were closed again, and she followed suit, letting the minutes wile away as night crept into the word. She was shaken out of this reverie by a loud pop and Aya’s yelp. The girl was both mid yawn and bright red as both the paladins and the twins turned to look at her. She insisted that she was fine, and took to straightening her clothes subconsciously.
It was a mere temporary distraction for Sorore, who was largely engrossed in considering the knife. Rather than merely wallowing in her problems, she was invested in its function. She could almost see the stone parting before her, revealing the source of that smothering cold behind the door. Maybe if she had tried one more time, maybe if she reduced the complexity of the form, then increased when she got the basic shape. Maybe. Maybe. Maybe.
It was all of very little use. She was inside her head once again, at a complete loss of what to do. Maybe, within the grand archives of Angorrah, the answer was contained in a dusty scroll. Some offhand fact or technique of forging, long forgotten in the darkness of the shelves. But these were several weeks of travel away, and she wasn’t sure that she’d see the next sunrise. So then, what could she do to get them to bridge that gap? Just one more day, that’s all they needed, to hold out until the next sunrise.
Nothing. That was the simple truth of it - she was a lost little girl in a small village surrounded by terrible things. The thought was not a comforting one, and she wriggled, trying to nestle deeper into the legs of her twin. Aya by that point had come to sit down beside them, looking greyer as the dark came on. No wonder, for she knew she all felt the chill roll forward as the fog waxed in the night.
Another meal of common fare came and went, though Sorore noted that many soldiers were taking care with it. Perhaps it was common practice, to relish what very well may be your last meal. For her part she found it rather difficult to keep it down, the coming dread of the hours ahead offsetting her appetite.
The faces of the paladins had settled into that implacable, stoney cast once more. They quietly rebandaged their injuries, readjusted their armour, and set to sharpening their great blades with long deliberate strokes. Sorore idly thought that their sleeping faces were significantly more pleasant, if rarer to see. Thus it was that they crossed over into the late afternoon, where the light was quickly fading.
“I would like to take one last little walk,” Aya spoke up, “before… you know.”
The paladins looked up, their eyes twisting with barely veiled misapprehension at the request.
“My lady…” Lillian began.
“We can’t,” Niche said, “Not now. Not so close to dark.”
“Just barely outside the door,” said Aya, “Just so I can see something other than the church. Just to stretch my legs.”
The paladins looked at each other, looked back, and set their faces.
“Well, I suppose it can be accommodated,” Lillian said, “only just outside the church, and only for a few minutes.”
Her tone warned of dire consequences if these conditions should not be strictly adhered to. The children all collectively nodded and the party of five set out past the doors. The barricades within the church had grown in size and strength, at least as far as Sorore could judge. The villagers, under the supervision of the soldiers, had proven diligent in the daylight hours. She could only hope that it would be enough for the onset of the creatures, should they breach the church.
She had a dread certainty that it would indeed be breached, sooner or later. Though she hadn’t heard of any specifics, whispers of just how many of the things lurked outside were passed around. It was a small stroke of fortune that the windows were narrow and ensconced in stone. The last thing they needed was one of the flying beasts to crash through the glass.
The faint red-pink cast to the grey outside was beginning to fade into blackness as the sun shrank. Occasionally, the banks of fog would strip away, revealing the abominable silhouettes standing still past the wall. They would close just as quickly, removing any clarity, and leaving only the icy fear in its place. The remaining soldiers and villagers watched them with anxiety and exhaustion.
The garden around the front of the church was almost non-existent. Most of the flowers had been trampled either in preparation for or during the course of the battle. The only things left relatively untouched were the central beds around the side of the church, which grew produce for its tenants. Some trees still stood, showing minimal damage from the fog and its creatures.
The five ducked under the boughs of the closest one to the doors. The additional chill brought by its shade was a trifling concern at the present. The green, muted as it was by the overcast sky beyond, was a lively anchor in the cold, dead mists. Such was the comfort of the place that Soroe let herself lean back onto the bark of the tree and eyes drift closed.
The trunk was solid, a comforting sensation that seemed to offset the malevolence of the fog.
Enough so that Sorore began to wander the netherworld of half-sounds and sights that characterised pre-sleep. They all wandered with her, some staying, some peeling off, guided by their own demented logic. Little and less was coherent, but it took her away from the horrible reality of what lurked a few hundred steps away all the same.
She fell deeper into this other-state, letting the visions wash over her as the real world slipped away. Time became a mercurial concept, which led her to question when exactly everything had settled. But settled it had, into a hazy blackness which the eye could not pierce. There, in the distance, a bright ribbon of twisting warm color glowed. A piece of fresh-forged metal perhaps, the day’s task going straight to her head. Or maybe it was the remnants of another dream that day, one that was already a blurry memory.
From a great distance, she heard a crash, unmistakable in its ringing clarity. A forge hammer singing out a song of its own, for now merely a rhythm. It shifted in tone as it rang out through the abyss once more, adding progression, then melody, all written in singing steel. Sorore’s fingers began to drum out the sequence on her thighs as she felt it reverberate through her. Then, with a sliding screech, she was left alone in the half-dream, with nothing but darkness remaining.
Still, the bright memory of the song remained, and in the darkness another voice took shape. It was a deep, rich, and handsome sound, that spoke of a confidence of such immensity that you were convinced its wielder could do anything. Sorore had never heard the likes of it before, either on the docks, or in cities, or on the open waves.
“Come now,” it said, “this little thing is giving you trouble?”
Sorore’s eyes slowly open, pulling her from the dreamscape back into the dreariness of the real. Aya had her knees pulled to her chest, leaning back into the trunk. The paladins, tired but alert, scanned the endlessly shifting banks of fog.
Sorore had a fleeting impression that the answers were just beyond the pale mists. Maybe something would come through, parting it like thin curtains, and impart the inspiration she needed. Or maybe a whole set of schematics will drop into my lap from the sky, she thought with dark irony.
The vision was quickly fading into the abyss of forgetfulness. Perhaps Aya had shared it once more with her, but she was in conversation with the paladins. Not wanting to interrupt, Sorore looked at her outstretched legs. Past them were a handful of leaves that had fallen despite the summer of the valley, with a couple long decomposed to nothing but their skeletons.
She reached out to grasp at the leaves, looking at the yellow-grey veins that raced across its surface. The large ones spread from the central stem and the hundreds of smaller capillaries that interconnected them. Holding up to the sky, she screwed her face, trying to discern the details of this piece of nature. After a few moments of tepid stillness, the clouds parted for just a moment, letting a ray of sunlight lance down to catch their hill in its beam.
For a second, the leaf seemed to glow, shimmering like metal catching glare.
And Sorore had her inspiration.
With that, she sprang to her feat so fast that one of the paladins almost jumped. Both looked around with questioning and slightly alarmed expressions. Sorore didn’t have much of an answer - in fact her mind was going so fast that she could hardly even articulate the solution that had been revealed to her.
“The- the- the-” she said, snapping her fingers, trying to put words to the idea, “I know what to do. I need to find him.”
“Find who? The mage?” asked Lillian.
The fiery certainty of the thought sent Sorore tramping out onto the grass, leading to calls from the paladins to slow down. She didn’t bother to wait for them, consumed by this need to find the mage, the knife, to try again.
The forge was more or less empty, save for the few labourers packing up the tools and ferrying them into the church proper. With a furious set of questions, she gleaned that he’d vacated the premises some time ago. The paladins called for her to stop as she doubled back, but she couldn’, not now.
The scenery seemed to blur as she rushed through the church doors, past the bustling barricades, and to the captain’s tables. A somewhat perturbed Damafelce told the young girl that Efrain had been seen entering the door at the end of the church. With that, Sorore broke out into a run, past the altar, through the door and down into the darkness of the Catacombs.
She stepped out onto the sand floor, the members of her party at her heels as she tried to seek out the path to the black wall. She stumbled more than once as she felt her way along in the darkness, fortunately with no skeletal interruptions this time. Down the stairs and into the long corridor she came, the smothering cold increasing as she pushed forward.
As she had surmised, Efrain was there, just about to start whatever process pried apart the stone. The tip of the blade was raised, pressed into the stone above his head. He turned at the approaching footsteps, cocking his head at the lack of isolation. Sorore didn’t even wait for him to say something, instead thrusting out her head for the crude metal knife.
“ I know- I can- I can do it now,” she said, breathless from the long run from the surface.
Delicately, Efrain removed the metal from the stone, and looked down at her. There seemed to be a questioning quality to the look, at least as far as she could read the emotionless mask. He looked at the cat, then back to the girl, and then to the rest of her party.
“How?” he said, “ If I let you undo this, we may not have enough time to recreate it before the attacks begin.”
“Leaves,” she said, putting a hand on the wall to steady herself as her lungs complained, “it- was the leaves.”
“The… leaves?” he said, “ All right. Stop, take a few breaths, and start from the beginning.”
And so she did, explaining how she sat under the bows of the trees, the half-awake dreaming, and the skeleton of the leaf.
“I got it. I was trying to build the whole thing out myself, all at once,” she said, stumbling over her words, “instead of letting nature do what it wants. The metal wants to come together - I don’t need to force it into its final shape. I just need to build a- a-”
She snapped her fingers at the air, trying to reach past this new blank as Efrain regarded the knife.
“You want to build a frame,” he said, “and let the metal fill in the rest of the empty space.”
After a moment’s hesitation, he turned over the knife, hilt first, to the girl.
“Well then,” he said, “let’s hope you know what you’re doing.”
She did, or at least she hoped she did this time. Within moments, the metal was flowing over her hands like a cold stream, but instead of trying to sculpt it, she began to spin filaments outwards. Like the skeleton of the leaf, little veins of metal stretched outwards, stopping abruptly, and folding back into themselves. If it had been hard before, it was now brutal, the smothering cold dragging at every attempt to shape the material.
Hands trembling, sweat beginning to bead on her forehead, she managed to split the metal into dark fingers. All she had to do was resist gravity and prevent it spilling over the imaginary bounds of the shape. From those dark fingers, snaking vines spread out and connected with each other. Slowly, slowly, branching and arcing, they filled in the skeleton she’d created and fused.
The final product wasn’t altogether too different from what they’d created during the afternoon. The shape, a heavy chisel tip, tapering out to twin furls like a plough, a longer tang. Sorore, half blind by stinging salt, didn’t fail to notice swirling furrows spreading across its surface. She had no idea how she’d managed to etch those designs, or perhaps the metal remembered, just as the stone did.
“Well,” said the mage at last, “suffice to say, I am impressed. Now, hold it up.”
She did so, despite the exhaustion of her arms, the tip wavering as his finger touched its point.
There was a rush of something, extending over the surface of the blade, stopping just short of her hand. It was like a coat of mail had been pulled taught, the links aligning at the same time, snapping together in a regular structure. From the tip of the chisel, down to the tang, the metal shuddered and settled. By the time it disappeared under her grip, it was rigid as any steel tool.
The mage gently took it from her, holding the blade up to that little flickering light above his head. Flicking it this way and that, he seemed to find whatever he was looking for, and pressed the tip to the wall. Sorore, despite her fatigue, was practically exploding with excitement. She’d done it, not only conquering the task, but she was about to see what was behind those dark walls.
Then, before he pressed the blade into the stone and drew it down, he paused.
“Paladins,” he said, voice quiet, “it would be best to take the children back into the church.”
Lillian frowned and put a hand onto her hilt as she stared at the door.
“What?” said Sorore, aghast, “ But I-”
“No buts,” said Efrain, “we don’t know what’s behind this door. It may be dangerous, it may not. But I strongly suspect it’s not something you would want to see. Very well done, little one, but this is something I should deal with on my own.”
The tone of academic authority was not an unfamiliar one to Sorore. But unlike in virtually all other occasions in her life, she attempted to object. Before she could speak more than a few words, Lillian took her by the shoulders, her mind apparently made up. All three of them were carted up the stairs as barely contained rage began to bubble up inside her.
“Do you think we should…?” said Niche, gesturing to the surrounding stone.
“No, not yet,” Lillian said, “putting aside everything else, we still might need him.”
Niche nodded and said no more.
They had made a steady pace, overtaking half the hallway as the scream of metal on stone echoed out. It was followed by a grating rumble as presumably the doors opened. If the temperature below the surface was cold when they came, the resulting drop was freezing. The mist that rose up behind them whispered things in long mournful sighs as the surroundings began to buzz with what must’ve been magic.
Then, from up the stairs there was a long, terrible wail.
[←Chapter 47] [Cover Art] [My Links] [Index] [Discord] [Subreddit] [Chapter 49→]

Special thanks to u/SpacePaladin15 for allowing fanfiction and giving us Tilfish. The man gave us a canon art of the bugs, and they're rad!
I'm surprised I got this motivation in my to write this part so quickly. I think the fine comments I got motivated me pretty well. Now, I'd appreciate your thoughts and opinions on this. If its flow is smooth and feels right, let me know, I'm not usually good with dialogue.
Also, Feenstra, thank you for your kindness and support. I don't know how to respond to it, honestly, but you're a cool cat.
[First] [Prior] [Next]
.*~*.
Memory Transcription Subject: Marullo, Tilfish agricultural practitioner.
Date: December 2, 2136
.~*~.
I gripped the fabric over the side window and pushed it aside, spotting a Tilfish on the other side of the door instead of a cluster of predators. He appears rather calm, even though he's alone out in the open. My grip tightened on the blind before I tugged the door open.
"Visiting hours are closed." I stated curtly, my antennae twitching outside of my control. Formi I'm still riled up, and I want this man gone so I can dig a hole in peace. I eye the visitor sharply, not seeing any garment or air to him that would tip me off if this was a visiting politician. He's too soft to be a farmer, and I know for a fact there's no appointments he could be attending.
"Oh, uh, is this a business?" I don't even bother with a reply and give the stranger a long look, waiting for him to either acknowledge the massive emblem on the wall right above us or get on with it. He fidgets in awkward silence for a long few seconds. "Uhhh... okay, okay. Off on the wrong feeler here. I'm concerned, is all. I could hear you yelling for the past hour."
My antennae dropped slightly. "What?"
"You uh, your window was open." The stranger explained, mandibles clicking slightly in concern as I shut the door behind me and scuttled down the steps into the yard. I felt my chitin warm around my skull as I looked at the aforementioned window.
Don't tell me I broadcasted that entire conversation to the world.
Stupid sand spitters. Stupid sand spitters!
"I... am sorry for disturbing the peace." I hissed. "I had to wrangle some insubordinates into line. How much did you hear?"
"Not much. Just a lot of yelling. We could hear you from the apartments."
I dipped my head at the mention of the living block. The Regional Agriculture Advisory building was on the edge of the business and government district, and down the road was the start of a residential area. Towering buildings loomed over there, and on occasion they provided a nice view from my old office window with the setting sun reflecting off their many windows.
I was lucky that the masses were too nervous to be out and about in this sector. There was an infestation of predators in and around the capitol building, and even more outposts spread through the surrounding sectors. Being on the streets wasn't popular any more, so the normally lively road we were on was all but abandoned the past several days.
Oddly, I noticed that this stranger was very much alone. There was no swarm to keep him safe, and no vehicle in sight. On the far end of the road leading into the residential sector was a hastily erected barricade that still stood untouched by the predator's roving patrols, comprised mostly of furniture and scrap wood and metal. Looking towards the other end of the road leading towards the capitol building was a more firm barricade that surprisingly still stood, but the filthy tire tracks that cut over the sidewalk and through carefully maintained gardens and lawns told me how the predators got by. There was still nobody else in sight.
"It won't happen again. I had to enforce who's the new boss."
"The predators?"
My mandibles clacked and the stranger flinched at my snap, but stood his ground as I side eyed him intently. "No, me. I'm in charge of this operation."
"Did the predators tell you that yesterday?"
You tar sucking wretch.
The airy accusation made me clench my mandibles and feelers, and my antennae grew still. It must've encouraged the stranger to keep going.
"Because replacing our leaders with more traitorous Tilfish won't work. We're not the Venlil."
So that was what this was really about. Okay.
"You're mistaken," I began smoothly, ready to cut down this wretch with words alone. "My daughter got into trouble while I was working, and was returned to me. I've been terribly busy as you've heard in the old Advisor's place, with everything ongoing. Their visit yesterday did not pertain to my office, and any insinuation to the contrary will not be taken lightly."
"There was a boy as well. He seemed unnaturally comfortable with the beasts."
I will bury you underneath my garden.
"Your vision must be failing, because I assure you I saw no such thing under my roof."
"Good, good. We cannot have the diseased among us, no matter the times. I was wary of calling the exterminators prematurely, so I'm glad I checked in."
"The dead Exterminators?" I asked sharply, cocking my head. "Or the ones leashed to the predators?"
"..." The wretch stared at me for a long moment. "The dead ones, I suppose."
"What a shame about them, really." I drawled. "Anyways, did you have anything else on your mind you felt worth coming over this way to ask?"
"What happened to the old Advisor?"
"Dereliction of duty and cowardice. He's fled to a different system by now. For all the good that'll do him." The wretch's antennae flicked in irritation. "Now, the office is closed and I have work to do yet. Admittance is by appointment only. Good day."
The wretch didn't leave, apparently unsatisfied. We stared at each other a moment more.
"Is something else the matter?" I buzzed firmly.
"The swarm is more than capable of defending itself without the Exterminators. Don't think yourself above it's reach."
Something cold settled in my carapace. My claws itched. "Be very careful; threatening the Agricultural office is a high crime. I'm more than capable of protecting myself without the Exterminators."
A twitch from the wretch. "Is that so?"
"Don't come around my office again. Bounders are not welcome here, same as any predator."
His antennae lowered and he remained quiet, and I felt a faint trill in my chest. "Enjoy your day..."
"Eat sod." I responded sharply. I eyed the wretch as he retreated down the sidewalk, and something clicked in my mind.
Twenty paces. In twenty paces I could retrieve the gun in the lobby. You won't even see it coming.
A flicker of movement, and another Tilfish stepped out from some ornamental carvings in front of the filing office down the way, joining the wretch. I waited until the two were out of sight and long gone, arms crossed and feelers clenching my chitin as I waited even longer, before turning back to my abode and striding around to the garden.
.*~*.
"Marullo?" The voice above me is hesitant, and I bury my tool into the soil and look up. Tugal is above me at the lip of the hole, and I realize that I've dug way too far down. My arms hurt. My legs hurt. I don't feel like stopping, but I might hit a gas line if I keep going. I feel a flash of pity at my brother's distressed state.
"What... what happened while I was asleep? Holywood and Aegan are fighting over burning the last of our food- those Nectar Pods the predator touched. I thought we threw those out, but somehow they're back. Muttart climbed up the wall and left tracks everywhere, and he won't come down because he's still mad about last night. Cleo's locked herself in the bathroom and won't stop crying and vomiting. She searched the net for something and nobody can get through to her now. She mentioned the predator wanted something terrible from you, but that's all I could understand through the door. And you're out here destroying the gardens?"
"I was in my office all day. Food distribution is back on track for now, but who knows how long that'll last. It was stressful, and this is how I'm handling it." I began. I clacked my mandibles and ran my feelers over my antennae.
Formi, I'm filthy.
"Why destroy the gardens? And the hole?"
"The old boss's taste in décor was tacky. I'm sprucing it up. Oh! The Head of Agriculture is still with us. He approved my promotion, so I'm now the new Regional Agricultural Advisor." I rubbed at my face, my antennae twitching aggressively once more now that I'm not putting my entire focus onto tearing asunder this pathetic excuse of a garden.
"I'm making a burrow in case we need to hide the kids outside the building. I've already made two others in case we need to retreat through the back and into the next property."
"What did the predator do? Are you okay?"
I kicked at some loose soil before stretching my legs and scuttling out of the hole. I pulled myself up and fruitlessly wiped at the filth coating my carapace. "I'm not okay. Nobody is okay, or we wouldn't be here Tugal. We wouldn't need to worry about predators, or pests, or starving, or the humans, or each other if we were okay. For once, our predator didn't do anything wrong."
Tugal became alert, his mandibles clicking quietly as he waited for me to continue.
"There was a Tilfish that left the swarm. He went into one of the predator nests to talk. They didn't hurt him- the humans are too patient to eat the first ones that come to them, but after he left some witnesses told the swarm about it." How I really felt about the matter was slipping through with every single errant twitch I couldn't control. We were not supposed to be the monsters in this story. We were not supposed to be so susceptible to our wicked past. We were civilized!
I lowered my voice. "A group took him away from the city and tore him apart while he was still alive. They tried to feed him to Bark Saws, Tugal."
"Are you certain the story wasn't deception?" Tugal whispered back. "It's what they're known for."
I flicked my antennae in confirmation.
"Maybe... maybe they were defending themselves. Don't look at me like that, how they did it was sick. I hope they're screened and dealt with properly; we can't have people doing that in these times. It's no excuse. I'm just trying to understand it." Tugal stated, making my innards twist. "But these predators we're facing hunt through social deception. They're tricky, and the more of us they corrupt the more susceptible the swarm gets. That man, he could've done untellable damage. I just... I'm sorry you had to hear that. We have to stand strong against them, but we can't lose ourselves doing so."
Tugal watched me for a moment more, then gently prodded me: "...now, why the burrows? What else happened?"
I swallowed, my mandibles clicking repeatedly as I tried to reign in my thoughts. It was hard to speak suddenly, and I gripped my feelers until my claws started scraping into my chitin. "Where does that leave Muttart?"
Tugal flinched and his mandibles flexed. "No. Marullo, no."
"He's not afraid of them, Tugal!" I hissed quietly, feelers trembling. "He isn't! How do I help him? How long can I keep him here before he's too curious and sneaks out? What if someone sees him? What if Cleo finds out? He's not a threat: he's still a child!"
"Marullo, he'll be fine." My brother stated firmly, gripping my arms. "Nobody's going to touch him. We just need to talk to him- he doesn't understand what predators are capable of."
"And what about us?" I buzzed back. "What are we capable of? How can normal people do that?"
"It's fear, Marullo. Fear breaks us. You freeze when you're terrified. Others abandon the ones they love. Some... some fight back. Everyone goes crazy when threatened, and those people will pay for what they did."
Too many things flashed through my head at once. It felt like I was boiling.
"It's not just them, Tugal. Someone down in the residential area was watching the predators last night. He asked about him." My brother's feelers tightened on my arms, and he grew still. "They asked about me as well, and I think they believe I'm a threat. They're no different than the people that mutilated that poor man."
"How many? What did you say?"
"Two, at least. They didn't give their names. I didn't tell them anything about us. We can't trust anyone else to keep quiet. One word to the wrong person and we're all dead. Our chance at making this right dies. I told them off, but I don't think it'll be enough."
"They might come back because of that."
"What was I to say? Was I supposed to advertise that we're one of the last resistance networks left?"
My brother's grip loosened and he stepped away, antennae flicking with concern. "I can figure this out. We'll... I'll set up a watch throughout the day with the exterminators. If they're on hand if a mob shows up, one of them in their gear should dissuade any further action. They won't get to you or Muttart. You did good. Can you- please rest. Go clean up, you'll scare Holywood and Muttart."
I twitched my mandibles a few times, looking at the ruins of a once barely acceptable garden. "Let me tidy up back here. I have to order flowers and a few trees, and work on other gardens in the public view. I guess that part can wait." I tacked on quickly, trying not to flinch under Tugal's sharp gaze.
"I'll go out to the market and pick up food afterwards. We shouldn't need to worry about basic necessities."
"If you're up for it. Be watchful out there" Tugal warned softly. I appreciated his concern, and bobbed my head wordlessly. He paused a moment, and asked quietly: "How did the predator come across that crime?"
"I... I don't know."
Tugal sighed quietly. "How did it affect it?"
I paused, wondering why Tugal cared. Absently, I ducked my head in thought. "It's furious. I... I almost want to say bitter. We got into a fight over the Bark Saws, and it escalated. It's angry with me, and I need to figure out how to fix that before we lose it."
"We can try and-""
"No." I interrupt, surprising my brother. His antennae raise, and I continue. "Because I've been handing off the conversation to you and the others, we accidentally crossed it. If I had been the one to talk to it first instead of you, I could've avoided starting the argument with the Bark Saw. Cleo, Aegan, Zoil- they're hostile towards it and it believes I talk like that now. It feels threatened. I need to do this on my own and try and fix it. I can bring it back to us."
Tugal buzzed quietly, thinking. "Okay. Get yourself cleaned up first. Give it some time to calm down and go bring back some groceries. I'll talk with the others and get them back on track. I think our window to do this is closing, Marullo. If we can't get this human the risks we took will be for naught. Every other option will be riskier if this falls apart."
"I know. I won't let you down."

By Tony Mosher

 I got out of bed Tuesday morning with an overwhelming sense of dread. It was then that the alarms sounded. Those old school air raid sirens. Funny enough, I didn't even know that my town had those. Soon after I received an emergency alert on my phone. “Disaster alert warning. All residents are advised to stay in their houses. Keep clear of all windows. Minimize noise.” God that's weird. I'd never seen an alert like that before. I decided that I'd better call my boss. I probably shouldn't go into work with that alert and all. There's a problem though. No cell signal. I have to say, that's not normal. But why would it be? Air raid sirens, emergency alerts, and no phone. Perfect. Curiously, I make my way to my living room and peak out the blinds. I see a bright and sunny day. I guess it's not a weather alert. But then why did it say to stay away from windows? That's, like, tornado advice. Maybe the person in charge of these alerts messed up or something. But it it was a mess up, why is the cell reception out? I guess I could go to work; nothing seems especially dangerous outside. Oh but everyone else probably got the alert; what if I'm the only one who shows up? No, something might be going on anyway. I'll just call my boss when the reception comes back up. Besides, I hate that stupid job. All I do is answer phones all day. If I get fired it's not the end of the world. Mind made up I closed the blinds and got on my computer, thinking I'd check the local news. That aught to clear up the current state of things. Oh. No wifi. Alright, something is definitely up. This is getting really weird. Why would the wifi be out too? I don't have cable, but maybe I can find something on the free broadcast channels. I flipped on the tv and my blood ran cold. All I found on every channel that comes in was a visual counterpart to the emergency alert I'd gotten on my phone earlier. No answers for me I guess. What the heck do I do? No info, and no entertainment. I sat down on my couch. I guess I was there for a while, deep in thought. A while later I realized maybe I should check in with my neighbor. Ted lived next door, and not very far either. He probably didn't know any more than me, but damn, at least I wouldn't be alone in....whatever it was that was happening. I never made it over there. As I grabbed my jacket, keys, and phone (just out of habit of course), and approached my front door, a loud pounding rang out through the first floor of my house. Someone was at the door, and seemingly REALLY wanted in. I went to answer it, as one does, but stopped. Something felt very wrong about this. None of my neighbors would knock like that. Maybe one of them was freaked out about everything that was going on? No. This didn't feel right. “Let me in, hurry!” came a booming bass voice rang out. That definitely wasn't anyone I knew, and who else but my neighbors would be anywhere around here after the alert? Slowly I crept to the side window to peak out. When I saw who was there, my heart just about stopped. An elderly woman stood at my door. With that voice?! She turned to walk away my stomach turned and I nearly threw up. The way she moved was just not right. Not for someone of her age. Not for anyone ever. She moved in quick, limber strides, punctuated by jerking spastic motions that my eyes almost couldn't process. I know this sounds nuts, god help me, but I don't think she was human. And she was headed to my neighbor's house. She pounded on his door. I prayed he wouldn't answer. I wanted to help him, but what could I do? Of course he answered. Good old dependable Ted; he would never turn away someone in need of his help. That turned out to be his downfall. As he opened the door, she lunged in. I heard a horrible scream. I had an unobstructed view through his front windows, but I didn't want to see this. I let the curtain fall and backed away. Just then another pounding came from my door. This time it sounded like a little girl crying for help. I knew better. This one stayed for a while. At least I think it was the same one. A different voice came every few minutes. But I assume it was the same one. Some time later it left. I heard it walking away. These are not quiet things. I rushed through the house making sure all the lights were off, and all the doors and windows were locked. I grabbed what water and food I could, and shut myself in my hall closet. That was the best place I could think of to hide. No basement in my house, and upstairs was a bad option. If worst came to worst I'd either be trapped, or jumping from a second story window. At least on the ground floor I might be able to make a run for it. Not that I think I'd be successful. I hadn't seen one of these things try to run, but I have no reason to believe they aren't fast. I was in that closet for some time. I don't know exactly how long, but it was at least a couple days. I barely touched my food and water. I was terrified to make any noise. Every few minutes the pounding at the door came back. All sorts of different voices. Honestly I thought I was going to die in that closet. Eventually I knew they would break in. How could they not? They must know I'm here. Why else would they keep coming back? Coming back to the same empty house over and over again would be an awful waste of time. Although, I didn't really know anything about their intelligence. How stupid could they be though, if they were trapping up? They never did break in. I don't know if it was just dumb luck, or if maybe there are rules they have to follow. Either way, I didn't take the bait. Sometime later the sirens sounded again. Like I said I'm not really sure how long, but it was at least a couple of days. I got another notification on my phone. Look at that, I guess the cell reception was back. I barely had time to read the all clear alert before my phone died. I suppose days in a closet will do that, even if I hadn't used it. I disregarded the alert. No way was I coming out of that closet. I'd rather starve to death or die of thirst than to face whatever those things would do to me. I didn't trust the alerts. I may have stayed in that closet forever. The pounding started back up again, and I was glad that I had been skeptical. But then, I heard the sounds of my door being broken down. I really thought that was it. The alert was wrong, and they had finally decided to just force their way in to get me. Imagine my surprise when I found myself being pulled from my closet by personnel dressed in what looked to me like space suits. I found myself being directed out of my house and into a tent. There I was assaulted by a heavy spray of something cold and noxious. Some sort of decontamination shower. It burned my eyes and skin. Afterward I was given a pair of scrubs to wear and was sent off to the hospital for observation. It was at the hospital that I was given an explanation. After my intake a doctor came to talk to me. Apparently there had been an issue at the nearby power plant. The doctor said it was radiation. I had been exposed. I told the doctor that couldn't be, and recounted my experience. He dismissed me and told me that hallucinations were a common symptom of radiation sickness, but I was lucky to have only been minimally exposed. He said that my house must have lead in the walls, because most of the people in my town had gotten much sicker than me. Most of them had died, or were expected to soon. He then informed me that although I had been given a mostly full bill of health, I would need to stay for a few days just in case. I would also need to be monitored periodically throughout my life, as my chance of developing cancer was much higher than the average person. I also wouldn't be able to return home for a while. Disaster personnel would need to clear the area and make sure I wouldn't be at risk of further contamination. Radiation can stick around apparently? I'm not really too sure about all that. But the doctor said the Red Cross would be giving out vouchers to survivors for temporary accommodations and personal needs, once we were released. Everything I had been through in the last couple of days, the explanation laid out for me should have put me at ease. I should be feeling lucky right now. But I wasn't. There was one big problem. As far as I knew, my town did not, or had ever had a nuclear power plant anywhere near it. I would know. I'm a receptionist at the hydro-electric plant about an hour out of town. And as the doctor walked away, I caught a hint of the same spastic movement that the old woman thing had made at the beginning of all this. He was smoother though. Like they learned we could tell that they were different from us. Here's what I think: we're being invaded. I don't know by what, but they're getting better at blending in. If you get an emergency alert, don't go outside. Don't let anyone in. Just hide any pray. I think they might have to follow rules. I think if you don't let them in, they can't just come in. But that's just a guess. Good luck out there. 

Hello all, ever since I can first remember I have always been fond of aviation and one passion I have is reading about plane crashes and near crashes to know what happened, why it happened and what changes were made to make the aviation industry safer.
Many years ago I happened to read the Wikipedia page about the Kano air disaster in 1973. I never thought much of it but recently I read through it and wanted to read the accident report which would give information about the background of the flight, the pilots' experience, how many people were onboard, what happened, and any recommendations made. It turns out that despite this being the worst civilian plane crash at the time with 176 fatalities, Nigeria's worst plane crash, and probably investigators from the United States (NTSB) assisted in the investigation because it was an American made plane, if an accident report was issued, it has likely been lost. I asked for any references on the aircrashinvestigation subreddit and got some additional sources but not really useful.

What happened

For anyone unfamiliar with the story, this is what I do know about the flight, some parts are just educated guesses. Early morning on January 22nd 1973, an Alia Royal Jordanian Airlines Boeing 707 was chartered by Nigeria Airways to fly 193 Muslim pilgrims from Jeddah, Saudia Arabia back home to Lagos as part of the Hajj. The 707 was just two years old at the time. There were 9 crew members onboard for a total of 202 people onboard. As far as I know there doesn't appear to be any information on what the flight number was. The Captain of the flight was 53 year old John Waterman, an American with over 22,000 hours total air time. He lived in Beirut, Lebanon with his wife and children and had been flying in the Middle East for 20 years . The remaining 8 crew members probably were the co-pilot and the flight engineer with 6 flight attendants. The airplane likely departed for Lagos at dawn and at some point during the flight the pilots received information that there was bad weather at Lagos and they had to divert to Kano, Nigeria.
According to a source I found, hot winds from the Sahara, called harmattan, a cool dry wind that blows from the northeast or east in the western Sahara, were present at Kano that morning. Large amounts of dust and sand are collected that the sky becomes hazy and visibility drastically reduces. Harmattan is the strongest from late November to mid-March. Just after 0900 local time (the plane would have been in the air for probably 4 hours by now), the pilots began their approach to Kano. On final approach they encountered the harmattan and had to go around for another attempt. On their second approach at 0930 local time, the plane touched down nose wheel first, instead of its main wheels first. The nose wheel struck a depression on the runway and collapsed. Then the right main gear collapsed, followed by the left gear: both collapses ruptured the fuel tanks. The plane then spun 180 degrees and slid off the runway. A fire then broke out which completely destroyed the airplane and only 26 people (23 passengers and 3 crew members) out of the 202 people onboard survived (One source in 1975 says that 33 people survived). Among the survivors was Captain Waterman. Since he survived the crash, it's quite likely that the co-pilot and the flight engineer also survived.
A short video of the remains of the aircraft taken later: 1973 Kano air disaster Alia Royal Jordanian Airlines Boeing 707 [JY-ADO] crash Aftermath Footage - YouTube
Two weeks after the crash the Jordanian authorities insisted that a depression in the runway was to blame while the Nigerians insisted that pilot error was the cause as Waterman had ignored orders from the tower not to land due to the strong winds.
In 1975, the Nigerian government tribunal who investigated the crash recommended that Captain Waterman be prosecuted for culpable homicide and be banned from ever flying into Nigeria again as he piloted the airplane in a reckless manner. The Nigerian government agreed with the tribunals findings. I was not able to find any information on whether Waterman was prosecuted or what happened to him afterwards. However, I have found no information on whether a depression in the runway was to blame or the nose wheel broke off because he landed the plane too hard and nose wheel first.
Getting back to my question, it looks like an investigation was conducted, but their findings were never put into an accident report and if they were they were never submitted to the International Civil Aviation Organization (ICAO).
If anyone has more information about this crash or is able to find any additional sources I would love to read them.
Sources I found about the Kano Air disaster:

1. https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Kano_air_disaster
2. https://www.baaa-acro.com/crash/crash-boeing-707-3d3c-kano-176-killed
3. https://aviation-safety.net/database/record.php?id=19730122-0
4. https://content.time.com/time/subscribearticle/0,33009,906816,00.html
5. https://www.nytimes.com/1973/01/23/archives/pilgrims-jet-crashes-in-nigeria-180-are-feared-dead-a-record-180.html
6. https://www.nytimes.com/1975/09/18/archives/us-pilot-blamed-for-crash-that-killed-157-in-nigeria.html

Thank you

Motivation — A Close Reading of Tea Time

"I'm six feet from the edge and I'm thinking: maybe six feet ain't so far down?"
Nimander Golit
Chapter V of Weathered
2002 BS
Click Here for the Introduction to the essay series.

Prelude to the Close Reading

Why, hello there, again. It’s been a few weeks but I promise that this endeavor is still moving forward. For those that don’t know, this essay is a part of a collection I’ll be putting together which investigates the Eleint, their blood, and sorcery within the Malazan shared secondary universe. We’re still laying down our foundations, and today we’ll be covering a sequence of scenes in Chapter 8 of Toll the Hounds.
My intentions were to cover all of the scenes in a single post, but that has proven itself to be difficult. As such, I’ll cover the first scene in this sequence in this post. There’ll be one or two follow-up posts.
There are ten scenes that are in this sequence:

1. Nimander 1
2. Desra 1
3. Desra 2
4. Skintick 1
5. Desra 3
6. Nimander 2
7. Desra 4
8. Kedeviss 1
9. Nimander 3
10. Kedeviss 2

I’ll be approaching these scenes (including the one discussed today) through a few lenses.

A ringing of bells.

In his musings on writing, Erikson discusses the notion of a bell. I’ll let him speak for himself.
In the scenes we’ll be looking at, some of the bells that I believe are used are (and not all of these are represented in this first particular scene):

• Past versus present — ancestors/parents vs. living/children
• How others see us, and how we see others
• The word ‘beast’ and its many meanings
• The words ‘child/children’ and their many meanings
• The relationships between gods and mortals
• Portals/thresholds

Existentialism.

Particularly the genealogy of continental philosophy that led to Sartre’s existentialism and the shared/adapted/bifurcated philosophies of his contemporaries (such as de Beauvoir, Camus, and Merleau-Ponty). This wasn’t my initial intention when I decided to use this sequence of scenes as a launch pad into my collection of essays. However, the beauty of close-reading is that you go into a text with a hypothesis seeking evidence and support, and then end up with new insights.
Some of the concepts that will be brought up are:

• Anxiety
• Facticity and transcendence; Authenticity and bad faith
• The Look/Gaze and being-for-others
• The Absurd and Revolution
• Perception

Genre conventions as grammar.

Particularly, we’ll look at Erikson’s use of genre conventions from the likes of Gothic literature and Weird Fiction — namely the Sublime, cosmic horror, and the Weird — as the subtle language used to convey tension that is congruent with some of the other subtexts. If these grammars are subverted, we’ll try to point that out too.
We will later delve more into Malazan’s literary genealogy in other essays, but I want this lens to be present during the reading to see how Erikson aligns or subverts these genre conventions.
We’ll be using Professor Michael Moir’s YouTube lectures on Weird Fiction as reference.

What the fuck is happening?

This is a question about plot that I will answer at the end of all of the scenes, but keep it in mind as we go through. It has less to do with existentialism and Gothic literature and more on what Gothos was trying to do during these scenes.

Pre-TtH Context

We first meet Nimander and his siblings (unnamed) in House of Chains on Drift Avalii. By Bonehunters, they had left Drift Avalii and ended up at Malaz City, where they then joined Tavore Paran’s fleet while fleeing Malaz City. In Reaper’s Gale, we find the siblings had been ‘adopted’ by Sandalath while they traveled to Lether with the Malazans. Phaed wanted to kill Sandalath. Nimander stopped Phaed from killing Sandalath. Withal (Sandalath’s husband) throws Phaed out a window. The murder is taken as a suicide. The siblings intern Phaed and then meet Clip, who offers to lead them to Anomander in Black Coral via Kurald Galain.
This gets us to Toll the Hounds, where Nimander is being haunted by Phaed. They’ve left Kurald Galain and are now on Genabackis (but not yet to Black Coral). Nimander fears the future meeting his father and the rest of the Tiste Andii. The siblings and Clip ‘stumble’ on Morsko, where Clip is curious about its cult of the Dying God. A ritual takes place there. Nimander and Skintick are nearly enthralled, but are saved by Aranatha (and thus Mother Dark herself). The group then find Clip, who is in a coma. They collect him, and set off in a wagon to follow the Dying God’s priests to Bastion. Along that journey, the siblings stumble upon the High King, Kallor, who reluctantly chooses to not kill them and instead travels with them.
The sequence of scenes in Chapter 8 that we’ll be discussing follows some time after Kallor joins the siblings.
Now that the administrative stuff is out of the way, let’s dive into the first scene.

Nimander 1

Rum-induced memories.

We start this sequence thrust into Nimander’s introspection on ‘rage’ as a breaking of a vessel, impossible to fix. He recalls Deadsmell’s musings that ‘rage in battle’ was a gift while the two drank rum. Rum that awakened memories once ignored by Nimander.
(Note: in Scene 2, we’ll see Desra’s view of Nimander, and we’ll see that Nimander’s ruminations on rage here are what inform Desra’s view of him, and not in the way that Nimander’s doubt imagines.)
In the previous post, we discussed memories and their decay. So much of this series and the lore surrounding it is driven by the memories of ancient beings. Nimander is younger with respect to ancient beings (but ancient nonetheless), and even he struggles with his memories. Perhaps this is a result of the traumas he’s experienced with respect to his being in diaspora and perceived abandonment by his father (a symmetry itself with Rake’s — and the Tiste Andii as a whole — relationship with Mother Dark).
He recalls the rum lighting “a fire in [his] brain, casting red light on a host of memories gathered ghostly round the unwelcoming heart.” He reminisces on the time after Kurald Galain (but before Drift Avalii) and his father’s emotional indifference. He recalls the pranks him and his kin would pull on Endest Silann; the arrival of Andarist and his arguments with Anomander. It is unclear what the arguments were — if you’ve read Forge of Darkness, you might be able to infer what’s likely, but I’m curious if the argument is Andarist asking to take the siblings and Anomander refusing, or Anomander asking Andarist to take the children and Andarist was reluctant? Was the argument about Anomander thrusting the Hust blade, T’an Aros/K’orladis (i.e., Vengeance / Grief), onto Andarist or did Andarist already possess the blade? We don’t know exactly to my knowledge, but it’s fun to speculate.
Regardless, Nimander recalls, like a certain inscribed hearthstone, there was peace. Andarist was to take them all through a threshold, a portal elsewhere (as mentioned, portals end up being a rung bell, so pay attention). Nimander remembers Endest’s weeping as the children were pulled through a “portalway into an unknown, mysterious new world where anything was possible.”
Andarist raised the Tiste Andii children on that portal’s other side, on Drift Avalii. We know (or can infer) that this was a task to protect the Throne of Shadow, but Nimander and his kin didn’t understand this as children. But Andarist led them with his pragmatism, he ensured they learned how the world was. With our knowledge of Kharkanas, this is so powerful. We know Anomander’s hubris was abused as a motivating factor for Hunn Raal’s despicable acts. We know that Andarist likely lacks children of his own in response to this, and so his taking on guardianship over the children of his brother — that very same brother that rejected Andarist’s grief in favour of vengeance (and materialised in the T’an Aros/K’orladis dichotomy) — is a stark, challenging, and ultimately selfless decision.
But this pragmatism created child soldiers. The collision of reality’s necessity to survive and carry out the duty of protecting the Throne of Shadow came at the expense of what little remaining childhood innocence Rake’s brood still had (even as a people on the run, exiled from their home due to a sociopolitical schism). Andarist became a stern teacher, juxtaposed to the echoes of Endest’s gentleness. “The games ended. The world turned suddenly serious.” Nonetheless, the Tiste Andii siblings grew to love Andarist.
Nimander continues his introspection:

See a bored child with a stick — and see how every beast nearby flees, understanding well what is now possible and, indeed, probable.

This reminds me of a general rule of advice: ‘never fuck around when a child has gun.’ Tiste Andii or not, children can be cruel especially when mixed with unknown doses of trauma and violence. Regardless, I want to call attention here that this notion of children and beasts are each bells rung. To Nimander, Andarist “unleash[ed] them, these children with avid eyes.” He “had made them good soldiers,” ones that know rage.
Vessels broken.
As such, from his own experience, Nimander suspects that the Dying God is a child. He speaks to the dialectic between gods and their worshippers (another bell rung):

The mad priests poured him full, knowing the vessel leaked, and then drank of that puerile seepage. Because he was a child, the Dying God’s thirst and need were without end, never satiated.

The group stumbles on desiccated bodies staked among fields: dried up, tapped of their libations. This speaks to a particular exploitation between mortal and god, symbolised literally as worshippers feeding a god to then become the harvested. This perpetuates the Dying God’s power to accumulate more worshippers via addictive kelyk. The language here shows that the Dying God has stumbled upon a sort of cheat code, an exploitation of the god-mortal dialectic that allows him and his priests to arbitrage power. Like a cancer that, via the law of large numbers, is equipped with the mechanisms to divert a body’s resources to it while it slowly destroys the body.
The scarecrows being in fields is such a perfect choice of this analogy: things to be harvested. A product, a commodity — a thing with both use-value and exchange-value, for our Marxians out there. I believe Erikson has said that he was thinking of oil here, and that is fine by itself, but I do like the mirroring to Eucharistic transubstantiation in Catholicism (due to my being a very-very-lapsed Catholic). Especially with wine, an extremely addictive substance, transcending into God’s blood to cleanse us as cannibalistic sacrament.

Dal Honese burial practices.

Nimander sees these fields as “bizarre cemeteries, where some local aberration of belief insisted that the dead be staked upright, that they ever stand ready for whatever may come." This makes him recall some shipwrecked Dal Honese on Drift Avalii. He thinks on the ancestor cult and burial practices of Dal Hon: literally constructing their homes with their dead in the walls as both material and essence, the building stretching out with additional rooms as time moved on and kin died.
This reminds me of the Neolithic proto-city, Çatalhöyük, found in Anatolia within modern-day Türkiye where ancestors have been found to be buried beneath platforms in living quarters. See: Chapter 6 of The Dawn of Everything by Graeber and Wengrow.
With or without intention, I like to view this ritual via an existentialist lens, particularly Sartre’s notion of the Look. To Sartre — in contrast to other phenomenologies — being is in flux, some path of a given chaotic double-pendulum switching to and from poles of being-in-itself***\**¹* and being-for-itself***\**²*. The Look, to Sartre, is a sort of symmetry breaking — a realisation by being-for-itselves that decentralises it, the sudden awareness of its being an object, an Other, to Other consciousnesses.
A heuristic often used to showcase Sartre’s notion of the Look (or Gaze) is that of a voyeur peeping through a keyhole into someone’s room that hears a noise down the hall. Regardless if that noise is from another person (another being-for-itself) or not (say, the house settling), the subjective voyeur suddenly objectifies themselves, collapsing the chaotic pendulum from being-for-itself (nothingness as "no thing-ness") to their facticity — their being-in-itself, their thing-ness — whose meaning to Other being-for-themselves is relative to a separate centre than the voyeur’s own.
To Sartre, the resulting anxiety experienced snapping from subject to object is a proof against any nihilistic approach to solipsism. The fact that we can Other our own being-for-itself means that we can also recognise being-for-itself external to us since those we Other too can Other us as we Other ourselves. The reflexivity as a result of the Look is evidence against solipsism to Sartre.
As a result, this Dal Honese practice is a cultural self-burdening via Sartre’s Look by literally having your ancestors clay-filled bodies decentralise your subjectivity and externalise you as an object that can be judged by its facticity. This results in a sort of collective Dal Honese being-for-others, Sartre would argue. This isn’t inherently good or bad to existentialists, but it does necessitate a calculus that discerns if the living descendants are authentically expressing their freedom with each moment they accept this practice, or if they are living in bad faith.
Regardless, though, this is a haunting of the Past. This haunting isn’t something that is only important to existentialism or other philosophical traditions (such as post-structuralism — see: Derrida’s hauntology), but to the genre conventions and tropes of Gothic horror and its descendants (such as cosmic horror, weird fiction, and their influences on sword and sorcery, etc.).
There are mappings (some more subtle than others) between the Sublime and the existential anxiety and dread experienced in phenomena similar to the Look. The experience of looking upon the vastness of the sea, of stumbling upon an ancient statue, of learning of the size of the universe — which are described as the Sublime, the Weird, or Eldritch in some literary traditions (e.g., Romantic, Gothic, Horror, the Weird, etc.) — are the same experiences that are often analysed in continental philosophies using words such as angst/anxiety/despaiabsurdity/alienation.
Nimander goes on to further expose the relationship between this Dal Honese ancestor cult and inter-tribal conflicts that lead to deaths and stolen bodies that leave physical voids in Dal Honese architecture. He muses how this physical representation of wounds begets a cycle of vengeance (a cultural tradition, a product of facticity and bad faith): “blood back and forth,” he says. He mentions that this cycle is what pushed the shipwrecked Dal Honese from their homes, an act of revolt and perhaps even authenticity to Sartre. Eventually the Dal Honese recovered and “paddled away — not back home, but to some unknown place, a place devoid of unblinking ghosts staring out from every wall.”
I love that Erikson has this whole little short story in this scene, especially in the contrast of its being some rum-induced reflection by Nimander on his own past’s haunting of him and his siblings. Moreover, these Tiste Andii are travelling with Kallor, the Undying Unascendant: a being-for-itself that literally manifests the past’s haunting on the present — a man cursed, jaded, who carries the past with him wherever he travels. All of these together show that one’s freedom can have one flee (even be redeemed — which balances with other plotlines in TtH), but that doesn’t necessarily — nor sufficiently so — annihilate the past.

Finding a tower.

After this, Nimander’s reminiscing is interrupted by his hearing Kallor nearby (like a footstep in a hallway). Kallor comments on the use of the corpses and notes that the flora “[is] not even native to this world, after all.” Nimander replies that the corpses are being used for saemankelyk. The mention of the plants not being native to this world should orient the reader back to the Weird, especially since it brings upon a sense of unease, an Othering — the house settling that again serves to reduce both Nimander and the readers to our thing-ness
‘The past’ versus ‘the present’ versus ‘the future’ (and their hauntings of one another) bubble up again with some banter between Skintick and Kallor about the state of things. Kallor states ‘nothing changes.’ Skintick counters ‘it keeps getting worse,’ to which Kallor claims is but an illusion.
I find this dialogue to be a comical little conflict between Kallor’s perceived-postmodern, nihilistic judgement of the state of things being inert versus Skintick’s pseudo-Rousseauian, inverted-Hegalian, modernist grand narrative of things getting worse.
Again, it alludes to a haunting of the past on the current generation. Interestingly, this is a trend within the Book of the Fallen in general: not as an espousing of the ‘old vs. young’, but Erikson’s decentering/challenging/deconstruction of that binary. Think of Raest in GotM; Menandore, Sukul and Sheltatha in RG; Karsa in HoC; the Witness trilogy. He does this via a sort of Ancient's Hubris colliding with its differences to the Present’s Ingenuity, and this being dual to the Present’s Naivety colliding with the Ancient Wisdom.
Kallor eventually hits a sore spot with the Tiste: he brings up Rake. Unlike the Dal Honese whose freedom had them flee the cultural practices of letting their ancestors haunt both literally and figuratively, Nimander and his siblings were pulled/pushed away from their father (and people) as children — by what very well could be their father’s request. The Tiste siblings are haunted by Anomander’s active absence. Their continued distance from their father isn’t an act of expressing their freedom against an Ancestor’s Gaze — it isn’t an act of revolution — it is their facticity and a source for their Othering of themselves. We often see this from Nimander’s POVs up to and including this sequence.
Kallor sniffs out this weakness and presses upon the wound. Nimander gets flustered and retorts. To which Kallor responds:

'Anomander Rake is a genius at beginning things. It’s finishing them he has trouble with.'

Damn, Kallor.
Also, I didn’t need my ADHD called out so harshly, dude. What the fuck.
Without diving into what Erikson was dealing with while writing this book, this hits hard for Nimander, and is an interesting commentary nonetheless. His father, Anomander, is the leader of a diasporic people who’ve been without home, without a centre, for 400,000 years. I think Kallor’s words hurt Nimander so much because the Tiste siblings don’t know Anomander’s current plans nor have they experienced the "settling-down" from the unveiling of Kurald Galain in what is now Black Coral. They are unaware of Rake’s teleology for his people, for himself even. Regardless, we see again and again that Kallor isn’t just a strong skirmisher, his words cut nearly as well as his blades.
Kallor goes on to confirm that he knows Rake before the group notices a ruined tower among the alien plants and scarecrows. Kallor says its Jaghut. Kallor trudges forth indifferently, pushing corpses out of his way as he bee-lines it to the ruined tower. I don’t think such a sequence of action has ever described Kallor’s whole raison d’être and modus operandi so well: just a man seemingly indifferent to the corpses in his path as his will pulls him forward.
We get a small interaction between Skintick and Nimander that reveals Skintick’s acuity in reading Kallor’s take on Rake. Kallor sees their father as an equal (it isn’t just the readers that need to be keen to subtext, characters do too).
Skintick offers the idea of sicking Kallor on the Dying God, hoping he “decid[es] to do something for his own reasons, but something that ends up solving our problem.” I like the use of “deciding to do something for his own reasons,” as this aligns so well with authenticity in existentialism (and the absence of some absolute morality for authenticity).
As Nimander approaches the tower behind Kallor, both Nimander and the readers get a great sense of horror, the weird, the uncanny, and the sublime with how Erikson describes the scenery:

Drawing closer to the ruin, they fell silent. Decrepit as it was, the tower was imposing. The air around it seemed grainy, somehow brittle, ominously cold despite the sun’s fierce heat.
The highest of the walls revealed a section of ceiling just below the uppermost set of stones, projecting without any other obvious support to cast a deep shadow upon the ground floor beneath it. The facing wall reached only high enough to encompass a narrow, steeply arched doorway. Just outside this entrance and to one side was a belly-shaped pot in which grew a few straggly plants with drooping flowers, so incongruous amid the air of abandonment that Nimander simply stared down at them, disbelieving.

Nimander notes an incongruity of this place — its aesthetic of abandonment juxtaposed with a curated garden. “The cold despite the sun’s fierce heat.” This evokes a certain unsettledness to Nimander (and thus, the reader). These genre conventions are sources of tension and anxiety, similar to non-diegetic violins building up to a real or false jump-scare in a slasher flick.
Arrogantly, Kallor chooses to go out of his way and insult the presumed Jaghut within the tower. Classic Kallor. The Jaghut replies “nothing changes,” resulting in Kallor shooting Skintick and Nimander a “pleased smirk.”

Tea time, but before falling into a rabbit-hole and not after.

Before Kallor can announce himself, the Jaghut lists off Kallor’s titles, his facticity. Kallor’s reputation precedes him and there’s an asymmetry here in which the Jaghut knows who Kallor is but Kallor doesn’t yet know who the Jaghut is. This is our first hint that this meeting isn’t serendipitous, and is instead an intentional interaction with regards to the plot. And if this Jaghut knows of Kallor, does he know those who Kallor travels with? Who is this Jaghut’s intended audience among those options?
I also like the play here with facticity: the Jaghut lists out things about Kallor, but is Kallor some sum of those thing-nesses? How many are true, how many are manufactured myths? It’s an act by this Jaghut to Gaze upon Kallor, to show to Kallor that he’s being seen. It’s a deliberate tactic to destabilise and decenter Kallor: an offensive.
We as readers are informed of Kallor’s limitations from the Azathanai curses via Draconus, K’rul and Nightchill, but these limitations on Kallor don’t necessarily restrict his freedom until Kallor allows them.
We get a flash of Jaghut humour and guest rites — this ancient dismisses Kallor while inviting everyone in for tea. Interestingly, Erikson has this Jaghut use the proper noun of ‘Others’ which lends me to think that an existentialist lens hasn’t been the worst pick (not that ‘Othering’ is strictly existentialist by any means).
So, we’ve had corpses drained dry for kelyk, alien plant-life, a ruined tower of an unknown age stumbled upon beyond the urban, a preternatural creature to Nimander and his kin (something they’ve maybe only witnessed a handful of times) and then we get this description:

The air of the two-walled chamber was frigid, the stones sheathed in amber-streaked hoarfrost. Where the other two walls should have been rose black, glimmering barriers of some unknown substance, and to look upon them too long was to feel vertiginous — Nimander almost pitched forward, drawn up only by Skintick’s sudden grip, and his friend whispered, ‘Never mind the ice, cousin.’
Ice, yes, it was just that. Astonishingly transparent ice–

I love this. First: “it was just that” screams “no it isn’t” to anyone paying attention to the words Erikson is using to make the reader uncomfortable. We know: Jaghut + Ice = Omtose Phellack. The atmospheric setting here is directly being called out in not just a sublime way, but his description has an added layer of horror to Omtose Phellack.
Erikson uses “vertiginous,” giving both Nimander and us a sense of vertigo, being decentred and unoriented. This isn’t too different from descriptions found in works like Vandermeer’s Annihilation or other New Weird authors. This ice wall calls to Nimander, draws from him feelings of unknown when he’s caught himself staring for too long — emphasis on staring.
For all intents and purposes, this ice wall is a thing, a being-in-itself, neither active nor passive. But its effect on Nimander is similar to the Dal Honese ancestors’ Gaze — this ice wall objectifies him, calls to him, evokes his being-for-others, and emotionally alienates him. The pull Nimander feels is his submitting his being-for-itself with the freedom of those that Gaze upon him. A justification of his facticity, his bad faith. This will be important later.
Eventually we get this awesome line from the Jaghut host:

’Once, long ago, a wolf god came before me. Tell me, Kallor, do you understand the nature of beast gods? Of course not. You are only a beast in the unfairly pejorative sense — unfair to beasts, that is. How is it, then, that the most ancient gods of this world were, one and all, beasts?’

There’s so much going on to unpack in this paragraph.

• He’s called Kallor a beast, but says his doing so is unfair to beasts (damn, this ice orc just roasted Kallor).
• It calls back to Nimander’s thoughts on children wielding sticks and beasts fleeing as a result. With or without knowing it, this Jaghut is calling Kallor a child, too, in the pejorative sense, unfair to children.
• He says the first gods were beasts, but does he mean these early gods were explicitly Beasts (in essence, not the pejorative sense) or that they were beast-like akin to the pejorative sense used on Kallor (or some combination of both)?
  • Interestingly, we know that this wolf god is possibly an Azathanai d’ivers from FoL — with this knowledge, would Fanderay and Togg count as a Beast-as-literal-beast beast-god?

Later, again, we get this Jaghut saying Others as a proper noun, and then the Others are called Tiste Andii.

‘Ah, and what of the Others with you? Might not they be interested?’
Clearing his throat, Skintick said, ‘Venerable one, we possess nothing of worth to one such as you.’
‘You are too modest, Tiste Andii.’
‘I am?’
'Each creature is born from one not its kind. This is a wonder, a miracle forged in the fires of chaos, for chaos indeed whispers in our blood, no matter its particular hue. If I but scrape your skin, so lightly as to leave but a momentary streak, that which I take from you beneath my nail contains every truth of you, your life, even your death, assuming violence does not claim you. A code, if you will, seemingly precise and so very ordered. Yet chaos churns. For all your similarities to your father, neither you nor the one named Nimander — nor any of your brothers and sisters — is identical to Anomander Dragnipurake. Do you refute this?’

Above, the Jaghut goes on to describe genetics, but also calls out the fact that they are children of Anomander — dude definitely knows more than he’s leading on, that’s for sure, and is winking directly to us readers, seemingly going over the heads of both Kallor and the Tiste. Also, the bit about chaos in blood will come up again and again in later scenes and later essays.
Moreover, we see that the Jaghut says that which he scrapes "contains every truth of you, your life, even your death" — our genetics are facticities, among our thing-nesses. "Yet chaos churns," the Jaghut rebuts. That chaos in our blood is a source of our "no thing-ness," from which we may express our freedom against the determinism of genetics — of facticities — and transcend.

For each kind of beast there is a first such beast, more different from its parents than the rest of its kin, from which a new breed in due course emerges. Is this firstborn then a god?’

I love this for two reasons. One, it speaks to a criticism of the assumption that a prime-mover is necessarily divine. But, through the existentialist lens, it’s a challenge and criticism of the presumed Authority of Genealogy. Jumping back to the early musings on ancestry: if ancestors haunt us and dictate our facticity as a result of suppressing our being-for-itself, then where does that chain of dictating/suppressing end? And is that terminus also an Authority above all generations below it just due to its being something new, something sufficiently different from its own genealogy, its ancestors ‘behind’ it?
I also like the subtext of trauma as hereditary here with the double entendre behind ‘beast’, we can think of this Jaghut as asking if the primordial source of generational trauma has authority over its descendants? What does this dialogue mean for Nimander and his siblings and their place with respect to their father and the rest of the Tiste Andii people? Does this inform an analysis of Nimander’s chaotic double-pendulum between being-in-itself, being-for-itself, and his being-for-others?
A huge thing I would like to point out here, too, is that neither Skintick, Nimander, nor Kallor have used the Tiste Andii’s names, yet this Jaghut knows them by name. Kallor could deduce they were Rake’s children, but he didn’t know their names. Even though Skintick showcased an acuity to subtext when considering Kallor’s opinions of Rake, he doesn’t catch onto this subtlety. This Jaghut not only knows of Kallor, he knows of Nimander and his siblings. The evidence that this meeting isn’t serendipity continues to build.

‘You spoke of a wolf god,’ Skintick said. ‘You began to tell us a story.’
‘So I did. But you must be made to understand. It is a question of essences. To see a wolf and know it as pure, one must possess an image in oneself of a pure wolf, a perfect wolf.’
‘Ridiculous,’ Kallor grunted. ‘See a strange beast and someone tells you it is a wolf — and from this one memory, and perhaps a few more to follow, you have fashioned your image of a wolf. In my empires, philosophers spewed such rubbish for centuries, until, of course, I grew tired of them and had them tortured and executed.’

This sequence of dialogue is fantastic and reminds me of arguments foagainst the strong/weak Sapir-Whorf hypothesis/es. We see the Jaghut musing on a seemingly prescriptive Platonic idealism that Kallor interrupts with a more descriptive, pragmatic, empirical framework in which he follows with a jest of torturing and executing philosophers (remind me to never live in the Kallorian Empire).
Kallor speaks as if his words contradict the Jaghut and show the assumed idealism to be wrong. But, by Kallor’s own argument, the Jaghut’s words of ‘pure’ and ‘perfect’ are just as empirically contingent to one’s memories as ‘wolf’ is. The combinations of signs and symbols language users use give flesh to those signs’ and symbols’ own meaning — but bury that meaning beneath the flesh by doing so. The concept of a ‘perfect wolf’ (i.e., ‘perfect’ + ‘wolf’) emerging from one’s own contingency with the notion of ‘perfect’ and ‘wolf’ is entirely possible without that imagined ‘perfect wolf’ being actually some idealisation, i.e., some Platonic Perfect Wolf.
The Jaghut responds with laughter to Kallor’s absurdity: both in his misinterpretation of the Jaghut’s musings as well as the nature of Kallor’s brutal reaction to those that question things he finds to be rubbish. This pairs well with Skintick’s future POV in this sequence, but the contrast between Kallor and this Jaghut is entertaining nonetheless. Sometimes it’s hard to distinguish when Kallor is telling the truth about his brutality or if his mutterings are just words congruent to his reputation.
The two then have a pissing contest. We find out the Jaghut was in disguise — I don’t have the evidence or time here to say, but there are ideas that this particular Jaghut is a d'ivers and it is fucking awesome even if untrue. The discussion here points to some T’lan Imass’ Jaghut War. It being the Kron, I’m inclined to wonder if there is a relationship with the bones Karsa stumbles upon in HoC (where he and his war party find Calm).

Skintick squatted to pick up two of the cups, straightening to hand one to Nimander. The steam rising from the tea was heady, hinting of mint and cloves and something else. The taste numbed his tongue.

Don’t take candy from strangers tea from Jaghut, people.
We find out that Raest is this Jaghut’s child. We find out that this Jaghut took on 43 T’lan Imass and a Bonecaster, killing them all. This is a threat rallied back against Kallor’s assertion that he’s killed Jaghut.

Teeth bared, Kallor bent down to retrieve his cup.
The Jaghut’s left hand shot out, closing about Kallor’s wrist. ‘You wounded that wolf god,’ he said.

Oh shit. What follows is one of the first times I can recall that Kallor is scared. Contrast with his earlier treatment of Rake as equal.

'Oh, be quiet, Kallor. This tower was an Azath once. Shall I awaken it for you?’
Wondering, Nimander watched as Kallor backed towards the entrance, eyes wide in that weathered, pallid face, the look of raw recognition dawning. ‘Gothos, what are you doing here?’
‘Where else should I be? Now remain outside — these two Tiste Andii must go away for a while.’

The revelation: the Jaghut is none other than the Lord of Hate himself, Gothos. You can understand why Kallor, always so arrogant, submits to Gothos and listens to his instruction.
Immediately after the reveal, Skintick and Nimander succumb to the effects of whatever extra ingredient Gothos had slipped into their tea. We get this final sequence:

Nimander’s eyes were drawn once more to the walls of ice. Black depths, shapes moving within.
He staggered, reached out his hands–
‘Oh, don’t step in there–’
And then he was falling forward, his hands passing into the wall before him, no resistance at all.
‘Nimander, do not–’
Blackness.

Again, the readers eyes are drawn along with Nimander's to the icy, abyss-like, objectifying, Gazing threshold. Here's where the sublime and the weird really flavour the setting in this scene.
There's a bell’s echo here from the start of this scene: this sequence starts with Nimander discussing the uncertainty related to moving through a portal with Andarist away from the rest of his kin, a breaching. During these final lines of this first scene, we get a tension between us and the unknown, between what has happened and that-which-is-to-come, between what we’ve imagined about Malazan’s cosmos and some contorting of those assumptions. What’s beyond the veil decentres not only Nimander in its draw and pushing him to being-for-others, but it decentres the readers too. Hic sunt dracones, terra incognita, the sublime, the enigmatic, the terror. We’re made to feel small and inconsequential by this icy threshold.
It isn’t mysterious because it evades our Gaze like other fantastical things (e.g., many renditions of some archetypal tricksters found within various folklores), instead it invites our Gaze eventually since It Gazes back (almost Nietzschean).

Thoughts

Calling back to the genre conventions, this extended scene is one that definitely plays with the established conventions of Gothic literature and its descendants. Constantly, Erikson hits us with tension sewn into his choice of words in Nimander’s ruminations, his angst associated to diaspora, the notion of Dal Honese ancestors gazing upon their descendants from clay walls, absent ancestors that too haunt the same, the fields of scarecrows as desiccated (and harvested) bodies of worshippers, the alien plant-life, the ancient Jaghut tower, the ice threshold. Each of these (and those unmentioned) add onto to the dissociation (de-centering) of both Nimander and us, the readers. Each of us seem small and inconsequential to the dynamism of the cosmos: everything we know, including that of what we already know about the Malazan universe (and our own) can be challenged. We’re each just travellers who have stumbled upon a shattered visage in the desert that reads: “My name is Ozymandias, King of Kings. Look on my Works, ye Mighty, and despair!”
This stands in contrast to — almost a revolution against — the modalities one can garnish from the Enlightenment and post-Enlightenment that favour an almost religious rationalism and positivism. This is why I believe (and hope I have shown) that the existentialist (and those schools of thought peripheral to it) lens is apt. The genealogy of Gothic literature serves as a grammatical sandbox that gives way to exploring the things that existentialism tries to frame in its study, such as the dread and anxieties — the nothingness (no thing-ness) — of being.
Not only are the Dal Honese clay-filled ancestors present to alienate the reader by entertaining a certain ‘exoticism’ (by the readers’ juxtaposing such practices against what we consider ‘normal’ — here's where Sartre is applied to White or Male Gazes), but they are there as conduits for understanding how Nimander is affected by Others, by their Looks — his siblings, his absent father, his dead uncle, Kallor, Gothos, and the icy threshold — even if this ‘othering’ is one done only by Nimander onto himself (the house settling perceived as a footfall). This becomes more important in the scenes that follow.
So, how does this relate to the Eleint, dragonblood or sorcery? If you want to know now, please read ahead in the text — i.e., he future scenes in this sequence in Chapter 8 of TtH — you’ll find out. Otherwise, I’ll attempt to provide more clarity in the follow-up post(s). Until then, I just want put forth some questions:

• Are the Eleint actually dragons in the usual fantastical/conventional sense, or are they something different, something alien, something terrifying, something that evokes horror?
• If meaning-making (and, as such, essentializing) — according to my reading of existentialism — is a choice of ascribing/burying the Real with its facticity, what does this mean for K’rul’s warrenification and the birth of sorcery? What does this mean for aspecting, particularly for the Eleint and the Azathanai?

Beyond those questions (which align with my grander narrative shared in this collection of essays) — in regards to the plot, I think it is smart to continue asking, ‘why has Gothos ensured that Anomander’s children and Kallor would stumble upon his tower?’
¹ the facticity of what can be understood as objective states ascribed to things, including social constructions — thing-ness — e.g., how things are thrown into the world, a mode of existence that simply is, the contingent being of ordinary things, such the language(s) one speaks, one’s occupation, etc.
² the mode of existence of consciousness that stands in contrast to being-in-itself, “no thing-ness”, that which negates being-in-itself

As the night settled in, casting its eerie shadows across the room, a sense of unease gripped me. It was the kind of night that seemed pregnant with secrets, where every creak and whisper held a sinister undertone. I sat alone in my dimly lit study, surrounded by stacks of books and the faint scent of musty pages, contemplating the stories I had heard—the tales of horror and the supernatural that had haunted the very fabric of my being. Little did I know that on this particular night, I would become a protagonist in a story that defied explanation.
It began innocently enough, with a peculiar dream that invaded my slumber. In this dream, I found myself wandering through a desolate forest, a thick mist obscuring my vision. The silence was deafening, broken only by the distant howl of a lone wolf. As I walked deeper into the woods, an unsettling feeling washed over me—a sensation of being watched, of unseen eyes peering into my soul. It was a presence I could not shake, even as I awakened in my bed, drenched in a cold sweat.
Shaken but determined to dismiss it as a mere figment of my imagination, I rose from my bed and made my way to the kitchen for a glass of water. The floorboards creaked under my weight, adding an unnerving soundtrack to the darkened house. As I reached the kitchen, I froze, my hand poised above the faucet. There, in the dim glow of moonlight filtering through the window, I saw it—a figure standing in the corner, shrouded in darkness.
My heart raced as I fumbled for the light switch, illuminating the room. But as the warm light flooded the space, the figure vanished, leaving nothing but an eerie echo in the air. The encounter left me unnerved, questioning my own sanity. Had my mind conjured this apparition, or was something more sinister at play?
Days turned into nights, and with each passing moment, the supernatural occurrences intensified. Objects inexplicably moved from their resting places, whispers echoed through empty hallways, and the temperature plummeted in certain areas of the house, despite the absence of drafts. My nights became sleepless, fraught with a sense of impending doom that no amount of logical reasoning could dispel.
Seeking answers, I delved deep into research, poring over books that chronicled the occult, searching for clues to the malevolent force that had invaded my life. The more I learned, the more I realized that I was not alone in my plight. Countless tales from across the ages told of similar hauntings, of unseen forces that fed on fear and misery, tormenting their victims until their very souls withered away.
In my quest for understanding, I reached out to paranormal experts, hoping they could shed light on my torment. They arrived armed with equipment, their faces etched with skepticism and curiosity. As we ventured through the labyrinthine corridors of my haunted home, their devices flickered and beeped, detecting unusual energy fluctuations that defied scientific explanation. Yet, their presence seemed to stoke the ire of the supernatural entity that plagued me, as if it resented our intrusion into its domain.
Night after night, I confronted the malevolent force, engaging in a psychological battle that wore away at my sanity. Sleep eluded me as the entity whispered its macabre promises, each word dripping with malice. I saw shadows dance along the walls, contorted figures lurking just beyond the periphery of my vision, and heard disembodied voices urging me to surrender to the darkness. It was a relentless assault on my psyche, eroding the barriers between reality and nightmare.
But even in the depths of despair, a flicker of determination burned within
me. I refused to succumb to the clutches of this otherworldly evil. Armed with ancient rituals and incantations, I sought to banish the entity back to the abyss from which it had emerged.
The night of the final confrontation arrived, a storm raging outside my home, mirroring the turmoil within. Armed with salt, sage, and my unwavering will, I ventured into the heart of the darkness that plagued me. Chanting the ancient words, I confronted the malevolent force head-on, challenging its dominance over my life.
An indescribable battle ensued—a battle of wills and of faith. With each incantation, the air crackled with energy, and the walls trembled with fury. I could feel the entity's desperation, its grip on reality slipping as my resolve strengthened. And then, in one climactic moment, the room exploded with blinding light, banishing the darkness that had haunted me for so long.
As the light faded, I stood alone, the weight of the world lifted from my shoulders. The house, once a den of horrors, now basked in tranquility. The entity, defeated, had retreated to the realm from which it came, leaving me scarred but victorious.
That night, I slept soundly for the first time in months, knowing that I had conquered the unexplainable. But in the darkest corners of my mind, I wondered if my victory was truly complete, or if another horror awaited its turn to grip my soul. Only time would tell.

Hey guys so we are mid-way through taking a Padi open water diving course in Ecuador.
The whole thing is a bit of a hilarious mess of screwed up equipment and poor training.
I am gonna run through our experience for two reasons:

1. I genuinely want to know what should be in a Padi Open Water course and what everyone else does in theirs
   
2. So you can get a laugh out of how terrible it all is over here
   

This cost the same as all the other shops selling courses in this area and it was $340 PP (Asked 5 tour shops) so I’m not holding back on them. Their charging full-European rates on this and giving a shit service.
Day 1
We meet our “English Speaking” instructor. Barely any English he just nods at everything. At one point I asked if we were taking a Tuk Tuk to the pool. He responded with yes, thank you I love to teach diving it is my passion.
We watch a 1 hour video on the TV and he says yeah that’s enough the rest is not so important. My partner has a cold so we insist with some debate that she will not do the course (As the video said).
Move on to the pool and do some drills. Take jacket off and replace, swap breathing tool with dive buddy, use reserve breather etc.
Most of the kit was leaking air a lot. Rubber protectors broken off and lots of corrosion. If I removed my breathing tool I has to shake and twist it to stop air flowing out. We did 1 dive for about 45 mins and called it a day.
Day 2
Our first open water dive on an island. Boat barley worked and required 5 mins of playing around with a screw driver each time we set off.
Got to the site went to put together my gear and there was a frayed line on the pressure gauge and a leak. Guides said it’s fine. I pointed out another leak and a jamming breathing tool. Got it changed for a new one.
Assembled the kit and got ready to jump in. After a few seconds in the water I say my breathing tool is a bit hard to draw from (usable but annoying) he said switch to the secondary and use that. It’s missing one of the bite pads which was a real pain. No more extras on the boat and did not want to go all the way back.
Okay so I just hold the mask on my way down. Get to the bottom and my dive buddy floats off a bit. I had just finished an exhale and my mouthpiece fell out of the breathing room (We are around 8 meters deep here). So I had no air in my lungs and also no breathing tool.
I tap the guide and point to my reserve (previously main) and he hands it to me. It was a bit out of my reach and I did not have much time to get it as I had not realised the breathing tool was detached from the mouthpiece and got some water in my mouth on an inhale.
I’m fairly stoic so was not freaking out. Between us someone would have given me air but it was my first time in the ocean (ever). I cleared the tool with the button on the back (As I had 0 air) and managed to get a good breathe.
Anyway so he had a spare mouthpiece for my reserve one that he gave me. All good and breathing again. My dive buddy has floated away at this point and he signals to wait here. I wait for about 3-4 mins alone and they return. Had a little browse around and saw my first school of fish (Total time ever with scuba gear now 50 mins including 40 from the pool). We do 2 dives with my dive buddy repeatedly floating off.
We are on the boat talking to the instructor and we go what’s the deepest you’ve gone diving. He replies “The most was 35M because I have not done my advanced divers course yet” SO HE JUST HAS OPEN WATER TRAINING.
The owner of the dive shop is a dive master I believe but he spoke no English and was not diving with us. He will probably go down on the paperwork as the teacher. BTW my Spanish is decent and in the end we were speaking mainly in Spanish anyway. My hope was his English would be a lot better than my Spanish.
Under the water we did stuff like take off and put on jacket. Clear goggles etc. Total about an hour underwater maybe more. Tomorrow we finish off the course.
I did a bit of looking around and it sounds like other people did exams, lots of studying and way more diving but those were from 6 or so years ago. How different is Ecuadorean diving from the rest of the world?
Dive location: Salango Island
Edit: I had already paid so thought I’d see it though. We went back and did 2x 20M dives today. Went through their stuff in the morning and although most of it was crap found the least crappy one and brought that with. So today no gear failures.
Although my dive partners respirator did stop working at around 10M down. Had to swap it for emergency and he used that for the rest of the dive (okay now that even I wouldn’t do).
I’ve been told I will get a Padi certificate in my inbox within 2-3 days. Will update when I get it.

First Previous Next
Finding monkeys proved fairly easy. That didn’t come as much of a surprise, as Noah had practically been drowning in the mangy monsters when he’d first been shunted into Vermil’s body.
After just a few minutes of creeping through the trees, he spotted a red-furred monkey hunched over the blood splattered carcass of another monkey, savagely tearing into it and ripping large chunks of flesh free.
It shoveled them into its mouth, letting out an incredibly uncomfortable combination of moans and grunts as it fed. Noah didn’t even bother to hide his disgust. He stopped in his tracks, keeping a few trees between him and the distracted monster, and channeled one of his Wind Runes.
An arc of energy swirled between his fingertips and leapt out, scything past trees and connecting cleanly with the back of the monkey’s neck.
The monster pitched forward and fell prone on top of its meal, the stump of its neck pumping blood out onto the ground. A rush of energy slithered through Noah’s veins and up his spine.
Noah immediately brought forth his Vibration Rune. It flickered, indistinguishable from what it had looked like before. If killing the monkey had done anything to make it grow in strength, he couldn’t see the results.
“Lovely. I sure hope these things aren’t endangered, because I think I’m going to be killing quite a few of them.” Noah closed his palm.
No matter how many he had to kill, at least it was better than sitting around and doing nothing. That was one thing he’d never do again. Better to try and fail than to be stuck wasting even more time.
He knelt by the dead monkey and used one of its hands to saw at a claw. A few minutes later, he ripped it free with a grunt. Noah wiped the blood off on the monster’s thick hair and hefted his makeshift dagger, nodding to himself.
It was time to hunt.
Five more monkeys met similar fates and fell to Noah’s Wind Runes. He was tempted to test out Ash, but Wind felt like a much better tool for his current opponents.
If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it.
Hours ticked by as he stalked the denizens of the forest, and the sun trekked through the sky, making for the horizon. Noah’s streak of good luck finally came to an end as he reached a small clearing in the burnt trees shortly after midday.
Something had ripped the trees in the area apart and thrown them all to one side, leaving jagged stumps protruding from the ground everywhere. Four small monkeys sat in a semicircle around a huge one that Noah recognized all to well from its enormous claws and butt-ugly face.
A Slasher. The same monster that had killed him several times shortly after his arrival. A mixture of fear and anger mixed in his chest and Noah instinctively ducked behind a tree, pressing his side to the brittle bark.
He waited a moment before peeking out again. The monsters didn’t seem to have noticed him. The Slasher just stood before its smaller fellows, grunting unintelligibly and occasionally waving its hands around.
Are they intelligent? That’s an unsettling thought. Might take a moment to get over that.
Okay, I’m over it. Bastards went for me first. Enjoy waiting in line, assholes.
Noah flexed his fingers. He unhooked the gourd from his waist and padded back in the way he’d come for a minute, hiding the gourd at the base of a large tree before returning to the clearing.
He wrapped around the clearing to get behind the back of the Slasher. He hadn’t fought the monsters in a group yet, but that didn’t change the fact that the huge monkey was still the most dangerous of the lot.
Wind slithered around Noah’s palm and formed into a vibrating crescent moon before his palm. He took aim and let the spell fly at the monkey. Not waiting to see if it connected, he formed another disk and launched it before dashing back into the trees.
A raged screech followed by a gurgling howl told Noah that his attacks had struck. Thundering footsteps followed by a loud crunch gave the additional information that they hadn’t struck quite well enough.
Noah swore under his breath, pumping his legs as hard as he could as he dipped and dove through the forest. Trees cracked and shattered behind him as the monkey gave chase, hollering in fury.
It was gaining on him. Noah couldn’t help but feel a sense of déjà vu as the distance between them steadily closed. He could hear the calls of the smaller monsters growing closer. Noah caught a flash of one of them swinging through the trees to his side.
He spun, firing a blade of wind at it. The monkey dropped to the ground, dodging the attack, and lunged for him. The smart move would have been to dive to the side or try to avoid the blow.
That was likely what the monkey had been expecting. Instead, Noah stepped toward it and whipped his elbow up into the monster’s nose. It let out a screech and staggered backward, momentarily stunned.
Noah slammed his palm into its face and unleashed a blade of wind point blank. Blood sprayed and it fell back without another noise. Energy flooded into Noah, but he was already running again.
Three more monkeys. Two small ones and one wounded Slasher. Noah spun behind a tree, raising his hand and firing a blade of wind just as the Slasher barreled clean through a thin tree, sending fragments of wood flying everywhere.
Its furry neck was matted with blood and its beady black eyes burned with hatred and pain. The monkey opened its mouth, revealing rows of jagged yellow fangs, and let out a howl. Noah’s spell caught it in the chest, carving a thick wound across it.
It screeched and lunged at Noah. This time, Noah got the feeling that trying to punch the monkey out would just result in getting shredded to ribbons. He dove away, landing in an awkward roll.
Something popped in his arm and he swore in pain. Noah rolled over, raising his other hand defensively just as the Slasher arrived before him. It raised its hands, screeching in victory.
I saw the other monster do this too. It’s going to slash down with both hands.
Noah rolled to the side. Dirt whumped behind him as the monkey’s claws slipped clean through it and its palms hit the forest floor. His arm throbbed in pain, but Noah ignored it. He raised his other hand and fired a blade of wind into the surprised Slasher’s neck.
Its cries finally went silent and it crashed to the ground beside him, dead. Noah shuddered, adrenaline coursing through his veins with such intensity that he could hear his heartbeat.
Energy filled him and he staggered to his feet, scanning the surroundings. There were still two monkeys left, and he still remembered what happened when he celebrated a victory too early.
Noah turned in a slow circle, his eyes flicking at every faint rustle of wind through the cracked trees. His chest rose and fell with heavy breaths and he held his hand before his chest, his teeth bared.
“Come on,” Noah snarled. “Where are you?”
A powerful blow slammed into Noah’s back and he staggered forward. He staggered to the side, but too slowly to avoid a clawed hand as it raked across his back. Noah screamed and fell to the ground, desperately twisting around to see the monkey lunging to rip his face off.
Magic swirled and a blade of wind caught the monster in the neck. Its corpse slammed into Noah, knocking him to the ground. The wounds on his back screamed in pain and Noah snarled, shoving the creature off him.
Numbness crept along his body. He tried to stand, but his legs wouldn’t work properly. He slipped in the growing pool of his and the monster’s blood on the scorched ground and fell back with a groan.
With a feeble, shaking hand, Noah grabbed his makeshift dagger. He dragged himself back across the ground with it, pushing himself against a tree to prop himself up. Every breath came shallower than the last, but Noah kept his dagger raised before him.
“One more,” Noah wheezed. “Come on.”
Seconds ticked by and Noah’s hand dipped. The world grew darker and his vision narrowed to a pinpoint. Strength left Noah’s limbs. His last action was to toss his dagger as hard as he could – which, at this point, was just half a dozen feet away from him.
A tiny flicker of motion in the edge of his fading eyes was the last thing he saw before he slipped off.
Noah’s soul peeled away from the body, lifting into the air. He stared down at the bloodied corpse beneath him and scrunched his nose. The final monkey was behind a tree, staring warily at his body.
“Well, not a bad run by any means. A definite improvement over the previous one. And – oh, goddamn it. Please stop that. Don’t eat my face, that’s disgusting.”
The monkey couldn’t hear him. And, even if it could, Noah suspected that his request would have fallen on deaf ears.
Greyish black energy wound around his neck. Noah didn’t even blink as it yanked him away.
An instant later, he sat up with a ragged gasp. His head pounded with a violent headache, and the gourd rested on the ground beside him. Noah pushed himself upright using the trunk of the tree, leaving his gourd on the ground.
He instinctively tried to call on his magic, but it was for naught. The Runes were completely inaccessible for him, and judging by previous experience, they’d remain that way for several hours.
Noah massaged his temple and trudged into the forest in the direction of his corpse. Even if he didn’t have magic, he needed to get his clothes back or he’d be returning to Arbitage with everything on display.
He repressed a pained chuckle.
That’s one way to get fired.
Several minutes later, Noah stopped walking. Loud crunches came from where he’d died, and he didn’t need to use much imagination to know what they were. Noah crept forward, watching the ground to make sure he didn’t step on anything too loud.
Luckily, the monkey seemed distracted with what it likely assumed to be the prize of its patience. It was hunched over his body, letting out faint hoots as it ripped him apart. Noah’s dagger rested on the ground where he’d thrown it.
Moving as quietly as he could, Noah walked up to the dagger. He scooped it off the ground and the monkey paused, looking up from its meal as its ears finally picked up on the noise.
It was too late. Noah plunged the blade into its ear, twisting it savagely before ripping it out and slamming it into the base of the monster’s skull. The sharp claw bit through the dense hair and the flesh beneath it.
The monkey slumped, dead before it even got a glance at him. Noah shoved it to the side and grabbed his clothes from his corpse, doing his best not to look at his now mangled face. He ignored the blood soaking into his shirt and pants as he pulled them on and turned, heading away without a second glance.
He collected his gourd, still fighting the violent headache pounding in his skull, and climbed into a tree to wait for his magic to return. Despite the pain rippling through his body and the fog in his mind, Noah’s heart thumped with excitement. He was starting to really enjoy this.
Also, read ahead on RoyalRoad or get 30 bonus chapters on my Patreon!

Sorry the title is supposed to say May 29!
***Its a long one so it’s continued in the comments!
Josh Peck and Kristen Doute - They have been friends for 15 years - Josh met Kristen in Michigan - Friends of Josh, Lynn and Gary lived together. Gary met Kristen on MySpace and Kristen came over - Josh’s wife is close with Kristen - For a period of time, Kristen was dating Gary and Sandoval at the same time
SUR - Within three weeks of moving to Los Angeles, Kristen got a job at SUR - Kristen had a commercial model agent that told her that she is going to need a real job to start off - This agent was friends with Guillermo - When Kristen first started working at SUR, Housewives of Beverly Hills and Vanderpump Rules did not exist yet - Lisa and Ken had only been money partners for about a year or two when Kristen started - The dress attire for the waitresses at SUR during this time was a t shirt, jean shorts, and boots and SUR was really small - It didn’t have a liquor license yet - John Fogerty was Kristen’s favorite person to waitress for - She waited for Clive Owen, Britney Spears, and Madonna - Kristen now says people won’t touch SUR with a ten foot pole - Kristen said they did bottle service at SUR for a hot minute and this trust fund guy spent $14,000. A few days later the guy tried to come in to get his money back. - Housewives then happened. SUR then expands
Housewives - Kristen was friends with Lisa’s daughter Pandora - Kristen filmed Housewives one time in Vegas for Pandora’s bachelorette party - Lisa told Kristen and Tina who was on season 1 to “not worry about being filmed, they aren’t trying to film you, however, they are going to be paying attention to you guys because you work for me.” - At this time, Lisa was very mother goose to them.
Who is Kristen still close with in the current cast?

• She is close with everyone who is an OG cast member so that does not include James Kennedy
• And she is currently not friends with Tom Sandoval

James Kennedy - The host Ben said that James Kennedy is having a moment in the vanderpump world and how does Kristen feel about that - Kristen said, “I think in the world of Vanderpump Rules, the truth always comes out. So it’s not going to last long.” - Kristen wouldn’t go into anymore detail about James Kennedy because she said, “it’s a little dark.” - Kristen said what you did see on camera was James spitting on her door, him rage texting and calling her all the names in the book and Kristen punching him in the face on camera and Kristen said, “What do you think led to those? What do you think led to me punching him in the face on camera.” - James was 21 and Kristen was 30 when they were dating - Said she played babysitter to both James and James’s mom. - She doesn’t think James has changed
When did Kristen feel like the show was so elevated and the whole world knew about it?

• Kristen said when season 2 was airing and season 3 was airing and they were actually still working at SUR
• This was the most broke they ever were because then all of a sudden they couldn’t really work those shifts and they weren’t making a ton of money on the show
• They weren’t getting paid episodic yet. It was here’s a little chunk for the whole year
• Season one they made 10,000. It was actually 5000 but then they added an additional 5000
• They do not see residuals for Vanderpump Rules. Reality tv is not union

When did they start demanding more money and how much is real? - So again she realized things were bigger during season 2 and 3. - She thinks during season 4 they started to get episodic pay. This is when bravo started to order more episodes - They film in the same amount of time but more content means more episodes - At the beginning of the season, the cast has a meeting and are asked what is going on, who are you dating, who are you friends with, what’s been shaking lately, what have they missed and they will follow that - Every scene they film is probably 2 hours long but the audience only sees like 2 to 5 minutes of it or some stuff doesn’t even air at all because sometimes things don’t add value to the story that’s being told - Kristen said, “If it comes out of your mouth, if you say it, if you do it, you cannot blame it on production. I have done and said many of things that I’ve been guided to say and do but I still said it so there’s that.”
Andy Cohen - They only see Andy on the reunions and WWHL. - He doesn’t run Vanderpump, he’s a housewives guy. Meaning he is a producer for housewives, but not for Vanderpump
Does she wish she was still on the show?

• Kristen is so happy that she is not on the show
• She would never go back on the show other than the capacity that she did for this season 10
• Said she felt like she was treated like a little kid and manipulated by producers when she was on Vanderpump.

What did this manipulation look like? - In seasons past, it would be her being told to go up to Ariana, like when Sandoval and Ariana just started to date, being told to go up to Ariana and say this. - Kristen said that maybe she was thinking and feeling those things but she wasn’t ready in that moment or she wasn’t prepared. Normally at work, she would not have gone up to Ariana and said something like that.
When Kristen was fired from SUR for telling her manager to suck a dick - Kristen said why she was so angry in that moment was because she had a call time to be at SUR for the whole Miami Girl to come in. - Kristen was not on the clock. She was there as a guest of the restaurant - Lisa and production knew that Miami girl was coming in to confront Sandoval and that it was going to get real messy - Sandoval and Ariana didn’t know. The other cast didn’t know either - Kristen didn’t give Miami girl a call time or fly her in. That was production - Kristen said that she did tell the manager to suck a dick and she wasn’t being told to say that - She said that is what they said got her fired - Kristen said, “but knowing that this was going to completely blow up in a restaurant that I’m still employed at was what made me so angry. Why didn’t we go somewhere else? Why didn’t we just go to another restaurant where it’s not going to matter.” - These were the things that she couldn’t control back then. - Kristen felt like she was being manipulated into saying things and doing things at certain times that she knew better
Show in the future - Kristen said she would never go on Vanderpump but she would love to do a show in the future where it is just her friends and herself, like a docu series - But you don’t need to be cheating or throwing drinks to have drama - She said there can be other kinds of drama
Jax - Kristen and Jax still fight all the time - She has to un block herself on his phone monthly

Hello there mechanical brothers an sisters, coming from Plumber Pipefitter side seeking some help in advance of my HVAC service friend comes out. He’s incredibly busy man working 6x10s at a hospital right now so any advice to fix/get an idea on it ahead of his arrival would be superbly appreciated. Couple that with a 3rd trimester wife struggling with heat an it’s jumping into the high 80s rest of the week could use some guidance.
Simply put my I’m not receiving any cold air through my house, what’s the 1st steps for troubleshooting the problem?

So I am a pretty frequent smoker. Mostly joints, occasionally blunts. Always smoke in my finished basement den/poker room. Room has two small windows, probably 1 ft x 3 ft each. I smoke 2-4 joints a night, except poker night when there is a constant joint being passed for 4 hours.
My husband does not smoke and prefers to not be around when I'm smoking. He does not join us for poker night.
I'm looking to do two things: 1. Deal with the smoke while smoking. For poker night, I have two larger fans always running and blowing the smoke into the unfinished portion of the basement and that works fine. But during my regular smoking what can I do to not subject my husband to a cloud of smoke in his face/in the air all the time? Other than having the small windows open and the fans blowing the smoke out them (it can get cold and the fans are loud) . Maybe that is the only option? Are there exhaust fans I can buy for the windows? I'm willing to spend a bit of money/effort. 2. Deal with the lingering smell. I bought an air purifier recently which is working ok but there is still a lingering musty smell (instead of just marijuana smell). Maybe opening the windows and turning on the fans when I'm not down there? What about candles, etc?
Changing my intake method is not an option right now. I can't do edibles because just a slight smell/taste of marijuana makes me gag. I've tried pills but they aren't consistent. Vaping burns my throat. Plus I think the act of smoking is a good portion of the enjoyment. What suggestions do you have?

I am revising a draft for a somber, fantasy-adjacent story about loss and healing. One character is introduced using the famous cliche of waking up in bed. However, the character's circumstance for waking up is a thematically significant recurring nightmare which has caused the character chronic insomnia. Due to events that occur in the night, the character is shortly after thrust into the plot.
My question is: can this much loathed setup become good if sleep (and lack thereof) is relevant to multiple traits of a character and the themes they touch on?
Here is the (pre-revision) excerpt to illustrate:
Hilde reeled awake, torn from her brief rest by a recurring vision of blood and fire. She gasped for air as if the smoke still choked her lungs. Cold sweat soaked her skin and dispelled the illusion of burning flesh. Silence reclaimed dominion over the precious voices fed to the ashes. A nightmare—and a memory. Her heavy eyes cracked open. Reality reintroduced itself as a tavern room, a neglected and cramped space where the ceiling leaked above the exterior wall. A place not kept by any it held, the room hid its scars in becoming darkness. A storm raged outside, and the night’s first cry of thunder rattled the room’s lone window. A howling gale battered the walls with waves of intense rain. Hilde sat up and cradled her head in trembling hands. Her pulse pounded as she commanded her labored breaths to a calmer rhythm. The vision faded like ash on the wind.