Letters from the future

Fallen London
#1

[[I’m in a strange mood lately, not feeling inspired to rp, not feeling like drawing, etc… So I decided to write a bit. I might add some open or semi-open threads in the future, if this mood persists.]]

When the small woman yawned for the third time in less than five minutes, he could not ignore it anymore. Derek Davies, a young and good-looking young man, closed his newspaper and touched her forehead lightly with the back of his hand.

&quotI am not sick, Derek. I am not even sure if I can be sick.&quot

Her protest was dampened by yet another yawn, but Prof. Strix van Allen - often known simply as &quotthe Professor&quot - was a remarkably stubborn woman. She wouldn’t take a defeat so easily, and Mr Davies knew it. He decided to tackle the problem by another angle:

&quotSick or not, you are not getting enough sleep. Maybe I should sleep with you, holding your hand? You know, to help with the nightmares?&quot

She rolled her eyes. &quotI am not losing sleep over nightmares. I just keep waking up after having small snippets of dreams. It is most annoying, and it prevents me from resting properly. It is happening since the beginning of the month.&quot

He tilted his head, curious. &quotWhat were you dreaming about? Last time you had random insistent dreams…&quot

She cut him, with the kind of frown she used to discourage students from haggling for bigger grades. &quotIt is not the same. And I cannot remember, I forget everything minutes after I wake up.&quot

He scratched his chin, looking at the ceiling. &quotWhat about a dream journal? If you record your dreams as soon as you wake up, you may discover something about them. Perhaps they will stop.&quot

She yawns, and then smile. &quotPerhaps. It was actually a smart idea. Thank you.&quot

&quotYou should stop to look so surprised every time you say I’m smart. It’s a given.&quot He retorts, with a fake pout.

The Professor stands up and scratches his head, right behind one of his big pointed ears. He closes his eyes and lets a happy (and very bat-like) chitter. She leaves the room before he can react, prompting him to whisper a &quotThat’s not fair…&quot that is both parts pleased and annoyed.

[u]August, 1st

Log 1[/u]

Last night, I dreamt five times with the same scene, to my chagrin.

It starts with me in Zee-Captain clothes, examining some sort of map. In this dream, my suspicions are true, and it seems that even the Neath’s unusual vitality could not make me get any older than I was when I [the word is heavily scratched] first died. My hair his more white than hazel, which is the only thing that changed in my appearance and my only clue that it happens in a moderately far future, instead of the next month. The map I am scrutinizing has a golden apple seal at the corner, as many of the other documents scattered in the table. My countenance is severe, almost grim, but I cannot fathom what feelings lie behind that mask.

There is a hurried knock in the door and a clay man enters. It is consistent with my habit of only employing clay zailors. I do not turn my head to him; there is only a stiffening of my lips to show that I acknowledge his presence at all.

&quotCAPT’N, WE FOUND A STOWAWAY.&quot He says, and it is clear that he is trying to convey some deeper meaning in this simple sentence.

&quotYou know the protocol, why are them not on board yet?&quot I do not look at him as I answer. My voice is so sharp that he winces. I know, I know, claymen have faces made of, well, clay. Yet, I can say that he winced in his mind.

&quotHE IS A MONKEY.&quot There is still that weird undercurrent in his speech, that hint that he is trying to say more than his words can.

&quotIt does not change anything. Just keep him out of my way.&quot I am still more interested in the map than anything else.

At this point, the clay man starts to fidget. It is weird, to see a large stone-like man like him to fidget like a scolded boy. He tries, now almost begging:

&quotLOOK AT HIM BEFORE WE BRING HIM ON BOARD, PLEASE, M’AM.&quot

His voice is so desperate that it tugs on my heartstrings (both my observer self’s and my dream self’s). I finally put a tack on the map and follow my second mate. I do not know how I was so sure he is my second mate.

As we walk along the small ship, I can get a glimpse of its name, painted in the dark hull: &quotCuriosity III&quot. As I suspected, this scene happens not too far in the future, but ‘not too far’ might mean a handful of decades in my expected lifetime. It seems like a fine, but not fancy, research boat. The crew we pass is clearly frightened and uncomfortable.

There, in the black and oily waters of the Unterzee, I can see It. There is a small lifeboat floating along my ship. Inside it, there is a Thing. I have to give credit to my second mate for identifying it as a monkey (presumably from the Empire of Hands, since he was using tattered remains of gentlemen’s clothes). At first glance, I was not so sure. The Thing is twisted and scorched almost beyond recognition. It is in equal parts a mummy and a charred remain that could have been found among the remains of a particularly bad fire. It is so still and dreadful that I wonder why would I even want that monstrous corpse on board.

At this point, it opens its eyes. They are horrible, hungry glowing eyes. And still, I can only stare at them, horror-struck, unable to articulate a sound or go away. There is something unnervingly familiar about those eyes. No, no. Even implying it is monstrous enough. I shall never write the mad thoughts that this Thing’s gaze brought to my wavering mind. Then, the burned lips that seemed melted shut suddenly part. A rasping, imploring voice just lets one word out:

&quotWater…&quot

I awake at this point, chilled to the bone, every time.

How could something like that still be alive? What were those unmentionable implications I had when I met the Thing’s eyes? Whatever the answer for those questions is, I could not bear it in a single dream. I equally covet the truth and fear it. I do not know which one of those feelings is wise and which one is a folly, but I know that, if I were any wise, I would never have started this dream journal in the first place.
edited by Professor Strix on 8/11/2016

#2

[u]August, 2nd

Log 2[/u]

I did not have the hope to see how the dream of last night would unfold, since dreams are notorious for not making in a neat sequence. Still, this night, agains all odds, my dream revealed to me what happened to the dreaded Thing.

I am back at the Curiosity III, in a cabin that smels of burned flesh. I watch as I cover the unfortunate shrivelled ape that lies in bed with wet towels, in a futile attempt to slow down his burn. At first, the ape is silent. Then, it opens his eyes and says a tortured &quotwhy?&quot.

I could ask him for clarification, but my dream self is clearly more perceptive (or knowledgeable). I answer, without losing a beat: &quotJust because I do not approve at what you apes do, it does not mean that I want you to suffer. Suffering should be something you accept to better yourself or to serve someone you love, not a punishment. I am not the self-appointed fist of God. I will get you to the hospital. Maybe they have a cure.&quot

After receiving the next batch of towels and a kind of ointment that seems to relieve him, the ape closes his fearsome glowing eyes for a minute. He opens them again, and his next words are a lot clearer than before:

&quotThere is no hope for me. If I wasn’t so greedy, I would have accepted it sooner, and perhaps wouldn’t have suffered so much. I tried to absorb something greater then me, a star in a glass jar. Now it’s consuming me…&quot There is a pause, as the ape recollects his forces. &quotIt doesn’t want to, I can tell, but it can’t avoid it. It whispers in my mind, you know? It said that I should not have done that, that I should guard it and wait to be handsomely paid for it; foolish me thought it was trying to trick me. When the first soul in me caught fire, it said that there was a cure, that I should look for it in a certain place and then remove the souls from me. Again, I was greedy enough, proud enough to think that I could overcome that… That it was a battle of wills. Battle of wills! How could I be so blind?&quot

I cannot understand this ramble at all, but my dream self just nods grimly. &quotI suppose that taking those souls out now with one of those accursed forks would not help, would it?&quot

The ape chuckles, a kind of chuckle that someone in so much pain shouldn’t be able to produce. &quotIf the soul explodes while it is being removed, it will kill us both painfully and immediately. Feeling like gambling?&quot

I do not answer it. Instead, I pick more ointment, as it seems to make him better. Unfortunately, my efforts are staled by a inhuman shriek that will ring in my ears for a long time. The ape is beyond saving now. I throw a pail of water on him, but it does not do anything. Without option, and with the blazes going so out of control that it threatens my ship, I have to run out of the cabin and close the door.

I urge all the crew to get water and try to put the fire down. When we prepare to open the door again, there is a sudden light coming out of there. It was like a sunrise, the light progressively brighter until it blinded us. Then, everything is gone.

The cabin is scorched, but the fire disappeared. Only a gentle light comes out of there, now. As I enter, I see almost everything in ashes. The bed, the ape, the cupboards, the cargo, the first aid instruments I was using, the chair, the shelves and most of their content… Except for one thing: a jar. I was keeping it for caging shrieks; now it contains a pale and diafanous shimmering gas. It glows like… Like a star in a glass jar.

I looks at me. It whispers to me.

&quotFinally.&quot

I wake up drenched in sweat. What is this voice? What is this familiar, lovingly and completely impossible voice? It cannot be him! I refuse to believe it. I refuse to accept the implications of it! It cannot be a glimpse of the future. It can only be the ravings of a grief-struck mind.

I should probably stop recording these dreams. Nothing good shall come out of them.
edited by Professor Strix on 8/11/2016

#3

[u]August, 3rd

Log 3[/u]

Since I have been getting little sleep, I started to ramdomly have involuntary naps. I just awoke for one, and the dream this time was no short of disturbing.

I was writing something. Apparently, I was trying to get some Correspondence symbol right, but my hand shook a little - just enough to get one line wrong. The whole thing went on fire and I tossed my pencil to the side, fuming with rage. That was not the disturbing part - it is just a normal day of work with the Correspondence. The disturbing thing is that, all the time, there was a eyeless child of unknown gender hovering around me, trying to take a peek at my work. The child was tattooed, head to toe, in Correspondence symbols. How they were not on fire, I could not say. My dream self seemed completely unaware of the monstrous child.

Then, the child looked direct at me. Not the dream self. Me. Their black voids stared at me, and then it smiled. The teeth!.. The teeth!.. What is this thing?!

August, 3rd

Log 4

As much as I tried to keep myself awake for the fear of dreaming again with the child, I dozed off again without realizing it. Now, I am in a strange house, one I can not recognize. My hair is completely white by then. I am reading, peacefully and there is this knock in the door. Seven knocks, to be precise. I cannot see who it is, but the person knocks seven times again. I open the door just a tad, and then I can see it.

There is a young woman in the ground, using all her remaining strenght to knock. I hurry to get her in. My dream self must know her, I do not know her yet. In the dream, I get her to a bath and make my best to make her presentable. As I wash a great deal of caked blood (I wonder if it is hers or otherwise), I notice that she has seven menacing-looking gashes that are not healed (nor they look like they can be healed).

For some reason, I scream at her and shake her by her shoulders, begging her to get back to her senses. I can gather from this that this young woman is someone I care about. Someone I wanted to protect, for some reason. But she is wasting herself away out of her own volition, and this makes me exceptionally frustrated in this dream. She hears all my recriminations in silence and, only when I finally calm down, she grasps my hand with her unstead fngers and whispers.

&quotCan I betray you, Professor?&quot

I can swear I saw the eyeless child’s face outside my window, just behind the woman.

A growl in my stomach wakes me up. Things are starting to get alarming.

August, 3rd

Log 5

Sleep caught me unaware again. This dream left me devastated.

I dreamt I had a Tomb Colonist in my arms. My hair was white and my eyes were the colour of clear honey. I had just a few instants to notice it, because then I was overcome with the grief that my dream self was experiencing. Her feelings were pouring so much out of her that it affected even me. The reason for my grief are not difficult to access. This Tomb-colonist is little more than a skeleton being held by will power alone. Whoever they were, they were close to dissolving into nothing, and that was torning me apart. Yet, I was ready to let them go. It would be selfish otherwise. I could not hear what the Tomb-Colonist whispered to me, but it made me cry even more, and attempt a half-hearted smile.

I wanted to wake up at this point. It was so infinitely sad, and I felt like I was intruding in something so private that even my past self would be considered an outsider. However, I was not in control of when I could leave. As my dream self mustered enough courage to give the colonist a last kiss (considering it was not a rotting corpse, but a corpse that pretty much already rotted to nothing), they got interrupted.

It was that monstrous eyeless child. It said something that I, again, could not hear. I cried a big &quotNO&quot at the child, but it only stared vacantly at me with those black eyes. Correspondence danced madly in the child’s skin. Then, it opened that nightmarish mouth and spoke. Oh, God, it spoke. What monotone and yet scary this voice was.

It said: &quotThis choice is not yours.&quot

I woke up again. I cannot sleep again. Not until those dreams stop. I cannot bear it anymore. It is too much to my feeble mind to take at once.

I might have become mad.
edited by Professor Strix on 8/11/2016

#4

[[I updated the journal dates because I found the idea of going stark mad and eating coffee powder with a spoon quite hillarious, so I opened a week to accomodate to getting mad and recovering.]][u]

August, 11th

Log 6[/u]

After one week of stark madness and hallucinations with the hollow-eyed child, I was finally back at regular, mostly non-nightmarish dreams. At first, the dream was calm. I am in a ship deck, looking at the Zee and thinking about the scarred woman. I cannot understand my dream-thoughts very clearly, so I am still in the dark regarding the woman’s relationship with me. I can only gather that I was deeply melancholic and full of dark, foreboding thoughts.

At some point, my stomach growls. I pick something out of my pocket and eat it almost defiantly, as if I was saying a polite, but firm &quotno, thank you&quot to the hunger.

I walk to the bow of the ship, and she was there, as if she was the one making it move. The scarred woman. If she was haggard before, now she looked like a corpse walking. Her skin was white, dull and parchment-like. Her head was pretty clearly sewed on her neck without much sophistication. Her hair was also dull and dry, undulating awkwardly in the calm breeze. Her eyes look longingly at the horizon, as if it was the only thing that mattered. My dream self does not get closer. I sit in a bench and get a furry blanket to cover myself from the chilling wind.

The ship is so silent that it takes me some time until I notice it. There is no crew. No one is at the helm, that spins randomly. It does not seem to have any impact in the course of the ship. The sails are rotten; they are not moving the ship, either. We are in a ghost clipper.

There is a sound, like the wind being disturbed by giant wings. I hear claws rasping on the ground and barely look at the oncoming dark shape. A short, cloaked being sits at my side, its eyes shining like little embers. A… master? Its cloak has complex embroidery that I had never seen in the other masters’ cloaks. It does not speak. I do not turn to speak to it.

We both protect ourselves from the sudden snowy gust that castigates us. The woman does not move, as if she was the figurehead of the ship, not a living being. Observing her more closely, I notice that she grasped the hull with more force, but that is it. No one speaks anything; the only sounds that reach our ears are the music of the howling freezing winds and the lull of the waves against the wood.

At some point, the false-stars start to become rarer and rarer, until we are completely in the dark. This doesn’t hinder any of us. Even without any light, we still can see the gate ahead. The colossal statues regard us sternly. I hug something under the blanket. It is time.

We dock softly. The woman in the bow jumps and lands graciously, without a sound. Her eyes are fixed in the gate, she cannot see or acknowledge anything else. She is muttering things, words like ‘reckoning’ and ‘the candles’ can be heard. I try to go after her, and this is when everything ends.

As the woman leaves, the ship moves again. It does not let me jump after her, and struggles like a wounded animal. I do not know why, but I somehow know it is dying, and it will take whatever is on board with it. I still make a desperate effort to reach the port, but the ship is out to get me. A piece of wood pass through my heart, bringing a red haze to my eyes. Before I lose my consciousness, I feel arms around my waist, the floor leaving my feeet, and a mess of snow and my own frustrated and desperate screams.

I wake up. I am crying profusely and I do not know why.
edited by Professor Strix on 8/12/2016

#5

Finally sat down and give this a read. I liked it quite a bit, especially since it seems to be a mix of all the entities that haunt the good folks of London’s sleep - the burial of the dead dreams, Mr. Eaten’s name, the reference to the future of the Fingerking dreams, maybe even a touch of irrigo.

#6

Thank you! I didn’t plan it, but the dreams I already wrote and the ones I will still post really fit the Recurring Dreams qualities (which is double crazy because the Professor’s dreams aren’t dreams, they are glimpses of her future). Uh. Pretend it was intended.

#7

[u]August 12

Log 7[/u]

The dream today was brief, because I could not sleep again after it.

It started with me coming home. Again, it was no house I could remember. My eyes now are notable for their pale yellow colour. I bring a small cardboard box with me. Plangent moans come from it, but I seem to be used to it.

After I do my hygiene and eat a good dinner, I come back to the living room, where the box awaits. I pick a dozen soul bottles out of it and arrange them in circle in a centre table. Even if I cannot read my dream-self mind, I know that those souls were from people that already died permanently, and that they are heart-wrenchly sad.

I pop the little corks one by one, but the souls are so devastated to simply leave. Their tiny voices lament of places never visited, deeds never done, loves never confessed. I sigh and close all the curtains. Making sure no light can escape the room, I bring there a slightly bigger bottle. It shines as if it has a miniature sun. Inside it there is what looks like a soul, though I’ve never seen one so shiny. The souls from the bottles stop moaning for a moment and I leave them at it.

Before I go to bed, I light a single small candle and put it in my window, as a beacon. A single tear flows from my eye as I do so. Is it a memorial? A code?

As I finally sleep, I can hear the distinct chat of many voices in the living room. Among them, a calm and comforting voice that was not there before can be heard.

For a few minutes, it seems like the dream ended, but I do not wake up. I fidget in my mind and start to feel trapped. That darkness is new.

Fortunately, there is a small light that gains strength little by little, like the dawn coming. I finally can see things again. At first, I am sure this dream happens on Surface, based on how much light enters my window. However, as I peek outside the curtains, I can only see the shine of potent orbs covering the buildings or mounted in high posts. I never thought that the Neath could be so bright.

When the light gets to its maximum strength, my dream-self awakes. I rub my eyes and make myself ready for a day of work. Back in the living room, only the big, shiny bottle is intact. The other ones are empty and oddly peaceful.

“How it went?” I ask, apparently to no one.

“As usual.” A soft, benign voice come from the shining bottle. The voice is gentle. Despite my state of vehement denial, I know this voice. Only one person on Earth knew how to speak in a voice that was so sweet, so loving. I want to end the dream right there, but I am forced to stay and hear the rest: “In the end, they all went in peace.”

I pick the bottle to get it back to its place and my face is bitter. “When will it be our time?”

“Asking again will not change the answer, sweetie.”

Tears come back to my cheeks. “There is nothing waiting for me in the North. This place does not even want me there. Remember?”

The bottle becomes pleasantly warm as the soul (yes, it is definitely a soul) there tries to comfort me. “Oh, my little darling, have a bit of faith in this old man. The paradox of life is that there is only one constant in the Cosmos: everything changes.”

As I hear those words, I wake up. That soul… It is impossible. That soul could never ever be preserved in a bottle. What it says about me? What it says about my heart’s desires? And yet… Even if I know it is impossible, that it should never happen and that it would cause much suffering for the poor soul if this did happen… I can still feel the warmth of my dreams in my hands, and suddenly I caught myself wanting this dream to come true.

Am I that selfish?
edited by Professor Strix on 8/12/2016

#8

Wonderful story so far. I am even slightly sad/mad that I did not go the route of growing my Judgement’s Egg a long time ago. Well, too late for me, and for V specifically.
I have to say, though. The last big paragraph was a bit on-the-nose in terms of making the soul’s original owner a mystery. (‘That soul… It is impossible. That soul could never ever be preserved in a bottle.’ specifically.) Otherwise, really loving the read.

#9

[quote=Vavakx Nonexus]Wonderful story so far. I am even slightly sad/mad that I did not go the route of growing my Judgement’s Egg a long time ago. Well, too late for me, and for V specifically.
I have to say, though. The last big paragraph was a bit on-the-nose in terms of making the soul’s original owner a mystery. (‘That soul… It is impossible. That soul could never ever be preserved in a bottle.’ specifically.) Otherwise, really loving the read.[/quote]

Thanks. ^^

The Professor does have a deep mistrust of writing secrets down, even in a private journal. She’s intentionally avoiding to mention the person’s name or giving anything away, so the journal can’t reveal it evne if it becomes alive in Polythreme or something crazy like that. It was actually a bit awkward for me, because the soul in the bottle isn’t that big of a spoiler for the readers and I would happily provide you his name and occupation if she wasn’t paranoid. But writing in the first person means I have to respect her caprices. Oh, well.

#10

[u]August, 14th

Log 8[/u]

After a night of relative peace, I decided to travel to a festival in Mutton Island, hoping to make the dreams vanish. However, in my cabin at the Curiosity, I had another dream.

I am in a rock in a beach, handling an old silvery crucifix. It’s worn, but polished with care. A gift from dad, that I have been keeping faithfully all those years. I whisper the Lord’s Prayer to myself, having only the crash of the waves as a background.

&quotWhy do you keep worshipping this god, when you know who the true gods are?&quot

The child that has been haunting me floats, more than it walks, in my direction. It is, somehow, less distorted than before, but still unsettling. The eyes are still dark voids, the mouth is still not working properly, but their motion is more fluid, slightly more human-like. More important, the correspondence glyphs in their skin can barely be seen. After acknowledging them, I turn my head back to the Zee.

&quotThey are no gods of mine. They are just very powerful people.&quot

&quotAnd what is the difference?&quot The child seems genuinely curious.

&quotPeople do stupid, petty and selfish things.&quot I say, clearly holding some sort of grudge over it. &quotA true God, to me, has to be above all this pettiness. Above personal pride, above feeling hapless, above intriguing, above… Well, all those things people do. I believe there is such a God out there, truly omniscient, truly omnipotent. And truly above anything that could diminish Them. Maybe the stars simply cannot comprehend them, because they are still too human-like. Human-like in a cosmic proportion, but too human, nonetheless.&quot

The child sprouts a revolting mocking smile, too full of teeth:

&quotAre you sure you are not harbouring a false hope, just to fool yourself, rather than dealing with an unpleasant truth?&quot

I shrug. &quotLook who is talking.&quot

There is an awkwardly long silence. The child kicks a pebble back to the zee. &quot…Touché.&quot

It seems that everything that we had to say to each other was already said. Before going away, the child says, sternly: &quotI know about your plan. It will not work.&quot

I do not give them the pleasure of seeing me worried. With my eyes locked at the horizon, I return, softly:

&quotWatch and learn.&quot

I wake up with more questions than answers.

#11

So, are you allowed to explain that child yet or is that for later?

#12

There are four more logs. The child returns once more in log 11. If you still need it explained by them, I’ll give a clue. But seriously, I thought this was pretty clear by now. I must be better at keeping secrets than I thought.
edited by Professor Strix on 8/15/2016

#13

There are four more logs. The child returns once more in log 11. If you still need explained by them, I’ll give a clue. But seriously, I thought this was pretty clear by now. I must be better at keeping secrets than I thought.[/quote]

I’m sure it’s obvious to others, but I always overthink the answer.

#14

I don’t have any idea about the Glyph-kid either, if that helps.

#15

[quote=Professor Strix]There are four more logs. The child returns once more in log 11. If you still need it explained by them, I’ll give a clue. But seriously, I thought this was pretty clear by now. I must be better at keeping secrets than I thought.
edited by Professor Strix on 8/15/2016[/quote]

I think I know who the soul is, though I’m not sure. I’m thinking it’s related to your character, and not to FL content in general, though I could be wrong. flailing I really like this story. The way you present it, the characterization! It’s lovely. And there’s some new details on bits of lore, at least for me. I’m curious about various pieces here – I have such a weakness for a good story, or something with well-made lore, and it’s hard to get to all the FL lore given the way the game plays and the fact that some choices are mutually exclusive – or Fate-locked.

…I’m new to the forums, and trying to find a way to subscribe to the thread, but I don’t seem to be able. x.x If I missed it, would you mind telling me how?

#16

I’ll add myself to the growing list of people who have no clue who creepy glyph child could be. I assumed it was someone/thing created uniquely for your character too.

#17

I reread this thread and the journal thread, and I know less than nothing.
Glyph child.
Soul (judgment egg?).
The tomb colonist.
The (seeker) woman.
And what about Derek?

And which of those are the same?

#18

I never subscribed to topics, so I don’t know. :/

I’m glad you are all liking it. I’ll update it more frequently now that the Festival began, and only 3 long logs and a very short one remains. I’ll refrain to give out too much until I finish. Like I said, at the end, I’ll give hints if you still need them. I’ll not spoil your headcanons by giving out straight answers, though. I may put more hints in the comics and other writing pieces later, if I feel they are needed/wanted. ^^&quot

#19

[u]August, 15th

Log 9[/u]

The Festival, unfortunately, did not mean the end of my dreams. As I waited to make a catch, perfectly still, my mind wandered and the glimpses came flooding my dreamscape.

Now I can see a dark empty space and small flickering lights, like a starry night, but in the ground. I am at the top of a tall building, and what I see is a city devoid of any light, but the tiny flame from countless candles. I step out of the building, with my own black mourning candle. All the faces look at me expectantly. There is a tortured hope in those faces.

I step ahead of the crowd and we begin a slow march. Constables follow us nervously. (Are them really Constables? Their uniform is different.) They seem eager to attack us, but we are not doing anything against the law. Nothing in our grieving silence suggests any violence, and that makes them nervous. They are not used to peaceful resolutions. They fear them.

Our march ends at the spires of the Bazaar. All the Masters are there, looking at us with weary eyes. All but one. I look for it eagerly, being sorely disappointed when I have to accept that it is not there. I step ahead, determined to end that stupid feud once for all. But I have to make our points clear in a language they all respected, in a language that mattered. All my long study of the Correspondence would culminate in that manifesto. I had to get it right.

I raise my candle, ready to employ a process that took me decades to perfect. I just needed to keep my concentration, over the noise of the crowd, the scorn of the Masters and the menacing and disapproving silence of the Bazaar. Getting my forces together was proving more difficult than I expected.

A gloved hand (claw?) press my free one in an affectionate way. I look down surprised. A hooded character emerges from the crowd, holding its own small candle. &quotI know you don’t believe me&quot, it says, as softly as its high-pitched voice allows &quotbut I do remember. I remember always.&quot The tears in my now red eyes tell me I believe it. Outrage explodes all around us, but I do not care. I press the glove back fondly.

I raise my candle higher, with my determination renewed. The flame burns bigger and brighter. As it starts to take new and strange forms, something bites and I wake up to make my catch.
edited by Professor Strix on 8/15/2016

#20

[u]August, 15th

Log 10[/u]

I have made a strange catch. My boat went farther than I thought, and it took me some time to get back to shore. The waves lulled me to a sleep of an instant. Something is getting near, I can feel it.

In this dream, I was home. I arrange a place in my centre table and put there a glass jar with a unusually bright soul. The jar is bigger than it was in previous dreams, but the bright mist occupies it all. We exchange pleasantries and I tie an orange bow to the jar with a playful smile. We both laugh.

My laughter is cut short when a strange glow comes from inside me. I clutch my chest, as if in mortal pain and fall down to my knees. The glow fades quickly, but the pain seems to linger for a while longer. It takes me all my strength to crawl to a seat and compose myself.

&quotWhat was that?&quot I whisper, my voice trembling.

&quotIt is the beginning of the countdown, I am afraid.&quot The voice is sad and gentle. &quotWe have no more time to waste. We have to get out of here.&quot

I close my eyes and press the bridge of my nose irritably. &quotYou know I cannot open the gate. You were there.&quot

&quotBut you know who can.&quot

I open my eyes and stare the jar. &quotAfter everything I have done? They will want nothing with me.&quot

&quotWell, you have just enough time to make yourself useful.&quot

&quotBut…&quot

&quotJewel of my heart&quot the voice cuts me, sweeter than ever &quotI taught you better than that. Will you let pride stand in your way of doing the right thing? You have a beautiful heart that does not hold grudges and, more importantly, cannot stand to see other people suffering. under their mask of cruelty and self-assurance, criminals suffer. And they are creatures of God, just like you. Will you let them suffer without extending a hand? Do you not think that it makes you as cruel as them?&quot

I sigh and lose myself in thoughts.

The boat arriving in the beach of Mutton Island jolt me awake. A faint pain can still be felt in my chest.

[[I would post it later, but my fingers slipped and I somehow posted it. I still don’t know what did I click.]]
edited by Professor Strix on 8/15/2016