The colorful crowd beamed up at me, smiling their toothy golden grins. It felt great, because it went very well. Like it always did. I eyed my pals coming down from the stand, gathering my laptop and unplugging it from the projector. They gave me those knowing looks they always give me, the wordless good-jobs and well-dones. Felt good, felt really really good. These were the types of moments I live for. They conveniently happen once a month.
I descended the stairs, bounced over on the springy pads on the carpet, and took my seat next to the 13 meter tall window that looked out on the taffy colored cityscape of Wonder World!™. I sat next to my friends and acquaintances, gave a smug smile to at least half of them, and felt my auditorium seat shake a little as the Wonder Tower Frite Lite Roller Coaster passed by the window. Opening my arm rest, I popped out a strawberry cherry flavored lollipop. To be honest, I preferred kiwi watermelon; but at that moment I couldn't care less. I could already feel that Jelly Whale Emperor was going to be a huge success.
My best friend Thomas Timothy Thompson — also known as 3T — looked a bit nervous. He was eyeing me. He sat with his permanent frown; the bells on his shoulders jingling too much as he bounced his leg in anxious waiting. He wasn't always so uneasy. It brought me a little down. As the next presenter began to ascend the stage I sidled my way over to him, careful not to block people's view with my velvety stovepipe hat. I took a seat next to him and began to inquire.
"Pal, what's got you down?"
"Nothing, Brainy." But it was clearly something. I gave him the look, communicating that thought. He only pouted stronger. "You'll see in a second, Brainy. It's bad, oh it's bad, it might be the baddest bad thing that's happened in either of our careers. It's bad, Brainy. It's bad."
Now 3T had gotten me worried as well. Baddest of bad things to happen? Badder than when we had a marshmallow flood and had to shut down work for three days? Badder than when we had an entire shipment of Batty Badgers sabotaged? Badder than when we had to remake the Sun Starer Telescope because the old property had been overrun with trick-or-treaters? Wait, badder than when I got locked in the bathroom overnight? I had come to my conclusion. It must be bad. Very bad, in fact. 3T had passed his anxiousness off onto me, and we hate anxiousness here. I'd have to talk to him about it later.
We sat, anxiously, through three more presentations (Gummy Bear Action Figures, Turbo Tracks, and Dog Caller Collar) before I heard a squeak from 3T. I turned to look, and he was wincing. He turned to catch my eye, and I caught his intention. He motioned towards the stage, and I saw Polly Gary Ashley ascend the steps, carrying their wool covered laptop and plugging it into the system. They looked nervous. No one here ever looks nervous. What could possibly have been going on? Polly's screen popped up, and it showed a big, toy piano. That's odd, I had an idea for a toy piano that looked just like that. The title of the slideshow read "Polly's Piano Plant!", and she started describing how it would slowly grow to incorporate more and more keys and introduce children to more and more concepts of music via a talking flower at the top. Now, that's very odd, because, see, I had the same idea. The same exact idea, actually, but I shelved it for the clearly superior idea of Jelly Whale Emperor.
Because Jelly Whale Emperor. What child could resist the jiggly allure of Jelly Whale Emperor? It had over one hundred features. The most important, of course, being that it was entirely edible, but its ability to rule a sovereign nation of sugary treats was a close second. It was even able to maintain complex political relations with other Jelly Whale Emperor governments, such as declaring war, creating currency exchange rates, or setting up trade routes through your kitchen. It even came in four distinct flavors — Cucumber Communist, Cocoa Capitalist, Apple Autocracy, and Fruity Fascist — for dynamic foreign policy fun!
But it did upset me a bit. Seeing an idea I made up on screen. My idea exactly, actually. I could pick out some phrases in there that I had written down at some point. Polly had never had an idea this good; she was always a sort of newbie. Wait, had I drawn that? I remembered distinctly having drawn that very same thing — I remembered distinctly having made that blueprint. Oh no, it was happening. I was starting to feel angry — you're not supposed to feel angry. We were a clean company, we all loved each other equally, and my feelings towards Polly were indecent. Polly Gary Ashley and her stolen idea. Polly Gary Ashley and her my idea. Oh no, it was bubbling out wasn't it? It was, it was it was, I couldn't stop it. I made eye-contact with 3T, and he gave me the same worried look. We exchanged knowing glances, and I was glad I had a tiger paint on, or else it might show just how red my face must have been. And that would be incredibly indecent. Increasingly indecent.
Polly finished up, curtsied, and flung her pigtails every which way. The audience started clapping, as usual. And the audience started cheering, as sometimes happens. Oh, and the audience rose in standing ovation, which never happens. Standing? Ovation?! Oh no, oh no oh no, I was going to make a very bad decision. I couldn't, I can't even, it just had to happen. I rose, furrowed my brow, and pointed at her, yelling over the crowd.
"You stole it!"
First, it was the few people closest to me. Then it was the people closest to them, and then the people closest to them, and then it was Polly Gary Ashley, and then it was the entire audience who was looking straight at me, finger raised still accusingly at Polly's big, red nose. I flushed a bit, but nobody noticed. I looked around, I wondered whether it was worth it, I saw my arm still extended… and I stood my ground.
"You stole the Grow-N-Know Piano Plant!"
The entire room turned from me to look at Polly, wearing concerned expressions that I hadn't seen cross the face of anyone in this room ever before. I was glad to get the attention off of me, and onto the culprit. Onto Polly. Onto her stupid pig tails and her big dumb forehead and her unnecessarily large fluffy shoes. Off of me and onto her guilty face. She looked at the audience, then at me, then at the audience, then at me.
"I… I did not!"
"You did, Polly!" I looked at the audience, "She did! The Grow-N-Know Piano Plant was my second choice for my toy design this month, but I went with Jelly Whale Emperor!"
The crowd broke into murmurs for a split second, and they reverberated around the stadium like some twisted nervous orchestra. Polly and I held eye contact, her mouth half agape, the sweat slowly smearing my face paint. After a couple of seconds, a big round man with a green and purple pinstripe suit came onto the stage and swiped the microphone from Polly's hands.
"Gosh I am so sorry that the presentations started going like this, I am so so sorry that you all had to be here for this, but I-I-I'm going to take Polly and Brainy aside and have a short discussion and you guys can continue your presentations okay? P-P-Please? Forget this ever happened, oh golly, just forget this ever happened. Brainy, get up here, you're coming with me." He almost set down the microphone, but - "Oh I'm so sorry, also, uh, Thomas Timothy Thompson is next, please welcome T-T-Thompson!"
The crowd remained silent for another couple seconds, before someone broke it with the clapping that should have been there. A couple people followed suit, and then another couple, and then another couple, and then the whole crowd was clapping like they normally would be while 3T picked up his slides and took them with him onstage. I took off my hat and cat ears so as to not block people's views and followed close behind to meet Mr. Ribbit and Polly by the east exit. I walked around the stage and left 3T going up the steps, his head hung low and his eyes glancing at me. I tried to assure him that everything would be okay by giving him a weak smile. I think it was too weak, because he just frowned harder at me.
Mr. Ribbit was wringing his hands whenever he wasn't wiping the sweat off of his forehead with his handkerchief, and Polly just held her eyes wide open and was standing straight as a nail. I thought to myself that if I had a big hammer I could pound her into the ground with how stiff she must be. I tried to keep calm, and be the one normal, happy calm funny person of the group, but I caught myself growling once or twice, and my hands played with invisible stress balls. I knew eyes were on us, but I didn't want to turn around. I must look like a disaster. Mr. Ribbit finally had the courage to look into my eyes, and then into Polly's, and motioned us to follow him. I made sure to glare at Polly as little as possible. I didn't want to glare, I don't know how I look when I glare because I've never glared before. It might make my face paint look hideous, and image is everything.

I sat opposite of Polly Gary Ashley, which only put us about a meter apart. I wished I was farther, so I didn't have the urge to kick her. On the other hand, I wished I was closer, so I could kick her. Either would have been good. As it was I was in this awkward want-to-kick-but-can-not-kick zone. Sitting to my left and to her right were all the managers: Mr. Ribbit, Golly Molly, Mrs. Ribbit, Dr. Quack, Judy the Tongue, and some other people that I didn't know. They must have worked with some other part of Wonder Tower, but I wasn't sure why they would be there. I must have made such a scene to attract people I didn't even know. Everyone sat for a second in uncomfortable silence as some tall, spindly woman explained the situation to Tongue in a whisper. I stopped the small, baby-faced assistant in their tracks and asked them for a stress ball. They nodded, and dashed off, waddling with their bow legged gait.
"What you're thaying, Brainy Brian, ith that Polly Gary Ashley thtole your idea for the Grow-N-Know Piano Plant?" Tongue asked, her eyebrows lowered in a calm confusion.
"Yes."
"And you, Polly Gary Ashley, did you thteal Brainy's idea?"
Polly blinked many times, and twitched her nose. She glanced between Tongue and I. Her cheeks were bright red.
She looked like she could do with a good push off a roof.
"…I did not."
"She's lying!"
"Pleathe calm down, Brainy, we're trying to work thith out diplomatically."
I felt a nudge on my thigh, and looked down to find the assistant back with a little yellow stress ball. I smiled at him, pat him on the head, and mouthed "thank you". He just wiggled back and forth and then waddled off again.
"Tho… uh…" Tongue licked her lips, and then let her signature feature hang out the side of her mouth. "We've never had a thituation like thith before." The room went uncomfortably silent. Like the very beginning. "Maybe we can hug it out?" Some smiling faces turned to face me.
"What? Tongue, everyone — no! This is beyond hugging it out! She stole my idea and claimed it as her own! If that goes into production, she makes money off — she gets recognition off of my idea. And that is not huggable." I looked directly at her, her cheeks more flushed than ever before: "You are not huggable."
"Gosh, it's not about money, it's about having f-f-fun, Brainy…"
"I corrected myself didn't I? Clearly she thinks it's about money, she's — she's stealing my idea!"
"Well, wait, I know Polly, and she'th an upthtanding little girl, and I don't think she'd thteal an idea, are you thure you made that up?"
"I — Are you serious? I am certain! I haven't been more sure about anything in my life!"
"W-W-Well, we can't take action against Polly if we don't have p-p-proof, right…?"
"I'm — Ribbit, I'm Brainy Brian. Do you want me to name all of the products under my belt? All of the gifts I have given to this company?"
"I-I-I don't think -"
"Let's see here… oh yes, I have made the Tattletale Truffles, do you remember Universal Controller?
Oh, and hey, I was the brain behind Dragon-Snails, and I was a major contributor to that little gift of ours — I have never been anything but a major benefit to this company. I have been nothing but an asset to you, and this is how you treat me?"
"Brainy, you're getting erratic, it'd really be the betht for everyone if you just calmed down -"
"Calmed down? Polly has never had a good idea in her life! Polly hasn't had a single successful idea! She's flunked every single toy presentation that's been thrown her way! I get throwing a dog a bone, but by this point she's consumed a whole gosh darn skeleton! I mean, how can you really expect her to come up with something like Grow-N-Know Piano Plant? After her fantastic designs, such as the 'Teamons', the 'Pretty People', the, oh yes, the 'Fruit Fly'? Guess what, Polly, that's already a thing."
"Brainy, I think it would be betht if you thlowed down a -"
"Wait, there's more — how about 'Hemingway Happy Times', or literally just 'History' — oh, and let's not forget 'Candy Gore'!"
"B-B-Brainy, p-p-please -"
"Oh, shut your damn trap Ribbit."
The entire room gasped. I forgot how much I sharpened my nails this morning; the stress ball's beady contents had spilled onto the table. I stopped squeezing, looked around at all their mouths half agape, and felt my face soften and match their expression. I turned and saw Polly crying, her eyeliner running down her face. The little assistant stood in the door, staring at me wide-eyed. Seeing me loosen, he came up slowly and began to scrape the stress ball's remains into a small pan.
The room was tense. My chest hurt. I felt slightly nauseous. The only sound was Polly's soft crying in the corner. I was standing, but I didn't remember standing up. Sitting back down, looking at where the beads used to be, I was awestruck at my own behavior. I didn't think I did that anymore. I liked Mr. Ribbit. He was always such a nice old man. I'd never had problems with Tongue. I suddenly felt very gross.
"I'm… I'm so sorry." I looked around the room. I could see Ribbit's eyes watering. His wife had come over and was rubbing his back. "I'm… Ribbit, I'm so sorry. I didn't… I've always liked you, you're such a nice old man. And Judy, I just… I don't know what came over me."
Tongue exchanged glances with the people I didn't know, sighed, and then looked back at me. She motioned to Polly, and I turned to face her. She had her head in her arms by this point. Polly Gary Ashley. Idea thief. I could feel my fists tensing again, and had to look away.
"I'm so sorry, Tongue. I can't. I can't forgive her."
We all hung our heads at once. Mr. Ribbit was escorted out of the room by Mrs. Ribbit, and were shortly followed by everyone else. The towering, spidery woman came to guide Polly out of the room. Soon, it was just me and Tongue. Tongue sighed, got up, and walked to where Polly was sitting. She bagged up her sleeves, and wiped the wet spot that Polly Gary Ashley left. Then, she looked at me solemnly.
"Brainy, we like you. A lot. You've always been a fantathtic toymaker, and we think you're one of the motht dedicated to making children have happier liveth. Tho we aren't willing to let you go. But we jutht don't think you can thtay here right now. You've cauthed quite the thene. Um…" She licked her lips again, and then massaged the bridge of her nose. "I think we can thend you on paid vacation to the Touritht Trap. Maybe you could calm down there…? I don't know, you didn't theem to like my last thuggethtion…"
"No, no, it's good. I'm… I'm so sorry I caused a scene. I own that. I'll take paid vacation to Tourist Trap, as long as it takes for me to get back on my feet. Or, as long as you're willing to pay me for paid vacation."
We both awkwardly chuckled, not really because it felt natural but just to lighten the mood. I felt another nudge on my thigh, and looked down. It was the little assistant again, and he appeared a little nervous. His eyes rose to meet mine, and then pulled a green stress ball from behind his back and offered it.

This was my first time on a bus. It felt weird. It felt very weird and uncomfortable. I think they were looking at me, all of them in their business suits and shawls and dresses and coats and jackets and hoodies and jeans and small shoes. I felt naked without my face paint, and I had never been anywhere so colorless. As far as I could tell, it was just green in every direction. Grasses grazed upon by sheep and the occasional tree came into view. It was dull… but I guess that's okay. I was feeling dull. I was forced into a brown sweater and denim pants, and I was wearing grey shoes with laces. My hair was combed back and orderly. I wore some cheap kind of cologne. My suitcase was at my feet because I didn't trust leaving it alone; if anyone were to see my stuffies, watercolors, and risperdal I'd feel terribly judged. Well, I already felt judged. I had felt judged since yesterday evening. I tried not to think about it, because it would make me look nervous, and I already looked nervous so I didn't want to look more nervous. At that moment I was supposed to be an upstanding citizen… or something like that.
The bus turned a bit too sharply and I leaned into the woman next to me. I apologized profusely afterwards, hoping that would be enough, but eventually she scooted over one seat and stopped responding to me. "I'm a child," I thought to myself, "everyone here thinks that I'm a child." I looked out into the countryside and started seeing more and more trees. My stop was coming up, and I needed to be ready. I stood up and hung onto a pole. It made me feel more central, and thus made me feel like there were more eyes on me. I sat back down. Oh gosh, anyone who saw that must have thought I was such a wreck, they must have thought I was — was that my stop?
I looked back, and saw the overgrown bus stop sign get smaller and smaller. That was my stop. The driver blew right past it, what the — "Hey!" Everybody was looking at me now. "Hey, driver! Sir? Please, sir -" I picked up my suitcase and walked up to the front of the bus to address the driver, "- that was my stop! Could you pull over, can I…?"
The fat, smelly man looked up at me, and scared me with his dark angry eyes. "Eh?"
"Oh, please sir, my stop was back there?"
"That was your stop?"
"Yes, now please, please please could you stop the bus, I need to -" I almost fell over as the driver pulled over abruptly.
"Nobody ever has that stop, we've been petitioning to get rid of it. There's nothing out there, you know. You sure that's your stop?"
"Oh, I assure you, sir, there's something out there. You just gotta follow the trail!"
He grunted, and shifted the toothpick from the left side of his mouth to his right. "Alright. Could I let you out here and you can walk back there?"
I didn't like that idea, with how heavy my suitcase was, but I didn't want to bother him. "Yes, I'll get out here. Thank you so much for listening, I have no clue why nobody else stops there, it's such a nice forest. Thank you, thank you so much." He made the door squeak open, and I heaved my suitcase out onto the dirt. "I'll be off then, and take care!"
"I will." He paused, and shifted his toothpick again. "Stay safe, y'hear? I've never heard of anyone stopping at that bus stop. Thought it must be a relic of some kind. Wherever you're going must be ancient."
Before I could respond he closed the door, and the bus was off again. I was left in the dirt on the side of the road, surrounded by forest. Dirt? Oh jeez, that was mud. I sounded like a boiling teapot as I tried scraping it off of my shoes and onto a tree trunk. That was gross. I had only ever heard of mud — it looked like melted chocolate almost. I almost wanted to taste it, actually — but no, it was wet dirt. I shouldn't. Realizing that I still hadn't moved, I shuffled in place for two seconds before heading in the direction of the bus stop. It was only a little ways, but carrying this suitcase made it feel like a mile. By the time I got there, I had almost forgotten what I was doing. Thankfully, it was only almost.
"Two hours off from where you are,
Never near but never far,
Can't find it upon your map,
Let's all go to the Tourist Trap."
Nothing seemed to change. I stood there for a second, and I repeated it a couple of times. It really was meant to be spoken by multiple people. I contemplated turning back, but where would I turn to? I was in the middle of nowhere, with no cars coming from anywhere, surrounded by woods. Maybe I had to grab the bus stop sign? I tried holding onto it, and saying the phrase, but that didn't do anything. I started saying it louder and louder, wandering a little out into the woods. Tried yelling it, and that didn't do anything. Tried hugging the bus stop sign, and that didn't do anything. This was bad, this was very very bad, and I was beginning to panic. I had mud on my shoes, I was carrying ten tons of suitcase, I was alone in the middle of the woods, and I had no cell phone or mobile device. It was crumbling. All of my world was melting, it started with my work and now it was going to end with me starving in the — wait.
"We have been wanting to travel the world,
And though we can not find you on any map,
You've promised some haven to us boys and girls,
We know you exist, you're the Tourist Trap!"
Some underbrush moved out of the way, and a small path made of yellow bricks went off into the woods. Aw, that was sweet. A Wizard of Oz reference. I should have expected that. I should have also remembered the new pass code sooner. I forgot that somebody found that one out, too. We came to the house and found it all TP'd. It was a disaster.
I grabbed my suitcase and started up the path. It was getting dark out, I must have been in a bus for a long time. Packing this morning took a lot out of me as well. I only could fit five different colors of paint. I was assured that there would be more at the Tourist Trap, but I really wasn't sure. I wasn't sure of anything anymore, really. My social standing must be in tatters by now. Gosh, this suitcase was heavy. I thought that if I didn't want to hold the suitcase for so long, I had better run. So I did. I ran and ran and ran, and it felt like it took ages, but then I remembered; Tourist Trap is always two hours away from anything. I groaned, loudly, now realizing that it didn't matter how fast I went. Two hours of carrying a suitcase was my fate. I moved at snail pace towards Tourist Trap, dreading all my decisions that had led me to this point.

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This is an incomplete excerpt from the life of the author of this tale series. All of the following has been pulled from her diary, and edited and kept to relevant excerpts for readability and entertainment purposes. We'll call her Sunset.

Hello!

By all accounts, writing this story was nothing less than a miracle.

November 23, 2017

American Thanksgiving. At least no one is talking politics. The nieces are loud and bubbly, the food is pretty good (her oldest niece, 12, ended up making the best dish anyway), and because it was at her Vovó1's apartment, it was a good way to get away from home. The less loneliness, the better.
"All done." Sunset clapped her hands together. "Can I go to the bathroom?" Although Vovó was busy talking with her daughter and other granddaughters, she smiled and nodded at Sunset.
The bathroom in the community dining hall was locked for minor renovations, so a trip had to be made to Vovó's place. It wouldn't be long anyway; about a minute to and back, with about 30 seconds to wash her hands. Still, even a 20-second delay was enough to get consumed in her own thoughts and worries.
As she continued walking into the atmosphere, thoughts came to a head. A decision had to be made sooner or later. Whether to continue forcing on at Thanksgiving, or run away, or lie down and accept fate, or try and pretend those shapes are more than just aggravating squares and circles and rectangles, or retreat in the corner and poke away at the phone, or…
Or…
Hmm.
Sunset washed her hands, recognizing the lady in the mirror as someone else from this time, a being unfortunate enough to have to return to her family. Not her though. She is well-off, able to make choices, while her choices are… hmm. Train of thought?
As she dragged herself towards somewhere, she passed by her grandparents' room, where she saw it. An axe murderer standing on the other side of the bed, no face visible. She tilted her head to the side. No response.
She waved.
It waved back.
She shrugged and left. And before she knew it —
"EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEK!"
Down Sunset came immediately. Her hand was on the exit of the complex. This was no time for whatever she was doing right then and there, she had to check on her nieces because it sounded like them, like they were in trouble. Off she ran and went back to the dining hall.
They were just chasing each other. Ah, youth.

Later that night, she called her grandparents to see if they were okay. They were.

November 24, 2017

psul had gotten back to Sunset about critique for the first tale. Now she could be able to use it for a future one. At least everything was going smoothly as far as the series was concerned.

I still felt weird about it though. "Hey, how can I specifically tailor my work to best suit your specific tastes and needs?" was a thing I almost literally sent. I had to couch it instead. As if it was no biggie.

"i post new tales in the series every monday and thursday, hopefully the others are more suited to your personal inclinations!"

It didn't even occur to me otherwise; why write if no one likes it? I mean, so what if this was my saving grace and my own personal Hail Mary; watering it down isn't that big of a deal right? So I waited, anxious to hear back. What else is self-worth but based on the esteem of others?
I remember at some point passing out at the computer and waking up to a new Wikidot message from him.

"No need to hope for that! Much better to have them suited to *your* inclinations and your purpose, rather than worrying about what one person on the internet thinks."

Admittedly pretty simple advice, but simple advice is enough in this kind of time.

November 25, 2017

Sanctuary is just outside the home.

Sunset went outside to smoke cigarettes and contemplate her next moves in the windy, nighttime weather of New England. It was pretty recent that she finally ran out of the weed she had been saving, and with no real date to get some next2, she felt like she had to smoke something. It's been years since she had a cigarette, it couldn't have been as gross and garbage as she remembered, right?
After frustration and no cooperation from the wind, she finally got light up the cig and take a drag on —
cough cough
"FUCK, this sucks." It was exactly as bad as she remembered. So much for that plan. "Whatever. Let's see." She took out a notepad she had with her, listing the details of all the money she had recently, and locations with which to move to. There wasn't any real hope; lots of guessing and Maybes, plenty of chances for 'No, sorry'. Oh, how that story and song always went.
Every day, the list of places shrank hopelessly shorter and shorter, and the number of people that can be reached out to feels like it slips away even faster. She started biting

November 26, 2017

into her fingernails, then her fingers, and there she went.
The next thing she remembered was lying on her bed. Well, it was her, but she saw herself do so. Oh, how she wished she could reach out and touch her arm, tell her "It'll be okay, please persevere."
"It'll be fine. Please calm down!" The stuffed animal to the right of her, the pink-and-white dog, laid a paw on her and nodded. "Just get yourself through the night. It's okay."
"isitreally" she mumbled into her chewed nails.
"You can only do so much. Why try to take on more than you can handle, you silly thing?"
"i guess"
She curled inwards and closed her eyes.
“Do you want anything to eat? Any water?”
“no imgood”
Sleep arrived surprisingly easy.

Afternoon came. It was at the moment where Sunset stumbled out of bed, trawling the refrigerator for lunch leftovers, that she came to a decision; these excerpts from the diary of hers would be the part you are reading right now.

I guess it's important to note that by this point, 95% of my free time was now being spent working on this series. What defines free time? An excellent question, reader.
Several of the things I do are… well, hobbies, but I hone my craft on them to try and make myself able to use said craft for cash. A lot of my time is spent doing that, if I'm not actually too depressed by my situation, that is. Aside from that, I try to fill out at least one to two job applications a week for various places to take me on. It'll have been almost three years since I've done this process, but hey, something's gotta give eventually.
5% of my free time is spent playing video games and watching various shows and movies that seem the least bit interesting. Entertainment is important, after all. All work and no play, etc.
As for the rest, it's a constant stream of writing and editing. Agonizing over whether the story is too personal, not personal enough, too surreal, not surreal enough, if the meanings of all the bits and pieces stuck in there make sense and if the purposefully nonsensical is just fine enough flavor otherwise. I hear it's a tough job to edit stories.

Refresh.
Refresh.
Refresh.
Refresh?
Well, someone's surely gotta read it at some point.

November 28, 2017

On IRC, friends were discussing producing art and content. Sunset didn't remember much about it (I think I zoned out a lot), but someone3 brought up how they felt that maybe the suffering would be worth the art being put out.

I didn't know how to tell them otherwise. But I'm sure they already knew that.

November 29, 2017

A funny thing about passport changes; if you want to change your name and gender on it, the process absolutely feels a lot more involved and a burden than just changing the name, or even just renewing it. Her mom had to help her out through the process, and yet it would still involve weeks waiting for a new passport to come so Sunset could finally feel like a real person in the eyes of the government again. At least being gay and trans in her part of the United States wasn't as bad as other parts; just only moderately unbearable.

November 30, 2017

Sunset and her therapist got to talk about a number of subjects in only an hour, a rare accomplishment. Her past relationships, future relationship prospects, mental health, suicidal ideation, manga, the works of Hirohiko Araki, and new possible new medicine. There's only so much you can cover in an hour, but there was something that stuck out most to her. It was hard to keep track of the dialogue exactly as it happened, but it echoed previous sessions.
"Do you believe you feel justified in your paranoia all the time?"
It was tricky. Intellectually, paranoia isn't always or even most often justified. People can believe so just because of past betrayals, or delusions, etc.. But then again… isn't it better to trust your instincts? What if you're wrong to not trust in it, and the one time you don't, you really will get murdered? The government really will try to silence you in the mid of night.
Sunset didn't know how to respond, so it was something to sit on for the next week or two and see if there was a way to answer.
"But try to answer honestly, or else you'll just be feeding into the same feedback cycle." Her therapist didn't say that, but it was certainly implied.
On the way back home, she revised a scene from the tale to be posted that night. After Draven got the manila envelope from his father's desk, he would have then gone to call Dr. Simon Glass, asked if he thought Talloran would be okay. He'd then call Hikari Yamada to have her promise him that Talloran would be taken care of if he wasn't around.
But it felt condescending; it echoed doubts and feelings of previous friendships and relationships, the distrust of friends and partners, the paranoia of what will happen to you and your loved one… it just wasn't fair to write something so happy and nice in that moment as something to be filled with doubt and sadness, as all gay relationships are inevitably supposed to be in the eyes of media. Why can't they just be happy? Even with the oxymoron of a series of Talloran facing the worst and [REDACTED]4, it was still possible for them to be content with Draven and in love.
So the scene was changed. Draven would just simply climb back into bed with Talloran and fall asleep with them, feeling nice and content. At the very least, safe in that moment. To trust and to feel safe in the arms of someone you care of, in any sense, is perhaps one of the best feelings in the world. This would do.

Dinner was Mac and Cheese. Gross. It'd do.

The word processing program was open, and Sunset stared at it for a couple hours, watching the cursor blink in and out. Some voice nagged in her head, and she only became aware of it after it continued to nag and nag. Ah well. Sleeping might be more productive.

December 1, 2017

Tomorrow's a brand new day, after all.

There's no good way to end this story. No matter which excerpt I end with, how long I go (even up to today), there's nothing satisfying. Of course there isn't; life doesn't have story arcs that end on a satisfying note. This won't end on a satisfying note. But if my life feels enough like fiction, I may as well give the illusion of something, right?
(And as for whether or not this is an intentional allusion/mirror of the note at the end of 3999? Yes. Thank you.)
One of the discussions I had with people before about storytelling and presenting narratives led me to be cautious of how much you can bare your heart. I always write from the heart. It's a weakness of mine. For me, it's incredibly difficult to write a story from something with which I have no personal experience because I feel there's nothing for me to put my own personal stake in, nothing to draw inspiration from. And if the writing doesn't contain any semblance of my own emotion and underlying expression, then who am I writing for? A distilled, focus-tested audience, certainly.
When I first started this series, it was completely on a whim. The day I posted the first tale, I could not sleep. Bad memories, bad thoughts, and bad trauma plagued my head, and I was convinced I was being watched purely for amusement. Camera in the carpets, sensors on the walls, all showing exactly how miserable I felt. Unable to sleep, not even for me to be able to slip into nightmares. If you've read between the lines in this series and understand its relation to the metaphors and personal expression brought forth, then I don't need to go further. You already get it.
Luckily, I had some semblance of self left to exert will over, with what little energy I had as I laid on the floor in a daze. What was I going to do? I was lost and confused. I needed some way to express how I felt. So I went to my computer and wrote. I wrote and I wrote and I wrote, spewing out the story beats that came to my head, and realized Talloran spoke through me. It's my belief that characters aren't something authors write; they already exist, and we just bring them out through writing and through creative endeavors. So when I wrote, Talloran told me their story. And then I realized there was more to the story than I could tell in that moment. So I quickly edited previous details, and slapped navigation links in the bottom, not knowing what would come next.
I had to keep writing, after all. There had to be something to work towards, or else I'd keep feeling lost and directionless, and Talloran's story wouldn't have been able to be fully told to its completion. I sat on it for a day, not knowing what to do next. And during a nap that day, in my dream, Talloran came to me and I heard it all. Every single story detail that I could remember after waking up, I sat down to write and I planned ahead. Oh, there was so much to learn how to do.
I experienced Wikidot coding. I learned how playwriting worked. I hungered for the science behind dreams. I browsed through Wikipedia articles on heart conditions. I endeavored to better myself by absorbing literature and understanding how others wrote. I practiced. I verb. I verb. I verb.
I.
There were two things I did not know how to approach. It was impossible to tell what would have happened to Talloran in the fifth part of the story, for them to become stuck in an endless falling void. And I didn't know what to do for the sixth part. My original idea was more flashbacks, but flashbacks can only tell so much and advance the story in so many ways before they become trite, just like how you can only suffer so much before it becomes one more thing to suffer through. I thought through a lot of this, after all. I verb.
Eventually, this was settled on, after another IRC discussion about being emotional and barehearted in stories. And even writing this went through about twenty revisions. SCP-3999 has impacted the site and chat in so many ways, many of them positive. A lot of people have connected with it, but it's more than a story about LordStonefish and Researcher James Talloran5. It's about… well. I can't tell you what it's about for you. All that matters is what it means for me. Really, if this wasn't about me in some sense, why even bother? Writing should be for the self, and my writing is for me alone. I just share this privilege with others when I feel proud of myself for it.
Detractors could make a case for this being a call for help, but it's not. Right now, I feel pretty stabilized and okay with my current psyche. Or that I'm doing this for attention. Well yeah. If I wasn't writing for attention, I wouldn't be posting it on the site. Maybe I'm too emotional. Sure. Or being too personal.
You thought a sidebar in an SCP about the author was too meta? I'm smashing the walls between the author and reader, because when it comes to form, sometimes you have to test how far you can break lines before progress can be made. So I'm paving the way for myself, because that's all that matters; my progress. Here's a whole tale about me, because you can't understand Talloran (in this setting anyway) without understanding the author, and you can't understand the narrative without understanding the influence behind it. It's the only correct way to do it, and I don't half-ass anything I put my heart into.
I guess so, anyway.

December 6, 2017

She feels like she can pull through.

Now that we're all caught up on the important and relevant information, why don't we check in on Researcher Talloran and see how they're doing. I think we've earned some reprieve from ourselves for now, don't you?

« Only Once Away My Son | You think the worst of all is left behind. | I'll Try Living Like This »
Hub

Footnotes
1. Portuguese word for "grandmother", this variant is used to more clearly indicate affection.
2. Yes, legally.
3. Name removed to not out someone else's personal feelings like that.
4. Can't give away our ending here, now.
5. Who was always going to be non-binary; hence one of a few reasons why I referred to Talloran as myself especially in the first part, and why Talloran had no pronouns in the second part.


Three months after his partner's disappearance, the first thing Draven Kondraki received was a Foundation Star sent to their residence, and he was scared to death because he had never heard of a living person receiving a Foundation Star before.
But it was okay, they told him, he was just still in evaluation.
What had happened, he asked.
Classified, they answered. But as he held one of them up and asked again in a way more akin to screaming than sentences, "we don't know" was all he got.
Nobody knew, it seemed, except for Researcher James Martin Talloran himself. A few days later Draven learnt that they had found James near death inside a containment cell a kilometer into the ground, lined with exploded reality anchors and guarded by four amnesiac guards. He saved the world, someone with enough empathy and decency finally told him after way too many requests filed. Single-handedly reverted an XK, so he was told.
But that was not what he wanted to hear.
James was alive. But Draven was also fearful and angry, because why did it have to be him, why would James have to face an XK entity alone, and how did it even happen because he was just a Level 3 Researcher transferred to Site-118 and assigned to a completely normal job. But above all, he just wanted to see James again.
A month later, James came home.
He opened the door and James smiled to him, and it was soft and sweet like it always was. He hastily signed a bunch of documents and was given a leave, but as he bid the personnel goodbye and it was just him and James again, Draven started crying. He hugged James, a strong MTF agent in the arms of a nimble researcher, but James patted him on the back and told him it was okay.
And for a while, it was okay. James was in surprisingly good shape and spirit. Aside from a few traces of a large gash on his face, it almost felt like James hadn't disappeared at all.
He was given a month (and he pulled his holiday over and made it double); James had a year or more and a large sum of reward money that came with the Star. James didn't talk about what happened, and it was okay, Draven wasn't about to push it. So they stayed at home, chatted and cooked and even watched TV and did all the things they never had the time or chance to.
But one day, two weeks into their little holiday together, he was sitting by the table and James was cutting some tomatoes in the kitchen. When the cutting stopped, Draven barely noticed it, too engrossed in a book he had gotten from his father's collection. He looked up briefly as James turned to him and walked towards the table, still holding the knife. He raised an eyebrow and was about to ask; but his eyes were met with a blank expression and it horrified him.
Without warning, Researcher James Talloran slashed at Draven with the kitchen knife, with a strange ease that no researcher sitting at desk jobs would have been able to, as if practiced many, many times. Thanks to his training, Draven dodged out of the way and the knife impacted with the table.
For a moment, among the surprise and panic, Draven expected another attack. But James just looked at the knife, then the table it was stuck on, and then the knife again, as if it was the most interesting thing in the world.
"James, put the knife down!" was all he managed to say. James turned to look at him, and obliged. He let go, the knife still stuck on the table.
Draven was scared. But he acted without realizing, removing the knife and put it out of his partner's reach. A few more moments before he regained his composure, and recognized what had happened. His heart was still racing, and his voice cracked: "What, what the fuck was that?"
"It didn't melt," James said.
"What?" he barely squeezed the word out.
"The table didn't melt. The floor didn't collapse. Everything was fine."
"What are you talking about? Tables… don't do that?"
"Exactly," James smiled softly. "I just have to make sure."

Three days later, Draven was sitting with Head Psychologist Dr. Simon Glass and was regrettably informed that "it is much worse than they thought". Glass told him that they had suspected Researcher Talloran's condition, of course, but a full set of evaluations over, he seemed to have recovered well enough. And Draven had to agree because for two full weeks, everything was fine. He had been extra careful and he knew that James went to see his assigned psychologist every other day. They had been together for… what, a little short of a decade? And he didn't notice anything even slightly wrong.
"It seems that he had somehow faked a stable mental state." Glass looked at him apologetically (and Draven hated that look), "This shouldn't have happened… We used a three man group and applied strict procedures," he paused, and added. "It was almost as if he knew what he would be asked and what to answer…"
As if he had sat through the same evaluation hundreds of times over.
As Dr. Glass continued to explain, laying out the necessary measures to be taken afterwards and apologizing for their supposed oversight, Draven felt numb. The words pounded on his chest and strained his heart while everything else faded.
He faked his mental state. He faked being alright. How? Why would he do that? Why would he need to do that? He hugged him and smiled and patted him on the back and told him everything was alright. But then he attacked him with a knife and told him that the table might melt. He smiled so softly and sweetly but it was not okay.
It was not okay, and he hated it.
When he snapped out of it, he was standing in front of James' temporary cell (for further observation and reevaluation). He fuzzily remembered that Glass had told him that if Talloran was proven to no longer be a danger to himself and others, he would be moved to restricted dormitory area in the site. And Draven would be able to visit and even stay, but no more stays at home and holidays and cooking.
He stared at his partner from across a standard Foundation issued table, only to see James smiling back at him. And Draven suddenly felt very sick. Because how could he look at him with that soft comforting smile when they were in a Foundation holding cell, next to two armed guards? How could he still be like this when everything was not okay?
It was his father all over again.
They talked. Or James talked and nodded, and Draven's voice filled with a bit too much anger.
"Why don't you tell me? Why would you do this? What is wrong? Please, please, let me help you," he asked. He held his hands; the guards didn't stop him.
"I'm sorry. I just want to be sure, you know? Everything is fine. It's all over now,” he answered. The hands were cold.
Draven felt more frustration and anger building up inside him. But James looked at him with a look too loving and he talked with a voice too comforting, and Draven broke under them. He felt the helplessness again, his love right in front of him, but there was nothing he could do. He should have been the one comforting James, not the other way around. The fear and the hollowness and many other things he could not describe gradually piled up and he felt weak.
Eventually, he managed to make himself ask. "What is over? What happened?"
There was suddenly a stern look on James' face. His smile was sadder. A few moments later, he spoke. "You know, I stared into the face of everything and nothing and made it back alive."
Draven opened his mouth, but there were no words. He didn't understand what it meant, and wished he didn't have to.
But then, James looked down at the table and continued. "I just have to make sure I'm really back."

Attempts after attempts, they finally gave Draven what he wanted. Perhaps because he was too persistent or perhaps because there was no improvement on James' condition and they were running out of options. Draven had spent his time between duty visiting James everyday and the rest of those applying for the documentation of SCP-3999, the SCP James had encountered and neutralized during his three missing months.
There were documents to sign and memetic kill agents to bypass, and even after all that, chunks and chunks of information redacted, but Draven sat and read.
Draven was horrified.
In the documents, he was not James, but Researcher Talloran. And Researcher Talloran was to be,

Isolated. Killed. Melted. Eaten. Amnesticized and made someone else. Made to watch his loved ones die. Tortured. Thrown into the end of the world. In the void, with the monster.
Researcher Talloran begged. Cried. Called for help. He died. Killed himself. But he also fought. He didn't give up.

He won.

When he finally put the document down, Draven found himself unable to comprehend all this. Or any of it, really. The words choked him as he realized it was way more than the monsters in the cells or the reality benders he encountered on missions. It was among the things that were hidden deeply behind layers of clearance levels and passwords and kill agents.
James had faced a god.
That night, he couldn't sleep. And when he did, he dreamt of James slitting his throat with the kitchen knife in front of their bed, blood pouring onto his face. He woke up screaming.

The next day, he rushed to where James now was, a bigger and slightly more comfortable cell, and sat across a similar table. No guards this time, only the camera silently recording. He was greeted by that same soft smile but now, the smile was choking him, like the words he read again and again last night.
So he held James' cold, cold hands, and asked him if he wanted to be amnesticized, because this was taking a toll on him and he couldn't just pretend nothing was wrong.
But James screamed.
It was the second time James scared him after the incident, and he briefly flashed back to when he held the kitchen knife. But Draven didn't let go.
"No," James yelled, desperately, his face filled with panic and anger. "I will never forget this, I can't forget this!"
Draven held his hands tighter and knew they were both shaking. Eventually, James stopped shaking. Eventually, he stopped screaming. Eventually, he said: "If I forget, then how can I tell?"
If this is real or not?

"We can't amnesticize him." Dr. Glass said.
"Why the fuck not? Now you're respecting people's wishes?" He had hated Foundation bureaucracy, but this was a slap to the face. He felt the anger burning inside him.
"…Because we did that already."
Draven stared at the doctor in confusion and surprise.
"Every time he was given amnestics, he recovered his memory over the next week. It seems like… he had built up a resistance over them."

Researcher Talloran is to be amnesticized.
Researcher Talloran is to be amnesticized.
Researcher Talloran is to be amnesticized.

"We have never seen anything like this before." The psychologist's voice seemed distant.
"No." Draven said. His own voice broke.
"I'm sorry," was all Dr. Glass could say.

Things didn't get much better from there. Six months later they moved James to the site dormitory, and Draven went to stay with him. Another three months and he was released from the site because there was a containment breach and James thought reality broke again and nearly stabbed someone with a pen.
They were back to when James first came back again, but this time, Draven knew things were not okay. Because every now and then, James checked if tables melt, if the sky was not there anymore, or if a passerby was actually a talent agent dressing up as the mother with a dog on the back. He bit himself one or two times to make himself certain because Draven took all the sharp objects away.
But he also smiled and talked softly and asked if Draven's work day was okay and Draven's heart ached.
Talk to me. Please just talk to me.
But James wouldn't; instead he talked about the evening news and the TV shows, pretending their life was still normal, which it never was. (They never talked about the TV before; they hardly watched it.)
A year passed and Draven woke up from the same nightmare screaming, and found James in front of him, throat not slit, quietly holding his hand.
The hands were cold, but warmer than his.
And that was the point he broke. He had tried so many times, asking James to talk about it, to believe in him, but it was never effective. This time, the sight of blood all over the bed was still lingering, and it was so much like that other room filled with blood and meat.
Draven collapsed and started to rant incoherently. He cried and begged for James to just talk to him, to just stop pretending it was okay, because it was not, and it was breaking both of them. Because it was all too similar to the night his dad told him it was okay when it was not, and he couldn't afford to let go this time.
He talked about how James stood up against great monsters, and he could never be that brave and persistent himself, and he couldn't really imagine what James was going through. He just wished him to talk even if it seemed all fake and distant. He rambled about their time together even though he knew those wouldn't be able to convince him. He talked about how scared he was during the months he was missing but now he was even more scared. He mentioned his father again and had no idea where he was getting at but he knew he was afraid of losing him like he did his father. He talked about the documents and Dr. Glass' words and many other things he had agreed not to talk about; but he did anyways because he could not think or breathe or stop shaking. He asked him again and again to just, please, talk to him.
Really talk to him.
When his throat finally ran dry and he saw James looking at him, he felt scared and foolish and desperate that he was going to say it was okay again.
But this time, James hugged him and cried as well. With a soft voice, he told him that it was not three months but lifetimes after lifetimes, and he had lived all these so many times before. It was a completely normal interview until the doctor became a wolf and they floated in the void. It was a trip with his family until a containment unit came and shot them all in the head. It was his victory until he went back to a world with faceless people and the monster mocked his futile attempts. So many times he had watched Draven's face melt and his body shatter and all the terrible things come out. So many more times he had believed yet it all melted away. He couldn't afford to believe it was real.
He was scared. They both were.
Eventually they sat together at the bedside, holding hands together, and stared into the room with no lights turned on. They were still shaking, but for the first time, it felt mildly peaceful. They woke up to each other's cuddle the next morning, and decided to stay a little longer.
James didn't say he would believe him, but he believed him a little more after that. It was not completely okay yet, but James now sometimes talked and cried over his shoulder, and allowed himself to ask Draven if things were real instead of grabbing for a kitchen knife. James stayed at home and worked on some projects unrelated to the Foundation. And they would read and watch TV as they never did before and enjoy each other's company.
It was not okay yet, not really. But things were going to get better.


An Anthropological Approach to Sarkicism
Dr. Matthieu Desmarais, Department of Anthropology

Forward:
Our understanding of Sarkicism has changed dramatically over the last few decades. This information has revealed a diverse and shifting paradigm far different from the monolithic creed first hypothesized. We are now able to paint a broader, more detailed picture of the Sarkic religion, its various sects and cultural traditions.
Modern sects are the product of divergent interpretations, many bearing a mere superficial resemblance to their ancient progenitor cult. Most unexpected, especially among early scholars of Sarkicism such as myself, are the seemingly benevolent intentions of its founders. The road to hell, it is often said, is paved with good intentions - an aphorism the Foundation must always keep close in mind, for despite the aeons between us, we gaze into that very same abyss.
And like the ancient Sarkites, we have found it full of monsters.
Dr. Desmarais, at great risk to himself, seeks to better understand Sarkicism and its ever shifting paradigm through the study of living communities - revealing what ruins, artifacts, and the dead cannot. Though his methods are unorthodox (at least for the Foundation), his results are undeniable and deserving of continued support.
Dr. Judith Low, Senior Adviser at the Department of History - Religious GoI Threat Analysis.

CASE STUDY 01: The Vaśńa of Sarvi
Overview:
A number of indigenous Finno-Ugric people inhabit the Arctic area of Sápmi, which today encompasses parts of far northern Norway, Sweden, Finland, and the Kola Peninsula of Russia. Due to a distant but shared cultural origin, Sarkic communities are difficult to differentiate from local Sami1 but these similarities quickly disappear with closer inspection. These people identify themselves as the Vaśńa and they are the subject of this study.
One Vaśńa community is the village of Sarvi. Located on the coast Lake Inari in the Lapland region of Finland, the people of Sarvi are isolated but self-sufficient. They harvest fish via primitive but clever traps and herd a distinct subspecies of reindeer for meat, fur, and transportation. Sarvi remains connected to other Vaśńa communities throughout the Arctic, including some which are entirely nomadic, but who join together for significant religious events or in the defense of their ancestral homeland.

A house in Sarvi during the warm months. Such dwellings are actually quite spacious with the bulk of the structure located underground.

History:
The Vaśńa belong to Haplogroup N (M231), a Y-chromosome DNA haplogroup typical of Northern Eurasia and have likely lived along Lake Inari for the last 4,000-6,000 years. It is believed that the Vaśńa descend from or share a common ancestry with the so-called "reindeer folk of Adí-üm", a Finno-Ugric people once native to the Northern Urals who were among the first followers of Grand Karcist Ion.
The Norse saga "The Tale of Asbjørn the Unready" relates a failed invasion of Lapland, whose inhabitants closely resemble Finno-Ugric Sarkites. The natives are described as having ghostly pale bodies (though this is likely a reference to white body paint) covered in red-colored runes. There are frequent (often gratuitous) references to blood and flesh, as well as "blood magic", a "land kraken", a "god of entrails", and several stanzas dedicated to the description of a Norse warlord being turned "inside-out".
For a time the inhabitants of Sápmi, whether Sarkic or non-anomalous Sami, lived in relative peace. Sweden and Norway would seize control of the area by the 15th century but the Vaśńa tribes, due to their northern isolation, remained largely unaffected. During World War II, German forces in Northern Finland applied scorched earth tactics to the region, causing devastating losses among both the Vaśńa and Sami. Between 1946 and 1961, the village of Sarvi was under the occupation of GRU Division "P" and village elders speak of brutal experimentation and later, unmerciful vengeance. Although the elders do not explain what occurred in detail, they were certain to note that it did prevent GRU Division "P" from ever returning.
Culture, Tradition, and Misconceptions:
The Vaśńa refer to their religious beliefs as Nälkä2; the word "Sarkic" is actually a pejorative created by the Mekhanites, an ancient anomalous cult of Mediterranean origin (as well as the probable forebears of the Church of the Broken God). Efforts to remove this Eurocentric misnomer from the Foundation lexicon have proven fruitless. Sarkites worship neither "flesh" or a "god of flesh"; in fact, while there is a belief in the existence of gods, they are reviled rather than revered - an example of dystheism, the belief that a god, goddess, or singular God is not wholly good as presented and even possibly evil.
The Grand Karcist and his Klavigar play an important role in daily living. Lovataar3 (Lovarakka4 to the Vaśńa) is invoked by soon-to-be mothers and those seeking love; Orok5 offers strength and protection, and amulets depicting his icon are worn by hunters for good luck; Nadox6 (pronounced "Naw-dock" by the Vaśńa) is prayed to by those seeking wisdom or those merely wishing to make the right choice; Saarn7 is less commonly called upon but when she is, it is usually in the hopes of cursing/vowing vengeance upon an enemy; and the Grand Karcist Ion (pronounced "Yon" by the Vaśńa) is prayed to daily (although the Vaśńa request little from him, claiming that his "work" is too important to be selfishly interrupted).
Reports of human sacrifice appear to be unfounded. The community practices endocannibalism as a funerary rite but scoffed at the implication of hunting humans (though they do state that it would be "wasteful" to simply allow any corpse to decay).
Life in Sarvi is relatively simple (even idyllic, if one enjoys the cold). An outsider might not notice anything unusual at first and I would go so far as to argue that these people could assimilate into other communities without significant issue (were they to choose to do so). Peace is valued and rarely broken beyond the occasional petty squabble.
Neither puritanical nor libertine8, the Vaśńa have a generally healthy attitude towards love and sexuality. One today might refer to these views as progressive but such a label is relative and distracts from the ancient roots of their norms and folkways. Sexual orientation is regarded as a spectrum (though they do not refer to it as such) and concepts like heterosexuality and homosexuality are viewed as strange and restricting. The Vaśńa do not allocate labor based on gender, despite living a traditional way of life that tends to lend itself to such a practice, and this has possibly resulted in a diminished concept of gender - but gender and even biological sex9 appear to be quite fluid throughout all Sarkic traditions.
The denizens of Sarvi treat the human body as a canvas, artistically expressing themselves through tattoos, scarification, bone piercings, and the occasional corporeal augmentation10. Traditional garb is practical and rustic but includes a pleasing aesthetic. Such outfits are usually composed of wool, leather, and fur. Locals use natural dyes which include red11, blueish black12, and yellow13 and clothes are decorated with symbols and patterns associated with the Sarkic religion.
Though physically isolated, the people of Sarvi are not entirely disconnected from the outside world - radios have long been common and the younger generation occasionally gains access to technology with internet access. The incremental nature of these changes are not the result of some aversion to technology but rather due to an extreme distaste for money, with most residents preferring to barter with outsiders. Sarvi, in turn, functions as a sort of proto-communism, the concept of private property being entirely foreign as well.
Those born within Sarvi are free to leave and it is possible that their traditions are being secretly practiced in more populated areas without any taking notice. From what I am able to gather, most return but those that stay with the outside world are not begrudged for their choice (though I have certainly sensed disappointment, take that as you will). Locals refer to this practice as one's Valtaanok (or "The Wandering"). Dávgon14, a young man in his mid-twenties, attended university at Helsinki before returning; he received a degree in microbiology and financially supported himself through "odd jobs". I would interview Dávgon about his culture and faith; the transcript is available in the collapsible below:

+ Interview Subject: Dávgon the Younger (06/15/████)

- ACCESS GRANTED

Interviewed: Dávgon the Younger15
Interviewer: Dr. Matthieu Desmarais
Foreword: Dávgon is less apprehensive towards the Foundation than other residents. Earning his trust and confidence is instrumental to my work in Sarvi. Intelligent and inquisitive, he enjoys relating his interpretations of Sarkic scripture and how they pertain to modern science.
<Begin Log>
Dr. Desmarais: Hello Dávgon. I would like to ask you a few questions.
Dávgon the Younger: Go ahead.
Dr. Desmarais: How does your community view the practice of lihakut'ak16?
Dávgon the Younger: To shepherd the flesh is no trivial act. Yes, some are born with a natural affinity for the craft, but it requires meditation, years of training. Nor should it be abused for the sake of power and glamour.
Dr. Desmarais: Do you have any idea how it works?
Dávgon the Younger: It isn't magic. The actual mechanics are beyond me but… try to imagine yourself perceiving all living things at a genetic level. Imagine shifting through cells, moving them around, switching genes on or off as if they were a light switch. [Subject laughs nervously, his face visibly reddened] I'm sorry, but I'm not very good at this. I might as well try to explain color to the blind. If performed correctly, it is a transformative experience. Exploiting a flaw in nature, pulling it like a thread of cloth and watching the whole thing uncoil before your eyes. The hard part is using that thread to create something new.
Dr. Desmarais: So you have experience with the craft?
Dávgon the Younger: Yes. Some. I'll have to show you the burrows later. I doubt the elders would mind.
Dr. Desmarais: I would very much like that.17
Dávgon the Younger: Good. Good. [Subject smiles]
Dr. Desmarais: Do you not change yourselves? We have encountered other practitioners of your faith who-
Dávgon the Younger: [Subject interrupts] We are *nothing* like the Gluttonous.
Dr. Desmarais: Explain?
Dávgon the Younger: The ones your Foundation call "neo-Sarkite". Those that betrayed everything we stood for. They are no different from Vultaas18. They have no interest in ending the Tyranny of the Gods - they simply wish to replace them.
Dr. Desmarais: Isn't apotheosis a central goal of Nälkä?
Dávgon the Younger: Not like this. The Grand Karcist sought to raise *all* people. We hunger from famine of the flesh and spirit - they are the Devourers that feast while the masses starve. Murderers and rapists, every one. They spit on Ion and his ways. Why compare them to us? I'm sorry but I overheard some of your associates the other day. I'm fully capable of understanding English, you know. Your organization lumps us together, labels us all "Sarkic". Nälkä is a religion. My religion. Something I take pride in. But these monsters are pretenders - they appropriate our faith, wear it like strutting fashionistas, but they are not us.
Dr. Desmarais: Have you encountered these people?
Dávgon the Younger: [Subject visibly pales, refusing to make eye-contact] Yes. During my Valtaanok, but I do not wish to speak of it. Might we visit the burrows instead? I know you are curious about our Lihakut'ak19 traditions.
<End Log>
Closing Statement: Dávgon is a man of two worlds, attempting to bridge the gap between myth and science, the past and present - but I sense struggle, the two facets of his identity not as harmonious as he believes. Many seek religion when in search for answers not meant for science - whereas he sought the sciences, hoping to answer the questions presented by his faith.

Located beneath the village is an ancient network of cavernous tunnels. Dated to the 2nd millennium BCE, it is potentially the oldest Sarkic structure west of the Ural Mountains and was likely settled by the Adí-üm people prior to or shortly after the successful overthrow of Daevite rule. The walls display thousands of years of artistic expression, either painted with red pigment or engraved into the stone itself. Images include flora and fauna (some of which are entirely unidentifiable) and humanoid figures undergoing metamorphosis. Adytite glyphs are also common but most are faded beyond recognition, their meaning a casualty of time.
These caverns are also used in the cultivation of various fungi, Foundation mycologists identifying thirteen unique and previously unrecorded species. One species, the recently named Mycena candentis ("Ion's Flame" to the locals), produces a green light quite reminiscent of the auroras common to the region, with a brighter bioluminescence than any known non-anomalous organism. The fungus is harvested and used to light the village at night. Another fungus, Psilocybe calixtinus20 ("Nadox Eyes" to the locals), is a potent psychotropic employed during religious rituals.
Another section serves as a kennel, housing a previously unknown SK-BIO species (classified as SK-BIO Type Θ). The creatures wag their tails (and tendrils) and pant excitedly at our arrival. Although their behavior differs little from the average canine, they look absolutely nothing alike - indeed, it would be difficult to even recognize them as mammals (something Foundation biologists continue to debate). Known as "pǟnalka" (or "witch-hounds"), the species has a leathery red epidermis, chitinous white plates and scales, a thick mane of white feathers, and a row of prehensile tendrils along its spine. Its head resembles a featureless skull while its mouth opens along multiple axes, due to the multiple flaps of muscle and skin that compose the aperture. Its six legs provide excellent locomotion and its feet resemble a cross between talons and hooves. Although they lack visible eyes, Dávgon assures me that their vision is keen and that they even see things "beyond the sight of man".
I asked about SK-BIO Type Θ's origins, Dávgon informing me that the seemingly chimeric species does in fact descend from wolves. I delved deeper - perhaps deeper than one in my position should - into the ethical ramifications of fleshcrafting. Dávgon took a moment to laugh and shake his head, then replied:
"They are healthier than wolves. They can live well over eighty winters. And they are as clever as ravens. You outsiders are in no place to criticize our ways. Your methods are both inefficient and cruel. Can you truly say the same of your dogs? The pug is a crime against nature."
I found no fault in his argument. Shifting the conversation, I inquired again about his faith and was able to convince him to translate some Sarkic scripture. Though the Foundation has encountered Sarkic scripture in the past, such documents vary from cult to cult and are devoid of codification. In turn, such documents are rife with contradictions and there is strong evidence that much of the Sarkic religion - its history, mythology, ritual, and dogma - was either lost or purposefully removed. The Valkzaron, the most complete Sarkic grimoire in Foundation possession, displays evidence of gross alterations dating back centuries. This suggests that shortly after the original faith (or Ur-Sarkicism, as Dr. Low has proposed) suffered its greatest defeat, others sought to control the narrative and use it towards their own ends (such is the way of even non-anomalous religions).
What Dávgon was able to translate proved intriguing and important to understanding the Sarkic ethos, while also providing a possible explanation for the peacefulness of Sarvi. Examples are provided in the collapsible below:

+ Newly Recovered Scripture

- ACCESS GRANTED

Ion's Sermon at the Black Sea:

If you seek treasure, power, and reputation – to rule man through conquest and tyranny – then leave us now, return to the shadows of your own black ambition, and know that you will not escape our light.
But should you wish to learn wisdom – to shatter the chains of bondage and realize the potential of mankind – then I shall embrace you as blood and teach you the way of all flesh.
You take pride in your triumphs. This is not unexpected, for you have shown the world that the Daeva can be felled - that they can be driven from your lands. No longer will your children be fed to their infernal engines. No longer will you sacrifice to their gods of pain and domination. We are the doomed that stand defiant, for the redemption of the many.
Be ever mindful, for pride precipitates a terrible fall. As you gaze deep into the void, let not the void become you.
Our Great Work is incomplete. For as long as the gods remain, we will never be free. Take pity on the Daeva, for they are but shadows upon the wall - harbingers of those that cast its darkness; a darkness we must dispel.
But as long as humanity remains divided, as long as they believe the lies of the gods, we cannot know victory.
We will sail the vast seas; we will march through the highest mountains. We will spread our ways until the whole of the world knows our Truth.
And the Light of Truth shines through endless night.

Lovaatar falls, only to be reborn:

…And Lovataar said unto Ion, "This rebellion ends now. You will be denied the martyrdom you seek. You were born a slave and so a slave you shall remain.
By the Gods, I will claim you as my own. I will know you. I will break you. You will forsake your vows a thousand times and crawl through flame just to worship at my holiest of altars. You will salivate and rise at the sound of my voice. My pleasure will become your new religion.
And when the day comes, you will feel honored to die by my hand."
The Grand Karcist set aside his staff, let his robes fall, and stood calm with open arms.
"Pathetic," said the Daeva.

But the Grand Karcist intended no such surrender for, lo, his flesh took new shape. Blessed tendrils erupted from his ascended form and bound Lovataar as a spider did its prey.
And Ion said unto Lovataar, "See through the lies of your God-Queen and her daemonic masters. Surrender and be witness to the dread reality of our world and beyond.
Feel the pain of the many, their suffering and sorrow, and know that we are all one flesh."

The Ancient Litany flooded the Daeva's mind and pulled her into its abyss. She beheld her mother, Daeva of Daevas, God-Queen of an empire, and saw the crimson tethers that dictated her every action.
"Her power comes at a price," spoke the voice of Ion. "Her will is not her own. She is bound by the Blood, shaped by the Blood, and so too are you. May your delusion of power fade, for you have never been free - you have always been a slave. Your traditions, your supposed birthright, are entirely meaningless. Who really lurks behind your mask of violence and domination? What is left when only truth remains?"
Lovataar fell ever deeper and from the darkness came temples, great and terrible ziggurats dedicated to the gods. From their terraces flowed rivers of blood.
And the voice of Ion spoke again. "Symbols have power. You are Daeva. You know this well. That is what the Living Avatars taught your people. But these pacts come with a terrible price. A price that drives your empire. A price you force upon others to escape your fate. Sacrifice after sacrifice after sacrifice.
Why do the gods thirst for blood? Why do they covet your faith? Look closer, see the cracks in their divinity - behold the workings of their twisted machinations."
And the temples crumbled, stone by stone, revealing undulating flesh in impossible shapes. She beheld them across every iteration of reality, eternity and doom - creation and destruction - all in the same form. Her mind screamed, suffocating at the edge of madness. These were the true gods! The faceless rulers of the universe!
But there was more - something beyond even the gods and their black, unspeakable ambitions. The threads of fate all pull in one direction - moved just as the stars and moon and sea.
And Lovataar gazed upon the truth of our reality. Here was the tumorous heart of our stillborn universe. The beginning and the end of all things; mother and father - our dread progenitor! A cosmic void wrapped in flesh and sinew, eternally screaming its inconceivable secrets from a billion venom soaked tongues. Its world devouring maw opened and she beheld the countless souls who bellow in grief and tears.
And Ion said with sorrow. "Not even in death… Do you feel their pain? Without suffering, there can be no empathy, without empathy there is hope, and without hope we will never transcend."
Lovataar felt their suffering; never before had she known such pain.
"And in sorrow, and in love, we become one - we are the new flesh that will usurp the old. And end this Cosmic Blasphemy once and for all. I hold truth as a flame - may it burn away your falsehoods."
Lovataar was returned to reality. She fell to the ground, shedding tears for the living, for the dead, and for all she had ever harmed.
"Just kill me," said the Daeva. "I am at your mercy. End this now. You have your chance."
Ion placed his hand upon her cheek.
And Ion said unto Lovataar: "Take off your mask."

Ion stands before the People of Urartu:

The people of Urartu wished to welcome the Grand Karcist, who by right of war was now master of the city and of the lives and fortunes of its people. Ion took to the palace balcony and cast his gaze upon the multitudes. Finding the people soaked in blood and viscera, the Grand Karcist demanded to know just what they had done.
"We give you the blood of our children! A great sacrifice in your name! For you, our saviour - our living God!" They swayed in rapturous delight, raising their crimson hands so that Ion might behold the evidence of their deed. "For your power and glory!" They cried.
The Grand Karcist stumbled back and fell to his knees. The broken remains of the innocent littered the ground, while their mothers and fathers stood entranced - their eyes wide with fanaticism. Orok joined Ion's side, helped him to his feet and asked: "Do these animals deserve salvation? Can they even be redeemed?"
Ion hesitated, blinded by the glare of this atrocity. "Yes," he answered even as tears rolled down his cheeks. "They are ignorant, knowing only the way of the Daeva and their perverse gods. We will teach them and lead them away from this darkness."
Orok sighed and lowered his head. "At the first sign of weakness, they will turn on you like the ravenous beasts that they are. I would advise retiring for the night - the mob is simply too unpredictable. Best we allow their fervor to die. And if they seek to bring you harm, I will crush them."
"They can be saved," he again reminded. "They must be."

The Sarkic calendar emphasizes astronomical phenomena and is based on the alignment of celestial bodies rather than solar (such as the Gregorian calendar) or lunar/lunisolar (such as the traditional Chinese calendar). Precision is unimportant, the calendar recognizing seasons and years but not days. The calendar is primarily used in the reckoning of animal migration and holy periods.
The calendar is divided into three seasons: Kätkea ("The Cradle") corresponding with spring and early summer, Tulisija ("The Hearth") corresponding with mid to late summer and early autumn, and Kalmaa ("The Grave") corresponding with mid to late autumn and winter.
Sacred periods, known as vahvuusajat ("times of strength"; singular: vahvuusaika), are similar to the concept of holidays. I was able to observe one such vahvuusaika known as Lovaska.
Celebrated in early Kätkea, Lovaska honors Lovataar and is associated with sex and fertility. It begins with the encouragement of flirtation among uncoupled individuals for 12 days. During this time, those not already ritually bound to a partner (or partners) are forbidden from having sex. Gifts are given, friendly pranks are played, and amorous feelings are made known. Though the Vaśńa generally lack gender roles, it still appears that female participants are more assertive and aggressive than the males. Similarly, there seems to be an expectation for males to be coy and show more restraint. It is possible that the personalities of the Grand Karcist Ion and his lover, the Klavigar Lovataar, influence the development of these dynamics. This is not universal and is only noticeable in female-male interactions. It is important to remember that Sarkites have a notion of human sexuality untouched by Abrahamic religion, manifesting as a spectrum and devoid of terms to distinguish one as "heterosexual" or "homosexual".
On the 12th day, uncoupled individuals gather at nightfall and divide themselves into "predators" and "prey". Individuals playing the role of prey don antlered headdresses and long gossamer scarves but are otherwise nude. Those choosing to act as predators paint themselves with animal blood and wear the skulls and skins of bears and wolves. There appears to be some unspoken understanding of who will play what role as well as who would be "hunting" who.
The "prey" consume a tea brewed with Psilocybe calixtinus and are allowed to enter the nearby forest a day before the "predators", who themselves are tasked with the raising of lavvu21 which they then paint with the seal of Lovataar. The predators awaken at dawn and consume the same psychotropic tea and venture into the forest. They return throughout the next few days, with predators carrying their prey over their shoulders. These couples vary in composition and include nearly as many same-sex pairings as opposite; a few aren't even pairs, with two predators sharing one prey and another carrying one male and one female slung over both her shoulders - a rather remarkable feat of strength. Prey and predator then enter their lavvu, which the other townsfolk (elders, those already in relationships, etc.) have filled with food and drink during their absence.
When their supplies run out, they will return to the village with newly forged relationships. Despite the predatory theme of the celebration, elders inform me that this practice is entirely consensual (I will note that I didn't see a single frown among those that returned; all appeared to be quite happy before I allowed them their privacy).
Dávgon offered to arrange an interview with Võlutaar Jaská, the eldest resident of Sarvi and the closest person the community has to a leader. I agreed and was brought before her at dusk.

+ Interview Subject: Võlutaar Jaská (07/19/████)

- ACCESS GRANTED

Interviewed: Võlutaar22 Jaská
Interviewer: Dr. Matthieu Desmarais
Foreword: Võlutaar Jaská is a respected village elder. A centenarian, she studied Sarkicism under the direct tutelage of a Karcist in her youth.
<Begin Log>
Dr. Desmarais: Lušakälv23, Võlutaar Jaská. Dávgon the Younger suggested I meet with you.
Võlutaar Jaská: Ask your questions, outsider.
Dr. Desmarais: Straight to the point. Fair enough. I would first like to learn a bit more about you.
Võlutaar Jaská: I suspect you haven't come all this way to listen to the dull droning of an old woman. [Subject chuckles dryly] But I will play your game. I was born to this village nearly one hundred and thirty six years ago on the eve of Orok's Hunt24.
Dr. Desmarais: An auspicious birth, no doubt.
Võlutaar Jaská: [Subject strikes the interviewer in the knee with a gnarled cane] Do they not teach you manners where you are from? You may speak when I have had my say! [Subject flashes a fleeting grin]
Dr. Desmarais: My apologies, Võlutaar Jaská. I will remain silent until you are finished.
Võlutaar Jaská: Hmph. Make sure that you do! As I was saying… Life was simple. I didn't grow up with the fancy machines the youth covet so dearly. Got nothing against technology. But the outside - the outside is alluring. The blood of Sarvi will run dry. I say smash those devices lest we lose the village. [Subject mumbles, her words growing increasingly unclear and off-subject before returning to the interviewer's initial question] Oh, but my life was good. Good and simple. I was happy.
Dr. Desmarais: I was told that you studied under an actual karcist?
Võlutaar Jaská: Yes. Karcist Varis. He disappeared when saving us from the Russians. He was clever as a raven and very difficult to kill. I've little doubt that he still lives. I do not miss his love of dramatic surprises.
Dr. Desmarais: Interesting. I wish to better understand how your people see the universe and its creation. The Grand Karcist refers to it as "a failed and fallen creation" but what is the root of this cosmic flaw?
Võlutaar Jaská: Maailmankaikkeus?25
Dr. Desmarais: Yes. I apologize.
Võlutaar Jaská: [Subject shrugs] It is what it is. A brute fact. We do not deny the gods. Ion himself gazed upon their flesh. And yet, what evidence is there for divine benevolence? There is but one acceptable conclusion. Do you know what the oldest falsehood in the universe is?
Dr. Desmarais: What?
Võlutaar Jaská: The belief that the gods are good. Accepting this is the first step to understanding our ways.
Dr. Desmarais: I see.
Võlutaar Jaská: [Subject lets out a dry chuckle] You do not come to their defense. Yet neither do you fall to your knees, grasp the hem of my robes, and beg for enlightenment. You don't believe in the gods, do you?
Dr. Desmarais: I do not.
Võlutaar Jaská: You are a fool, but as you do not serve the outer horrors, perhaps you are at least a good man. Are you a good man, Desmarais?
Dr. Desmarais: I don't really know.
Võlutaar Jaská: A wise answer, if anything. I cannot blame you for your lack of belief. You desire evidence of the gods.
Dr. Desmarais: Evidence would be required. Yes. Now, that brings me to another question. If the universe is flawed, if all life descends from malevolent gods, how can there be any good?
Võlutaar Jaská: The blood of monsters flows through our veins. This is not contested. A pup playing with its kin, a child's laughter, the embrace of an old friend. There is beauty and goodness to be found in this world but it is the product of defiance.
Dr. Desmarais: Defiance?
Võlutaar Jaská: Murder and rape; war and madness - that is the true nature of life. Our race is far too often a reflection of our creator. Wherever there is beauty, wherever there is love and compassion, there is defiance. As you see in nature, defiance is not uncommon.
Dr. Desmarais: Tell me more of our supposed "creator"?
Võlutaar Jaská: Despite the greatness of your science, do you still not understand?
Dr. Desmarais: I would like to hear it from your perspective.
Võlutaar Jaská: I know of your science. I know that you have discovered the link between all life.
Dr. Desmarais: Our common ancestry?
Võlutaar Jaská: Yes. You believe that we descend from small mindless beasts, invisible to the naked eye - and you would be correct. Change and adaptation - that is the way of all life. But you perceive only a fraction of the truth. You know nothing of its origin.
Dr. Desmarais: And what is the origin of life?
Võlutaar Jaská: Human words cannot express this truth. But we can show you - if you are willing.
<End Log>

I agreed to her offer. The ritual would involve a tea brewed from Psilocybe calixtinus. Ill-prepared for what I would encounter, I write this after several days of hospitalization. Further experiments with Psilocybe calixtinus should be conducted with D-Class personnel. I do not begrudge the people of Sarvi for what occurred; they have likely developed a tolerance to the substance and had no frame of reference to predict an outsider's reaction.

+ Psilocybe Calixtinus Test 01: Dr. Matthieu Desmarais

- ACCESS GRANTED

Jaská was right. The words do not come easily. Ineffable concepts and visceral sensations.
And history - too much history. The stains of time are that of blood and rust. I'm sorry. I'm not trying to be cryptic. I keep reminding myself that it was just a hallucination - no different from a dream - and that there is no reason for me to believe in any of this.
But it seemed so real, even as I felt myself unravel at the helix. For a moment I experienced oneness with the universe. There was no sense of harmony. No spiritual bliss. There was only the clarity of pain. I had become some small variable in a cosmic organism of inconceivable size - some undulating vastness of unintelligent cancer.
This was the true flesh.
I saw a Red Leviathan rise from a black sea; the longer I watched, the more I began to realize that this monster and its dark waters were one and the same. I remember turning my gaze to the stars, perhaps seeking some solace in their familiarity.
The stars resembled drops of freshly shed blood upon an obsidian altar. The stars moved, forming a spiral in the inky blackness of the night sky. I looked down - where was the leviathan? Where was the sea? Red and black; flesh and void. It was all connected somehow. The spiral twisted and spun with increasing velocity. There was a mournful voice among the madness; it spoke with words I had never heard but whose laconic meaning was clear.
"The wheel turns again."
Then there was nothing; no light, no sound - only darkness. Thoughts and memories flowed from my mind like blood from open veins. All that remained was a fleeting memory of a memory as I sunk into the thoughtlessness of torpor.
Pain forced my eyes open and I saw a certain priestess - her skin white as chalk, her eyes as gold as the jewelry and trinkets that decorated her scantily clad form. Though her beauty inspired awe, her presence invoked fear and self-insignificance. My naked body was painted with symbols of vague familiarity. I was her sacrifice and the cruel instruments of her faith were already buried deep inside my torso.
My efforts to pull away only facilitated my own disembowelment and I fell to my knees. The sacrificial priestess met my gaze, her growing sardonic grin revealing sharklike teeth. She placed a bare foot on my shoulder and gave me the slightest push, sending me tumbling down the stone steps of her blackened ziggurat.
I caught fleeting glimpses during my agonizing fall: my own entrails and organs, the stains of blood and bile, the lifeless tundra, and the grim-faces of onlookers - until I hit the base of the structure with a sickening crack.
This is likely where it would have ended, had this been a dream. The vision repeated, the priestess and the temple remained but my cause of death differed. This repeated over and over, a temporal loop of suffering and terror. I had become thoroughly mired in this one event and could not for the life of me tear myself from it. I am decapitated, castrated, asphyxiated, raped, bludgeoned, blinded, skewered, cannibalized, flayed, and burned alive (among countless other atrocities).
But this was merely the beginning of my downward spiral, the experience growing increasingly difficult to comprehend. I remember a mountain of corpses and constantly shifting shades of red. Tendrils sifting through the remains, penetrating wounds and orifices and feeding the dead with new and terrible life. A distant voice speaks to me, saying "Flesh and form. The flesh is transmutable. The form is malleable. To change is to exist."
And I see the corpses merge and take new shape. It transformed into that Red Leviathan. "The gods do not change. The gods do not exist. Not truly. But they wish to. The void screams for a mother that will never come. Life is drawn to the Void like flies to decay. The Void wraps itself in sinew and bone and blood; a facsimile of life.
The Void is a god-shaped hole. It knows nothing but hunger."
And I saw the Red Leviathan for what it really was. Words fail me. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I'm trembling. The tears keep flowing. I still hear the heartbeat of the universe - the primordial rhythm of sacrifice and war. The universe is a machine. Not of metal and gears but of flesh and stars and nothingness. It is an automated butchery.
And we? We are the flesh that feeds the gods.

After receiving extensive therapy, I was again able to continue my work. Despite the accusations of my detractors, I have neither lost my mind nor have I "gone native". My experience was a hallucination and it was never presented as anything more than a chemical trick of the mind.

Footnotes
1. The Sami people are an indigenous Finno-Ugric people native to Sápmi. They are the only indigenous people in Scandinavia that are recognized and protected under the international conventions of indigenous peoples, and are hence one of the northernmost indigenous people of Europe. It is in the best interest of the Foundation that the public remains unaware of the other indigenous people in the region.
2. From Proto-Uralic *ńä(x)li + *-ka, meaning "hunger".
3. Associated with sex, love, eroticism, pleasure, motherhood, disease, and unrestrained reproduction (breeding, cancers, growth, etc.). Epithets include: the One Whom Ion Most Desired, the Highblood Redeemer, and the Mother (on rare occasion "Brood" or "Hive" Mother).
4. Thought to be a syncretism of Lovataar and the Sami Maderakka - the first Akka, mother of the tribe and the goddess of women and children.
5. Associated with strength, war, violence, wilderness, hunting and, seemingly in contradiction, loyalty and revolt. Epithets include: the Horned Beast, the Brute Lord, and the Pale Hunter.
6. Associated with intelligence, wisdom, perception, and mysteries. Epithets include: the Tongueless Speaker, Lord of Mysteries, the All-Seeing, and the Anticipation of Ion.
7. Associated with darkness, secrecy, deception, poison, assassination, and justice. Epithets include: the Whisperer, the Coiled Shadow, the Faceless One, and the Judgment of Ion.
8. "Neo-Sarkites, on the other hand, tend to embrace a libertine lifestyle and philosophy. Their exceptional decadence and sexual violence are some of key characteristics that distinguish them from Proto-Sarkites." Dr. Low
9. Sarkites have previously proven themselves capable of such a metamorphosis.
10. Such corporeal augmentations include horns, fangs, tusks, claws, barbs, hooves, and other easily hidden traits.
11. Dye derived from madder or bedstraw.
12. Dye derived from woad.
13. Dye derived from Xanthoria parietina (also known as shore lichen).
14. The inhabitants of Sarvi do not use surnames but will adopt one if necessary, usually selecting a common Finnish surname.
15. "Younger" used to differentiate him from his grandfather who shares the same name.
16. Lihakut'ak, more commonly known as 'flesh-shaping' is the traditional Sarkic practice involved in the creation, augmentation, and manipulation of organic tissue.
17. "Admittedly, I wasn't entirely certain what was meant by this at the time - let alone how it related to lihakut'ak."
18. Vultaas, also known as 'Archons', are described by Sarkic texts as faceless manifestations of primordial chaos, their true forms inconceivable to the human mind. Gnostic and Mekhanite scripture would mention the Archons as well, describing them as "terrible and rapacious angels" in service to a cosmic deity. Proto-Sarkites rarely distinguish between these entities and the deities of their mythology (as well as those of other religions).
19. Lihakut'ak or "fleshcrafting" is the creation and manipulation of living organisms through anomalous means.
20. Named for Dr. Calixto Narváez, head of the Department of Psychotropics and leading authority on entheogens.
21. A lavvu is a temporary dwelling used by the indigenous people of northern Scandinavia. It has a design similar to a Native American tipi.
22. Traditionally, Võlutaar act as advisers to a Karcist or serve the role of spiritual leaders when a community lacks a Karcist.
23. "Lušakälv" is a somewhat formal greeting among Proto-Sarkites. Its literal translation is "broken bonds" but it is used in a manner similar to "good day" for English speakers. It is hypothesized that the phrase first appeared among Daevite slaves in the northern province and was used to self-identity as a follower of Ion due to the illegality of the faith throughout the empire.
24. A popular holiday, especially for northern Proto-Sarkites. Dávgon stated that the practice was "Like Christmas. Also, nothing like Christmas."
25. I had mistakenly used the word "universumi" which is rooted in Latin. Maailmankaikkeus (maailman ("world's") + kaikkeus ("everything")) is rooted in the Finno-Ugric languages and more comfortable to the Vaśńa who have mostly avoided the Latinization of their language during the spread of Christianity.