Finding the diary + The voices take shape

Alary

Alary went on a hunt to find a specific book that may or may not help with the Liar, and also to dig up information on an old friend. Book is redacted for secrecy. 

A sudden urge fills your mind, bringing with it the mental image of the Library once more.

Now, where oh where could that white book be?

You murmur softly to yourself.

 

If only you had someone to ask: Where is the white diary?

Smoke curling from their nostrils, you say, "Mmm, yes. Where."

Smoke curling from their nostrils, you say, "... Sintha/."

The question itself comes to your lips, yet there is no one around to hear. Where is the white

diary?

Smoke curling from their nostrils, you say, "Where is the white diary ..."

A low howling begins to echo out, the shelves stirring in a hot, resinous wind. The keening of metal

on metal sounds, dischordant and echoing in the massive library.

A blur of copper careens towards you, and in a flash, a ladder is beneath you, your hands clutched

about the rails as you swerve back and through a blur of shelves in a keening of metal to another 

section.

A dim archives chamber deep in rock.

A smog-hued journal rests here atop a plinth of white marble.

There are no obvious exits.

You blink.

Smoke curling from their nostrils, you say, "Oh ..."

Alary bends down, almost kneeling and they reach for the diary. "Maybe ... just

maybe," they murmur as they gingerly take the book in their claws.

[REDACTED ]

You feel a slight tug within your chest and the air around you sparkles with motes of bright light.

A dim archives chamber deep in rock.

Yawning high into the stone-carved ceiling, the long, narrow stacks here seem part of a hall that

goes on endlessly into an echoing nothingness. Long ladders of voidcopper ride ornate, glass-blown 

railings high along the edge of the shelves: wheels sit beneath, gilded themselves into strange 

circles. Lamps of flickering oils disgorge long, hazy plumes of scent and illumination, lighting the 

titles and seals of thousands upon thousands of books and scrolls. Deeper in this strange maze of 

bookshelves, a whispering lingers. A smog-hued journal rests here atop a plinth of white marble. A 

lithe, ebon veiled dancer wreathed in black stars poises gracefully here.

There are no obvious exits.

Ashira shifts their eyes suspiciously from side to side.

Pyromaniac Ashira Mes'ard says, "Oh hi...I couldn't figure out where you were, so I teleported..."

You have emoted: Alary tears their gaze away from the open book, single eye widening at Ashira's

entrance. "O-oh.."

Pyromaniac Ashira Mes'ard says, "I saw Ankaa just left alone, so I was looking for where you went

off to."

They're not ready for this place, and yet they're here. How are you to deal with this? What would

They think? What would They do?

Smoke curling from their nostrils, you say, "Uh, right. We're not sure where this is either. We ...

are here on a personal mission."

You think to yourself: Damn, how do we even begin to explain Sebitti.

Time is running out. Soon They'll notice. You're sure of it. They shouldn't be here. You've got to

settle this.

Smoke curling from their nostrils, you say, "Ashira, do you trust us?"

Pyromaniac Ashira Mes'ard says, "What's this journal? This looks like a neat place. Lots of

books..."

Pyromaniac Ashira Mes'ard says, "I do, yes."

Smoke curling from their nostrils, you say, "Then we need you to leave."

Smoke curling from their nostrils, you say, "We'll explain later, we promise."

Pyromaniac Ashira Mes'ard says, "Well, how...?"

They can't leave. They don't know.

You crease your brow in a frown.

Smoke curling from their nostrils, you say, "Can you not ascend?"

Oh no, their eyes just went to the book. If only someone would bring you back.

Smoke curling from their nostrils, you say, "Bring us back to the library, please."

Pyromaniac Ashira Mes'ard says, "Last time I tried, I couldn't."

You crease your brow in a frown.

You beckon to Ashira.

Ashira begins to follow you.

This is bad. This is bad.

Smoke curling from their nostrils, you say, "Do not touch the book, not right now. We'll explain

soon."

Ashira shifts their eyes suspiciously from side to side.

Pyromaniac Ashira Mes'ard says, "Uh, right. Ok."

Smoke curling from their nostrils, you say, "How ... how do we get back."

Smoke curling from their nostrils, you say, "This is very not good."

"...naughty..."

Silvery cracks splinter their way across the sky, scarlet hieroglyphs heralding the dance of chaotic

copper-hued lightning through the aether. A powerful thrum invokes a deep dread in your stomach, and 

then reality repairs itself as the Will of the Shofet is made known.

Ashira's face is overcome with a look of primal fear as they looks around for some way out of the

scarlet hieroglyphs manifesting about them. Before they can move, though, a bladed staff bursts 

through a silvery crack in the aether to impale itself deep in their gut. In a flash of copper-hued 

lightning, they offers one final, maddening scream before collapsing into nothingness at the Will of 

Mysrai.

Silvery cracks splinter their way across the sky, scarlet hieroglyphs heralding the dance of chaotic

copper-hued lightning through the aether. A powerful thrum invokes a deep dread in your stomach, and 

then reality repairs itself as the Will of the Shofet is made known.

Scarlet hieroglyphs manifest about you, and a primordial fear nestles in your gut as you feel the

infinite gaze of Mysrai upon you. The urge to run is instinctual, but before you can begin to do so, 

a bladed staff bursts through a silvery crack in the aether and impales itself deep in your gut. 

Copper-hued lightning wreaths about your body, and in a terrible moment of excruciating agony, you 

feel your mind break into madness and nothingness.

You have been slain by Mysrai.

The soul of Ashira Mes'ard says, "Well, that's one way."

The soul of Ashira Mes'ard says, "Sorry..."

Mysrai, the Shofet of Abyssal Scales bestows Their divine disfavour upon you. It will last for 5

months.

Smoke curling from their nostrils, you say to Ashira, "Temple, now."

Ashira begins to follow you.

This is where Alary realizes that they are the one who must dole out the punishment, and then try to explain away the book that Ashira is not ready to read yet, and won't be for a while.

This is your responsibility. You know this to be true. The burden of knowledge, what must be passed

on, and what must be kept away. Where lines cross, new paths open, and yours only grows more 

treacherous as the Abyss threatens to consume each error. Yet you make each step. Closer. And 

closer.

Smoke curling from their nostrils, you say, "Now, Beloved Ashira. You've been physically punished,

aye. We have one more punishment for you, however."

 

Pyromaniac Ashira Mes'ard says, "Yes, of course."

 

You think to yourself: What is the next step, how do we punish curiosity and yet also foster it.

 

To be curious is to be mortal. To yearn to know a thousand memories lost through shards beyond.

Perhaps...then, the punishment is in what must be learned.

 

Smoke curling from their nostrils, you say, "You read the diary of one Sebitti Silkenhand. Her story

is one you do not know. Go, and learn it. Read what books you can find, and speak to the older 

Beloved. When you have exhausted all avenues of information, we will answer any remaining questions. 

Document this search."

 

Only the fate-touched. It is a punishment, after all.

 

Pyromaniac Ashira Mes'ard says, "So, just to clarify, I'm not supposed to speak about what I read to

anyone but you, but I'm supposed to talk to older Beloved about her?"

 

You smile softly.

 

Smoke curling from their nostrils, you say, "Yes, but do not mention the diary. Traces of Sebitti

linger in many crevices of the Shifting City. You will have heard her name in passing, read of her 

in books. The name is not the secret."

 

Pyromaniac Ashira Mes'ard says, "Very well."

You smile softly.

 

Were we always so soft-hearted? Compassionate to a fault, no sense of moderation.

 

Ha! If it were us, we'd have taken her head clean off and then used it as a puppet to explain the

lesson, not just talked to her. Soft-hearted from you is rich, dear.

 

And yet perhaps it will be enough. We do not know yet, but we must trust ourselves, and us.

 

You think to yourself: No, we weren't. But ... maybe we should find that middle ground. We used to

be such an angry youth ...

 

Pyromaniac Ashira Mes'ard says, "Is there more?"

You shake your head.

Smoke curling from their nostrils, you say, "Sorry, we were lost in our head for a moment."

 

Pyromaniac Ashira Mes'ard says, "I didn't want to just leave without you dismissing me."

Smoke curling from their nostrils, you say, "You've learned a lesson, hopefully. And have been given

a task that will be a punishment and reward."

You give Ashira a peck on the cheek.

 

Pyromaniac Ashira Mes'ard says, "Thank you, and sorry for getting you killed."

Smoke curling from their nostrils, you say, "We apologize, sometimes we get caught up in our own

thoughts."

 

You briefly catch your reflection in a few of the thousands of mirrored tiles set here. Yet each

reflection of yourself appears unique, until you realise there are four of you. You, and then one of you with a burning scarlet eye. Another with ivory. Another with copper. All watching, all 

discussing in a quiet voice that carries on in the back of your mind.

You blink.

 

Did we have more plans for the little one?

Smoke curling from their nostrils, you say, "You can leave."

 

Ashira nods and stands up. "Thank you. Be well."

 

Ashira stands up and stretches their arms out wide.

Smoke curling from their nostrils, you say, "Sorry, we thought we made that clear."

 

Just a little decapitation, come on. It never hurt anyone irreparably.

 

You think to yourself: They got punishment, and bear a mark of disfavor. That should be enough.

Ashira learns better from compassion, even if they don't know it yet.

 

 

Yes, yes, the path of Ivory is truly the best for teaching the young ones. After all, compas--.

 

PLLLLLLLLLLLBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBT!

 

A raspberry, really? Come now, Scar, there's no need for that, let Ivy speak.

 

You think to yourself: Rude. Some people learn differently, we'll get to smack some people around

soon enough.

 

Scar is never of sound mind, Vo, it's too much to ask. Yes, yes, listen to us, we're quite sensible

already.

 

Candy ass.

 

You think to yourself: Candy ass? Come on, you can do better.

 

The last time I told Ivy they looked likwe the misgiven afterbirth of the village camel whore, they

didn't talk to us for a weak. Vo said we had to be nice.

 

You do. Ivy is delicate.

 

WE ARE NOT!

You think to yourself: You know, you don't have to yell.

 

Your eye burns and like that, the voices are quiet and nearly muted, an unintelligible whisper in

the back of your mind - though their images remain in your reflection, just beyond your shoulder. 

Watching.

 

You murmur softly to yourself.

You think to yourself: Well, at least they're helpful.

You think to yourself: Mostly.

Gurashi

I loved all the inner monologue. Ah! What an exciting read!! Thank you for sharing!!

Uzriel

Are all the different voices a stream of consciousness from Mysrai?

Alary

Aye, but Alary has had voices in their head for a while. Now they're just being functional members of society, rather than a stream of nonsense with occasional coherent words.