- Solitaire
- On the Roses of Labro
- On Exotic Media, a Logistical and Ethical Disertation
- Overview of the history of King Hethub's flying Garden
- R'lyeh Risen
- AI
- An Aprentices Poetry
- An Oily Journal
- The immortality thing
Look how his finger drags itself across the trackpad. He's not doing that on purpose, certainly not with purpose. His five-minute break ended when he lost the last game, and he knows it. He looked at the clock when he saw there were no more moves. And yet, here he is, starting a new game of solitaire.
He knows he shouldn't, which is an easy thing to know in a case like this, but deadlines are on his mind, ten thousand words of various term papers he still needs to write, all pounding in the back of his head, inexplicably linked to and called forth by any thought he ought to be thinking. And here's solitaire. So near and so far, such a wide field of thought. So distant from term papers and deadlines, and yet so easy to reach from the place he needs to be, to do all those things he ought to do. What else could happen, where else could he stray when his sense of duty and tenacity is tired from actually functioning for more than three minutes.
There's so much to think about solitaire. It's a game full of natural dynamics worthy of being made into allegories. H.G. Gadamer used it to explain a certain principle of hermeneutics once, but though he struck an important part of the game in that, he still only scratched the surface of Solitaire's potential for allegory, since that was not his topic1. Indeed, the game of Solitaire is one of the great mirrors of life, a monumental allegory of the human experience.
Let me explain, while our dear lazy idiot over here starts yet another game. We'll just ignore him for a moment. The rules and the goal of Solitaire are simple2, but these simple rules make it so that some basic issues and strategies naturally emerge.
There are seven stacks on the board (actually called the tableau, usually), the first starting with one card in it, the next with one more, and so on; the uppermost card of each stack facing up, all below it facing down. The remaining deck is available at the side to be drawn from. When an ace turns up, you can put it to the side, where you can then put the two of the same suit on top of it, and so on. It is the goal of the game to sort the entire deck to the side like that. On the board meanwhile, you can do another kind of sorting, where a card can be dragged onto the next higher card of the opposing color, while Kings can be placed on an empty stack. This way of sorting is how you free the cards stuck in the stacks and the deck.
You want to free the cards in the stacks, and you need the kings on the floor to do that, since you won't free those cards if there's a king sitting on top of them. But how do you do that? Do you start with low stacks on the left, so that there's a free space for the king when one turns up, or do you start with the tall ones on the right, because there are more cards to be freed up there, and you won't be setting down any kings in any free space if you don't find kings? Besides, they won't be much use if the queens and jacks don't turn up.
So, you can move a red nine off a low stack, emptying it completely, or a high stack, while there's a queen out on a different stack, but no king in sight. Which do you take?
You always draw from the deck in threes, seeing all the cards you draw, but only having access to the uppermost card on the draw pile, which is naturally the last one you drew, until you put that card somewhere else, at which point the one that was below it is on top3. After you have exhausted the entire deck this way, which means it is now entirely on the draw pile, you turn it over without shuffling, and start drawing again. This means that if you take out a card on one of your first draws, this changes which cards will turn up as the first card of each draw after that the next time you cycle the deck. Handling the deck with foresight in this regard, so that nothing you need ends up getting stuck behind things you can't sort onto any pile, is one of the big ways in which a lot of games that seem unwinnable to the novice can actually be won.
Your last draw from the deck has turned up the two of spades, the ace of spades, and the seven of diamonds in succession, the ace and the two being blocked in by the seven. The eight of clubs is sitting naked on the board, and the seven of hearts is there too, on the very top of the rightmost stack. Do you play from the deck, or see what's hidden in that stack?
Of course, generally you want to get as many cards as you can out of the game, unless, perhaps, if it immedeatly costs you, like in the last example. But you don't want to do it willy-nilly in any case, you want to do it somewhat evenly. Otherwise you may end up, for example, having too many of the red cards out before the black aces have even showed up, making it impossible to sort out the board, as you need those red threes, fours, and fives, to sort out the black twos, threes, and fours.
The ace and two of hearts are out, though nothing else is, and the deck has turned up the three, four, and five of hearts in one draw. The chance won't necessarily come again soon, since you've drawn something out of the deck earlier. Do you put them all to the side?
Your options are limited in the extreme, but they are options. You don't automatically know when you've lost, because you can't know at a glance if you still have meaningful options, because whatever moves the moves you have left turn up is predetermined and certain, but unknown. In the end, you won't know if you fucked it up, or if the game could have never been won in the first place. You can try to find where your significant choices are during the game, but you usually won't find all of them, because there are many small things that could be significant just as well as they could be entirely insignificant. So there's luck and there are choices, and both matter, and both intermingle, and in the end you can't know which counted for what.
Most of the time there are less than three available moves, even when you count drawing from the deck as a move. This inevitably means that you start playing in a mechanical way. Most of the choices you get can best be resolved by applying a sort of policy to follow algorithmically. A habit. On one hand this serves the games original purpose as a devouerer of time, as it lets you play while forgetting yourself, on the other hand it serves that grand analogy of life I was talking about.
The passivity of play makes it so that, as in life, it is not in those moments, when you feel free will coursing through your veins, while a palpable, clearly visible question of morality is put before you. It is not in those moments that the course of your life is decided. It is instead in the customs and habits you allow yourself to develop, that you meaningfully shape your life. So it is in moments when you barely feel any independence from causation at all, that you take your most relevant actions.
Take our resident idiot here for example — or, mine, really — he wouldn't have the least issue if you jammed him into a trolley problem. He could probably manage to make a candid, morally tight decision, if the circumstances were clear. Maybe he could tolerate significant danger to himself, or even certain death, if these circumstances were grand enough, and tied to a defined, tangible choice. But he can't manage to stick to writing a term paper due in a week for half an hour. It's beyond his capabilities, because the entire situation is so tiring and ordinary. What he needs here is a strictly held policy concerning the length of the time he works and the length of his breaks; and he had that, he made that policy, but he doesn't have the strength to stick to it because all of this is just so ordinary4.
Hyping it up, trying to make it into some heroic act of endurance doesn't help much either. That way he just gets ripped to stressed out shreds between the ordinary nature of the situation and the utterly ridiculously overemphasized weight of his failure. So now here he is, losing the third game he's started after his break ended.
That is a thing Solitaire can teach you. That, to pretentiously use Kantian terms5, it is not in the arbitrary, or even spontaneous, aspects of an act in which your free will comes to bear, but in the autonomous aspect of your character; in stable self regulation6, not merely un-caused action.
Speaking of good habits and un-caused actions, I'd very much appreciate if a certain someone would get back to work, dammit!
But you see, he's not doing it. Really makes a voice in a head wonder if there's any of ye olde autonomy in it after all.
I suppose it would be time for the next break now, if he had started to work at all. Might as well play another game.
Still, that sort of thing makes you wonder if Plotin and co. had a point with the whole "soul as a prisoner in the body" thing7.
Funny thing is, he's all solitaire now, but he hasn't won a single round in the thirty minutes he's been playing. Maybe if he wins this one I can rip him free. Sorting the cards out when they're neatly stacked, the game practically being solved, gives you the kind of exhausted semi-satisfaction that makes that sort of thing easier8.
Here we are, nicely done. Had to play out the hearts and clubs early to get the other aces, but he got it done. Always nice when that works.
Let's hope he actually gets to work now.
Isabella had a plan and an accomplice. She also had the cheapest bottle of wine she could find in her hand, and the seeds of her venture in her pocket. Three literal rose seeds, each slightly larger than a bean. The night was dark but warm with the day's summer heat. Looking up, the moon was more fat than thin, a storm was brewing on the horizon, and there was an eagle circling in the night sky.
Labro was all but a ghost town, since there were no tourists this year. The pandemic had forced the hotels to close, so everything connected with them and the tourists they brought, which was all of Labro, had no better choice than to close down for the time being and pray. The town was like a turtle hiding in its shell, waiting for the bad times to pass. One of the few people still working was her uncle Emilio, the housekeeper of the Nobili-Vitelleschi castle at the top of the hill, Labro's main attraction in a way. It was him she was heading to now, though he knew nothing of her scheme. The seeds in her pocket were for the plan, the bottle of wine for her uncle.
The road was steep and winding, and the town in which she had been raised passed by with much effort. The old stones had held their mysteries then too, but she hadn't loved them like she did now, though she had loved the people living around them a good deal more. One AM is an hour for feeling sad and drinking cheap wine, it carries a mood Isabella was usually receptive of , all the more so while she was slowly struggling to climb that hill of her childhood. She missed how easy this used to feel. How she could once bounce around playfully in these streets, running up and down without a care, while spiting rest and holding no love for sleep.
When she finally arrived where she had been heading, she was out of breath and even more melancholic than she had been on the drive to Labro. She rested against the ramparts by the front of the castle. There was her town, sleeping the sleep of the weary; a sleep, she thought, that would only end in a year or two. Long ago, this had been a relatively important castle, looking out towards and against Spoleto for the lords of Rieti. But then, the Middle Ages went the way of all the other ages before it, the age of pike and shot did not hold out too long after, and so, when modernity fully came into its own, Labro started bleeding away its population and dying, like so many small Italian villages and towns. But Labro was one of the lucky ones. One of those towns picturesque enough for tourism. So now that was what Labro was, tourism. The locals didn't like it; most of them had some amount of seething hatred against tourism, and consequently against themselves. When she left the town for university, more than twenty years ago now, the town had seemed to her like an octogenarian wracked by crimes against their pride, stuck in an old folks home. It somehow felt worse now.
The eagle had landed on the roof above the door, cawing at her impatiently. She stepped away from the view and used the knocker. She had to use it a few more times until her grumpy and tired uncle got the door. Words of the most severe of damnations quickly turned to recognition and pleasant surprise, before wandering backwards into being endearing and welcoming wishes of the severest damnation. Once they were inside, the bottle was swiftly opened and praised as the most sensibly priced wine in all of Rieti. The conversation started spinning up and dredging through the contents of the last two decades. Isabella had visited two times since then, both earlier in 2021, and both times only so briefly, and in such a hurried way, that she had not had the time to catch up with anyone. The first visit in late January had started with a shouting match; religion mostly, with a twinge of politics. It had continued with some idle wandering and drinking, and then more idle wandering and drinking after Emilio had let her in to get her out of the cold. The housekeeper's lodgings were part of the castle, and the door in between was not usually locked when the museum was closed, so said wandering and drinking had somehow found its way in there. The exhibits had all luckily gone undisturbed, but Isabelle had managed to somehow fall asleep on the tower; and in the morning she had left quite early, with a severe cold. The second visit in early May had been less eventful and, somehow, less sensible. She had visited her uncle first that time, before quickly disappearing for the day, until she finally emerged from the castle's cellar in the evening; after which she proceeded to visit her parents to have another shouting match, prompting her to leave that very night.
It follows, that Emilio had a lot to ask, which, considering that he had very little to say, resulted in a very one-sided conversation covering, in rough outlines, everything that had happened to over the last twenty years. No, she had to admit, studying philosophy had not resulted in a stable job, but it had been a very insightful thing to do either way. No, she insisted, her repeated jaunts into socialism and communism had never turned violent, though they hadn't ever really lead to anything resembling success either. Yes, the whole journalism thing had been a very exhausting failure, but she survived. Indeed, the side jobs that had supported her throughout her long career of following dreams unsuccessfully had, surprisingly, turned into relatively sturdy full-time employment. No, that sudden drift into the far right, which Labro had heard about through a few very confused letters, had luckily not lasted long. He could see that, right? No, really, she assured him, carbon monoxide poisoning could do that, a twinge of depression had its fingers in there as well. Yes, the relapse to socialism had been a lot more real, and surprisingly refreshing at that. No, well, yes, the thing she had been doing in the basement last time had been witchcraft; how could he possibly have guessed.
Here, the conversation halted. "What in the world could you have possibly been doing in there?"
"Witchcraft, as you said. Good old, honest witchcraft."
"I'm serious. I checked the stock after, I know you didn't steal anything. What were you doing down there for a whole day?"
"Who says I even was in the cellar. I could have been exploring a secret tunnel network below the town, or using it as a place of power to astral project to Venus."
The joke did not land well, and a moment of silence passed to make that clear.
"Were you taking drugs in my basement?"
"No!"
"Are you sure?"
"What the fuck are you talking about!"
"Tell me what you were doing in the basement stuffed full of historical artefacts, for god’s sake!"
"I was just looking at some stuff. Looking through ledgers, I mean. Historical information for something I wanted to write at the time."
"You could have asked for help with that, you know." His tone was more grumpy than combative now, but she could tell the lie did not convince.
"Why are you here this late anyway", he said, "you didn't announce yourself".
"I couldn't make it earlier, and I didn't want to wait 'till later."
"Fine."
"Will you at least tell me what you're here for then, or do I have to lock the cellar?"
"I'll tell you tomorrow. Lock the cellar all you like."
Incidentally, the wine was empty and it was 02:30, so that was the spirit in which they parted ways. The housekeepers lodgings consisted of a good part of what had used to be quarters for multiple servants, so Emilio had the space for a guest bedroom.
Isabella was tired. Indeed, she felt tired enough for a night and a day of dreamless sleep, but she had no intentions of sleeping where she was. Half an hour of staring out of the window, twiddling thumbs, and walking in circles later, she left the guest bedroom and walked, as silently as she could, to the door to the castle proper. She felt silly, traipsing around like a child, hoping her uncle wouldn't hear her, but she had little choice. The floorboards were cooperative, they didn't make a sound. On she went, through the luxurious home of Labro's former nobles, lying there, preserved as a museum. The door to the cellar was locked; not because Emilio had locked it, but because it was always locked; nevertheless it opened smoothly, the bolt gliding out of the frame unnaturally, like a particularly flexible noodle. Down she went, and the door fell closed behind her.
Just past the three steps behind that door, she knelt down the first time. She started grasping at the ground, digging, and the tiles complied, deforming, like clay or turf. In the hole she placed one of the three seeds, in a real place, before pushing the displaced tile back, leaving it as it had been. Then she went further down, to the sub-cellar's lowest spot; where she opened a trapdoor that was not there, leading further down. The second seed, she planted there, on the threshold. And then she went on, further down through a winding, narrow staircase, almost a parody of the term 'serpentine stairs'. She went down until, with one smooth step, she stood on the upper landing of Labro's tower, with no stairs behind her, only in front. There was an eagle, quite a tattered one, seen from up close, sitting on the railing, waiting, looking into a sunset. She gave it the last seed, and it gulped it down.
Looking out across the familiar landscape of central Italy, Isabella felt a belonging she had not often known. She felt the knowledge of each swaying tree, each rabbit and sparrow, like hair in the wind, and toes gliding through sand. And she felt the other, all around, near the horizon, where her eyes could see, but the feeling stopped, and she felt there was no control, like there was here. The town below her wasn't empty. Faximilies walked through these streets, essences, convalescences, ideas; the shadows of those passing, and the memory of those past. A thousand housekeepers. The shadow of tradesmen, monks, knights and their retinue. Only one tourist, invasive and shrill, like a walking wound. She felt the place's soul, ancient and weary, but strong enough that it would always rise tomorrow. And she felt the sun sinking, the night approaching, but also, the thunderous dawn, and the coming storm blowing across history; and she remembered what had been said to her before: "I can count the decades now".
She also started feeling how tired and tipsy she still was when she almost fell over the railing in reverie.
She laughed. "How high", she said,"can eagles count?"
"Go to bed,"the eagle said, "It is what you are here for."
She nodded and stumbled to the stairs, but turned around to say: "I feel I'll have pleasant dreams."
And so she went down, not the housekeepers guest bedroom but the castle's master bedroom, knowing full well nobody would come to wake her for a long time.
The story of what has risen and fallen, lived and died since then is a long one; over a hundred years of history; but I will say that Labro stands today as a mountain of roses, more inaccessible the further up you go, and that legend has it, there is someone sleeping there still.
The Reign of King Hethub I. and the Creation of the Garden
King Hethub the first was an exceptional ruler, there can be no question about that. Before his assumption of the throne of Iomar the known world was divided. The Kingdoms of Iomar, Outremer, and Ley squabeling; and a hundred other minor realms pretending to be significant. After thirty year of Hetubs reign, there was only the Hethubid Empire, every realm there was paid lipservice to him at least, and most doggedly paid their taxes. It is at this time, when none dared stand against him anymore, that Hethub turned his efforts toward philosophy and art.
There are few who can claim to be a gardener of legend, but Marcus Triamus is best described as such. Born in the Outremer region of the Empire, he did not remain there for long. By the age of twenty he had seen most of the known world, and learned from most respected architects who were alive at the time, as well as a few who weren't. He had become a master of classical architecture, as well as a specialist in playing with perspectives. Planning gardens was a passion of his, and he was great at it, applying the principles of architecture on green landscapes as few had done before.
It was in the twentysecond year of Hethubs reign that the Emperor commisiond Marcus to construct a private palace, half a days ride from the capital, Uram. Marcus took the challange gladly, and seven years later the Palace of Aragente was considered one of, if not the, greatest structures of the world, even though it would only be finished ten years later. The palace itself was without doubt a masterpiece; but it only became as legendary as it did, because it was backed by the most magnificent garden complex that had ever been built.
Architectural summary of the palace and garden at Aragente:
The central structure is, at its heart, a modern interpretation of a traditional Iomar ziggurat, flanked by towers reminiscent of Ley palaces and temples. However, instead of resting on a mostly solid base, this ziggurat is built upon vaulted chambers all the way through, which grant it enormous amounts of interior space. Usually this would come with the issue of having much of these internal chambers totally cut off from sunlight, which would essantially limit their use to logistical matters. To remedy this, the traditional structure of the ziggurat has been altered greatly. Instead of a single narrow platform at the top, it ends at a much broader level, which allows it to have a stepped courtyard in the centre of the building. This allows another set of balconies, as well as a lot more naturally lighted space, and many opportunities for architectural flourishes.
The outer and inner steps of the ziggurat are lined with walkable columnades and arcades, which conflicts width both the traditional form of the Iomar ziggurat, which usually sports smooth walls, as well as that of the traditional Ourtremer fassade, the columns of which are usually purely ornamental above ground level. The classical orders have been adapted to incorporate various styles common around the empire. This is most prevellent on the towers, in which the stacked roofs common to Ley have replace an entablature in the style of Outremer alltoghether. The specifics of the syncretism of the ornamentation are hard to summarise as they are so varied, at its heart is an intermingeling of mediums and motives typical for each of the cultures.
The garden is tightly interwoven with the palaces backside. It stretches from the top of the ziggurat all the way down to the ground, from where it stretches out for over a square mile. In the part of the garden nearer the ziggurat tall hedges create private spaces, containing ponds, groves, flowerbeds, and pagodas; while the further reaches of the complex are held in a more natural style, with forests, meadows, fields, and brooks. The main vantage points one can view the garden complex from are the backwards facing towers as well as the balconies of the ziggurat, and one of the bigger hills of the garden practically at the centre of the complex, on top of which stands a marble pagoda, from where one can overlook most of the garden. An overview of the garden does not, however, give one an overview of the principles present within it, as many of those are built on perspectives from within the garden. In general much of the more dense part of the garden is primarily built upon the principle of variation through changing perspectives, as typical in the gardens of Ley. This is interesting since these principles developed primarily from a lack of space, which this garden does not have. The traditional vertical design of Iomar gardens is mostly present along the Ziggurat, which naturally offers itself for this kind of design, as these forms have developed in dependency of each other. The more wide and natural kind of garden that Outremer is known for can be found along the open areas of the complex. The true syncretism in the garden complex stems form various flora, materials, and themes that have been brought together both within and without the style of garden they are native to.
It stayed that way throughout the whole reign of King Hethub the first. The King very much enjoyed art and philosophy in the later years of his reign, as mentioned above, and the Palace of Aragente was where he practiced these musings of his, lacking in the talent for it as he might have been. While his own creations did not spark as much wonder as his courtiers liked to make him believe, the countles comissions he ordered made the Palace, and the quickly growing town around it, into a centre of art and culture. Especially the gardens were frequented by many poets, writers, and painters. It is said that Hethub demanded payment in the form of comissions in exchange for access to the garden, but the visitors were many nonetheless. The fact that the garden remained a place of privacy, even though it was frequented by so many, is a testament both to its size, as well as its ingenious layout.
Foreword to the Hethubidiad
My grandfather was only a child, when his father was invited to the garden of Hethub the First; for my great-grandfather was a famed artist in his day, and having heard of the gardens beauty he wished for his son to be able to see them with him. Whenever my grandfather told me of that day, he would start by recalling the paths of that garden, and how the sun shone through the canopy and the rose-arches, but the moment he would always speak of in the most vivid way, was when they climbed that hill with the marble pagoda, where they had been told to meet the king.
He always said, that the king radiated character above all else. Not strength, or confidence, or intelligence; character. He said that what touched him above all else, was that the king was so clearly human. He told me that you could see a little bit of red in the corners of the Kings eyes; that he was a little reserved and awkward in polite conversation; that he seemed really sad when my great-grandftather complimented his painting. There, he'd say, was a man who'd conquered all the world; who'd faced a thousand battles and could do it again; who'd killed many by his own hand and had ordered the death of so many more; and yet, a man who was deeply sadend by a dishonest compliment; who hated the distance between him and humanity, that his success had thrust upon him; who above all else, wanted to not just be a conquerer, but a builder as well; and who cried, when he was alone, because he had trouble understanding and creating art.
It is in men of such character that virtue can be plain to us. They show us, how high virtue alone can carry us, even though we are not perfect, as the gods are, and even though affectations disrupt our soul.
The reign of King Hethub IV. and the gardens departure from reality
King Hethub the Fourthfootnote He, and the rulers before him, took their fathers name without the numericle addage, all of them being known simply as King Hethub. Historians added the number over five centuries later, to avoid confusion /footnote grew up in a peaceful land. His father held the reigns of government in the firm and gentle way, as is the sign of a great ruler, so his firstborn son did not grow up looking forward to a reign of conflict, but one of peace, riches, and art. As such he was a master of these things; a great poet and painter, and a novice in the manipulation of the forces underlying reality. However, he was not the ruler his father was. During his reign the far provinces attempted secession, and would have succeeded despite the Empires bottomless coffers, were it not for a handful of remarkable generalls and ministers in the employ of Hethub IV. His reign would also give rise to the Seagull Cabal, a group of rebel terrorists that would, by ways of magic, cause the catastrophic destruction of Uramfootnote Magic at this point was not very sophisticated. The destruction of Uram was the event that actually dragged Magic as a craft out of dimly lit basements where it was practiced by badly funded witches and warlocks, into the light of courts all around the world. It would take centuries still to become reliable. /footnote, in the twentyeth year of the reign of Hethub IV. After that catastrophe sunk the ancient captial in the sea, Hethub decided to rebuild around Aragente, where he had spent most of his time before as well.
While his mediocre governance was unfortunate, it is his interest in the metaphysical that would set the garden on its unfortunate path. The court of Hethub IV was filled with artists, philosophers, and a few adepts of magic, which was uncommon at the thime. This court would ultimately attract the attention of certain travelers of the multiverse. One day, when the Emperor was resting in one of the groves of the garden, a stranger stepped out of a shadow. It was a strangely tall creature, with a badly disguised third eye in it's skull, and tentacles that only passed for arms and legs if the observer was entirely devoid of imagination or eyesight. This stranger was Thaumalus Khalastar, metaphysical architect and multiversal scholarfootnote Known mostly for his literature on the creation of metaphysical architecture /footnote. He proposed to the Emperor, a simple deal: He would make the Garden magical, unbound by reality; and in return, Hethub would grant him the island of Grypia, just off the coast of Outremer, and a few tons of gold.
When trying to imagine the wealth of the Empire at that time, one of the easier ways to visualize it, is to make it clear to yourself, that Hetub IV could simply accept this offer without ever being called wasteful for it. Without much fuss, Khalastar gathered his asociates. Ten great mages from places no one had ever heard of. They laboured for a week, before Khalastar called on the Empereor again. He invited Hethub to join him on a walk through the garden, to see the progress of the transformation. The Emperor, being an adebt of magic, gladly agreed to see the work of these masters for himself. When he saw the already quite magnificent results, he was amazed.
A letter from Hethub IV to Julius Orsethubid of the Northmarch:
Dear Julius
I must tell you, the mages have already made good progress on the garden. You were doubtlessly right to have doubts about my decision, but it is more and more looking as though it was a good one. Earlyer today Khalastar asked me to view the progress he and his mages had made. Naturally I agreed. I must say, I am not shure that I know how to describe what I saw. The summer heat was beating down hard on everything outside, I had felt it myself on one of the balconies, and those are well shaded, as you know. It follows, that I was quite surprised to find the temperature in the garden temperate. I have spent much time in this garden and it has never been so pleasant. The groves were inviting before, today it was only with much effort, that I could resist the urge to lay down and rest in them. You have walked these shady path with me before, and you have seen these flowers and these trees. I tell you now, they are today, all that they were before, but moreso. I know, that this may be hard to believe, but I swear it, by my name and my life, the garden is better now.
Khalasthar has explained to me that the effects visible now are only the beginning. He said that reality was still strong enough to keep the garden mostly in check, and that with another push they would hand the genius loci full control of its realm. He said that he had invited me to view his work now, as this next step would be a point of no return; which would have unnerfed me, had I not seen what I have seen today. In your most recent letter, you claimed that the Garden of Hethub could not possibly be improved, yet I believe my descriptions of what I have witnessed today will make you realise that it is not so; and I believe that after reading what I have written to you, you will not think ill of me for giving Khalastar the permission to carry on with his work.
Thaumalus Khalastar did not lie, yet he did not foresee what the fate of this masterpiece of his would be. When he and the mages gave that last push, reality submitted and, slowly but surely, the garden bloomed more beautifuly than it haver had, and it slowly started flying. The grooves and isles of rest and beuty gently ripped themselves out of the ground, as flowery vines remained to anker them to the ground.
Ode to the Flying Garden:
Misty plains and misty mountains,
Verdant gardens, fertile fields
All with the same eyes view
and another thousand pictures
open up at every step
The war of the IXth.
Hethub IX is widely known as the model of a tyrant. It is entirely his fault that the number nine is considered an unlucky number all over the world. The Hethubid Empire had had its highs and lows before, but Hethub IX was the one who actually managed to make it fall. It is rather difficult to see him for what he truly was, as all the curses wished upon him somewhat distort histories eyes. Perhaps the most favourable judgment that one can come to is, that he was chronically tired. He rose to the throne by the age of ten, and it certainly did not do him any good. In the early years his advisors did the ruling, but he slowly got more and more involved into the matters of the court and the empire. I will not recount the entire story here. It should suffice to say that by the time he fully assumed the throne at the age of sixteen, he was in a mood sufficently sour to have all his previous advisors and courtiers executed, and to write the following:
I ask you, leave me be, I do not need you here
I wish to be alone, alone in my grand garden
Alone with paper feather, ink, sunshine, and silence
I never needed you, your lies, and plots, and lives
I know of each and every petty plot
There is no doubt, I've seen them clearly, twice over
At first only in omens, now in writing
You'll find regret, when your heads rot
Enough! Away with you!
You'll have your carnage now!
Your cursed chaos sowing heads
Will bother me no longer!
It is not surprising then, that the empire was not pleased with him. Power, it is said, is as the reigns of a horse; you retain control so long as you know not to pull too hard. It is the art of governance to know how much force one can use. Hethub IX was certainly not a great practitioner of that art. Shortly before the IXths coronation the fringes played their usual game, refusing to pay taxes while digging in, in preparation for retaliation. The grand dukes of Outremer and Ley sent out their armies to deal with the rebellious regions, until Hethub decided it was a good idea to murder every dignitary in his court, most of which were of the noble families that ruled his realm. Things quickly got out of hand, which is not surprising, the incredibly unfortunate thing however, was that this would not end for over thirty years.
It is said that what had been loyalist forces, fighting the outer realms, withdrew almost entirely within a day after receiving the news of the coronation massacre. In less than half a year, all the forces in the realm had been mobilised either for or against Hethub IX. On Hethubs side was his own imperial army and a few Iomar nobles, hoping to receive much land should they be victorious. The army of Ley marched along the southern coast, picking up smaller armies as they went. The imperial army moved to meet them, hoping to engage them before they could unite with the army of Outremer, while constantly being harassed by rebellious forces along the way. The generals of Outremer however, had no intention of uniting with the army of Ley. Instead, they shiped in to Uram, taking the port in a surprise attack, before marching to nearby Aragente.
Hethub had not gone with his armies, and his generals had not forseen a swift strike to Aragente. The stationed garrison was considerable, but not nearly strong enough to withstand the entire army of a major kingdom for long. The imperial army heard of this rather quickly and turned to relieve as fast as they could. Outremer did not have much time, but they did not intend to take long. Aragente had only become a city in the long age of peace that had lasted for generations now. No one had ever dared lay siege upon it. While its defences were plentiful and old, they were not tested, and certainly not without weakness. While travelling, Outremers generals had laid detailed plans to avoid the cities defences through subterfuge and storm it as quickly as possible. As night fell on the first day of the siege, groups of soldiers crept through half a dozen sewer passages. Most of the city was taken before sunrise.
Unfortunately for all parties involved, the king and much of the extensive palace guard ended up fleeing into the Garden. The decision was tactically sensible. The Gardens flying islands where connected by shifting walkways that almost always presented useful chokepoints, and the officers of the palace guard were somewhat familiar with the Gardens shifting nature, while Hethub knew all the Gardens ways by heart, seeing as he had spent most of his life there. In short the Garden presented the ultimate geographical advantage.
The Outremer forces had no time to waste. Already the imperial army had turned on its heel and was marching to Aragente as quickly as they could. The last thing the Outremer generals wanted, was to be cut off and trapped inside Aragente, while facing a numerically superior enemy. The second to last thing they wanted, was to have done all this risky manouvering just to have the king get away by a hairs breadth, and so they launched an all out offensive on the Garden, without delay.
It was the nature of the Garden at this point, to avoid conflict of all kinds. That means that generally the paths of the Garden would not lead you to someone who you did not want to meet, or who really did not want to meet you. It follows that the conflict inside the Garden quickly turned into a dirty affair of ambushes and stalemates. The palace guard quickly learned to abuse their environment. Ambushing isolated groups of enemies through paths the Garden did not intend for; leaping off of islands to escape, knowing the Garden would catch them; sleeping soundly in pristine groves, well aware of the fact that the Garden would not let their enemies come upon them by chance.
Report from an officer of the Outremer army
It was strange from the start. The last assault had fled the Garden in taters, half of 'em didn't make it out, but it still looked so peaceful. When you're sneaking through the jungle, knowing there's enemies around, while the mosquitos bite and there are snakes in the mud, at least you know where you're at; but walking through paradise, knowing full well that there's a trap out there somewhere waiting to gut you. It takes a toll on your soul, it really does.
The plan was to attack on multiple fronts. Send a hundred in from the northern tower, a hundred from the southern tower, and two hundred from the main entrance in the middle. The idea was that we'd always be in groups too big for them to attack, so we could take key isles along the ziggurat and keep on creeping forward, sending in more groups behind us until they run out of space. That was the plan. It would have been a good one in any other garden, but the thing about this one was that it moves; and that the palace guard seems to have at least some understanding of how and why. The path just stopped a few isles in. Turns out the Garden will close a passage, if the people on one side really don't want to see the people on the other one. So we tried to get to other paths, start controlling more isles. The thing is that whenever we'd succeed in that, nine out of ten times it would be a trap. Not set and forget traps; snares, deadfalls, spikepits and the like get disabled by the garden; just loyalists hidden in the bushes killing the first few lads who get in, the Garden then starts panicing and tosses our boys back out to make the fighting stop. The isle is then cut off again, and we lose half a dozen lads gear and all every time that happens. Even when we get into that isle properly and have them cornered, they just leap off and get caught by the vines. They just climb away, save as can be, 'cause the Garden won't let us shoot them down.
The thing is, that hits on moral a whole a lot, so soon enough not only do the loyalists not want to meet us, our lads don't want to meet the loyalists! Even worse, they don't want to see paths open anymore at all! 'cause whenever they do, some of 'em die. So we managed to take like seven isles and progress just stoped dead. Seven isles is what we got, they still have fucking miles of space to live off of and retreat through. It's plain to see that we won't get anywhere like that, but it gets worse. They've been figuring out how to trick the garden. They're sneaking about the higher isles, lining up shots, which wouldn't work usually, 'cause the Garden can stop bolts dead in the air. But they set a bigass fire somewhere in the back and then ambush us in ten places at once. The Garden is buissy puting out a fire, so while it may still stop some of those ambushes, it can't stop all of them. They need three dozen bolts a kill, but they've got the wood to make more.
We're working this out bit by bit. Give us a week and we'll have the lads trained to resist the traped paths, give us a month we'll figure out what to do about those crossbow ambushes, give us a year and we'll learn how to use the garden better than they do; but if you can't give us that time, then I don't see how we win this.
Half a week in the badly mauled Outremer forces ran out of time. They retreated as late as they dared, only narrowly avoiding the imperial army. All in all the expedition, that had at first seemed like a striking success, ended up mostly being a waste of time and resources, seeing as they had neither accomplished their goal of capturing Hethub, nor had they managed to hold on to any amount of land. The only questionable success they had found was to take up the valuable time of the imperial army. This failure of the Outremer forces would only become more bitter over time, as the war that could have ended then and there ended up raging on for over twenty years.
From this rapid beginning to the war, the imperial comanders learned that it would not do to just seek a decisive battle. Instead of marching for miles in territory rife with rebell forces harrassing them consantly, they shored up what territory remained loyal. Ultimately they managed to more or less secure most of the Iomar heartland, beating down dissent where it rose. The battles with Ley and Outremer would ultimately begin to wear them down as the war went on. However, their enemies did not really fight for the land or the resources, they just wanted Hethub dead. This would lead to the Emperor fortifying the Garden, as it would protect him from assasins as reliably as one can be protected from such dangers. It is said that he did not leave the Garden, until his eventual demise.
Said demise would come in the form of suicide. The imperial army was ground to dust over the years, so in the last days of the war, the forces of Outremer and Ley would end up besieging Aragente again. The city was much more defencible by then, but there was no army to relieve it. It was clear to everyone that it would only be a matter of time now. Hethub ordered resitance to the last, but his officers had lost all respect to him long before then. Hethub watched from the highest isle of the Garden, as they handed over his city. Who knows what he thought when he decided to jump, a day later. How did he know the Garden would not catch him softly, as it had done so many times before? How did he know, that it would form a noose for him? Did he know? Ultimatly, it doesn't matter.
A recalling of the death of theIXth, by the captain of the palace guard
It was a brisk autumn evening, which was not typical for the Garden, or the rest of Iomar really, so we all felt a little odd about things. Word among the men was that the Garden was sad because the fighting had started again. The city guard had surrendered unconditionally the day before. We had expected that they would not last, though they exceeded our fears, and taken the best of what remained of them and the army into the palace guard. I was discussing the matter of training these men, who were new to the garden, with the other officers- Logistical things mostly, whose squad leads training on what day, that kind of thing. Hethub had asked us to leave him the marble pagoda, so we were laying plans on the next isle down, a beautiful little thing with a pomegranate tree. It was then a messenger came in, he said they'd started an assault. We weren't worried, and the report declared that the lads on guard could handle it, but it was just then that the Emperor called me up. I wasn't worried about that either. It sounds strange to folks that weren't there, but Hethub liked to have heart to heart conversations, and me being the highest ranking officer in the garden barr him, he knew me better than most of the others.
When I came up to the pagoda I could plainly see that he'd been crying, but that was nothing new, so you bet I was not worried one bit about that. Then he started going on about the state of the war and how we'd never get out of the garden again; how there were no loyalists left outside; and I said that it all looked rather bleak for sure, but that we had five hundred lads in there that would each kill over a hundred or more before they'd fall, that the way we'd been holding up, the enemy would rather let us die of old age than attempt an assault big enough to take us down. Of course I had missed the point entirely. So Hethub said that he had ruined the world his dynasty had built for so many years, that all he'd ever wanted had been to be left alone, and that he'd been a coward for not running away from it all instead of putting up a half hearted fight. So I put a hand on his shoulder and said that it'd all be fine as soon as the enemy got tired of trying to storm that Garden, that we could come to a de facto peace even without surrendering, that we might never get to leave the Garden again, but that that didn't matter because the Garden was fine place to be. But he wouldn't have it. He steped away from me, went toward the edge of the isle, pointed towards the ziggurat and said:"Look at them dying." And I did and he said "you're killing them well, but what are you killing them for, and what are you killing besides them." I had no idea what to say that, so I didn't say anything and he said"I'm sorry that it came to this." and then he ran off the edge. Now I ran to the edge to see, but while I was worried about Hethubs mental state, I didn't think for a second, that the Garden would let him get hurt. I saw him dangeling some six meters down, and it took me second to realise how he was dangeling. I'd never seen the Garden kill anything before; but there he was, vines wraped around his neck, not moving a muscle. The Garden had caught him in a noose, his neck broke from the fall, he was dead instantly, but he'd be hanging there until his bones sliped through the vines. I asked them to let me take him down, after we'd called out his death and surrendered, but they wouldn't allow it.
And I know it sounds like I'm making this up. You think, that I pushed him off and that I secretly hated him, because you think the IXth was a monster with no conscinous. But think about that for longer than a second. Why would I lie? You'd all hate me a lot less for being a loyalist if I had killed the man you hate so much. Why would I think pushing him off would work? I've seen people fall and be caught incredibly often, I even did that myself over a dozen times.
I've told it to you truthfully, as it was, and I'll tell you another thing: Hethub could have been a great man, he really could have, if only he'd not been an emperor.
The Keep
The death of Hethub IX would lead to the disolution of the Hetubid Empire. Since he had had no children, all the lands that he and the rulers before him had held for generations was handed to Julius Hethubid, the head of one of the bigger Hethubid houses, Hethubid Caraecia. While he was only granted the personal domain of Hethubid emperors, he would gather the Lords of Iomar around himself rather quickly, and reform the Kingdom of Iomar. This was followed by some minor wars about land and loyalties, but nothing nearly as significant as the war of the IXth.
Julius was practically minded before all else. He saw necescity and he saw potential. So seeing as the throne in Aragente would not regain the unqestioned safety it had retained during the empire days, the Garden was properly fashioned into a keep. Weapons stockpiles were set up, and the palace guard was trained in garden traversal and combat. The visual layout of the Garden roughly stayed the same, though its spirit changed significantly. On the visual side leafes became a good bit more red, vines and roses more thorny, and grass more muddy. On the more practicall side, vines became snares, thorns became poisonous, and mud became paths over hights became incresingly perilous.
Meanwhile advances in craftsmanship and magic had slowly crept forward, and by the time Julius died of age, the first simple firearms had entered practical, if not common, use. Another generation and canons had become comon technology, making many ancestoral castles obsolute. When a league of rebelling lords attempted bombardment of the Garden though, they found it uterlly inefective, as the canonballs would veer off wildly, missing any isle by a wide margine.
And so the Garden became the keep of the palace at Aragante. It would remain so for some twohundred years. The kingdom of Iomar was not in good shape during these two centuries. Numerous invasions, minor wars, or even revolts would end up causing Aragente to be besieged often. Aragente would fall many times, but the Garden was not taken even once. That might be surprising to hear for someone not familiar with the Gardens capabilities; but it really is quite natural. The city could be, and was often, starved out; the Garden could easily produce enough food to keep its garrison well fed. It was hard to storm the city, it was harder to storm the garden still. The walls of the city did not eat ladders. The city's streets were not filled with vines laying snares to attackers of their own accord. The cities towers did not float away from any attackers coming close enough to enter them. The garden, which once had only tried to protect anyone within it from physical or mental harm, had, by the end of a century of war, changed to protect those holding it as a defencive position from thos asaulting it. By the end of the second century of war it had become so accustomed to the task that few were stupid enough to even try to take it.
The Garden of War and Poetry
Two centuries after the end of the war of the IXth Mariq Hethubid, a direct decendant of Julius Hethubid, died without an heir, and David Hethubid, of the Orsethubids, would inherit his realm. David Hethubid was already the ruler of a significant part of Outremer at the time, as his House had held the North Marches for centuries. It is because of this unusually powerful position he found himself in, and his particular strength of character, that the events that would follow unfolded as they did.
Not far into his reign a war with Ourtremer started. It was an unavoidable conflict, as David was determined to hold onto the North Marches, while Outremer could scarecly aford the lose them. This war was expected to be bloody and long, as wars had incresingly become. A handful of strategic miracles later however, the forces of Outremer called for negotiations, with only one and a half thousand dead. They had lost a significant amount of supplies in their attempt to take a stronghold in the North Marches, and much of their army was waylayd there They would not have a fighting chance against the approaching Iomar army, and they could not retreat in time. David however would not take their surrender on the conditions of wining the North Marches alone, despite their enormous size and value; instead he insited upon reinstating Hethubid rule over Outremer. In short, he demanded Outremer be his Vassal, as they had been in the days of the empire. This did not entice the King of Outremer, despite him being a childhood friend of David, but after fierce negociations and numerous consecions made toward Outremer he relented. The war ended and the Hethubid Empire was declared to be formed once again. The fight against Ley would not go as smoothly, but it would ultimately turn out as a Hethubid triumph, and the Kingdom would return to the imperial fold.
David was known to be an avid enjoyer of myth, mythology, and historical epics. As such, he held great reverence towards King Hethubs Flying Garden, both as he found it in his day, and as he had heard that it had been before the IXth. As he achieved triumphs of war and diplomacy, he became more and more resolved to gain a triumph of culture as well. He wished to be remembered as the emperor who restored not only the empire, but the Garden as well. To this end he sent out ships to seek the island of Grypia, which none had seen since Thaumalus Khalastar and his mages had taken possesion of it. They did not find it of course. The island was such that it could only be found if it wished to be. The extensive search did however force it to perform some rather extreme evasive manouvers and mirages, which did not go unnoticed by the mages of the island. And so, on a calm day in early spring, Thaumalus Khalastar showed up at the palace of Aragente unexpectedly, asking for an audience.
Thaumalus Khalastar's report to the council of Grypia:
I was granted an audience quickly, as expected. They told me the emperor wished to meet me by the marble pagoda, which is still somewhat consistently located at the highest point of the garden. I have no doubt he did this, not only to establish his position of power, but to make me see what had become of the Garden as well. I would have done the same in his place. The rumours of the Gardens transformation have, unfortunately, not been exagerated. In fact, I believe most underestimate the magnitude of the change that has occured.
While I doubt you wish to hear it, I believe I should tell you a little of my ascendt: I could feel the change from a mile away, but the garden had ratained some visual similiarity to its previous state. The moment I set foot on the first isle, I felt the garden watch me. I was un uncertain element in its realm. It did not know me for friend or foe. The welcoming aura that was so typical for it was entirely gone. Though it was early spring, and nature such as the garden out to be at its best, the groves were less welcoming than I had ever known them, and the flowerbeds were wild and overgrown. The paths were muddy on the isles, and precarious in the air. I recall when I first steped upon one of the stones floating as a path between two isles, how it took me only a few steps to learn to trust them. These stones did not warant such trust. More than once I stumbled over bones in the mud, and the Gardens vines were layed as snares everywhere. Do you recall, on the day the Garden flew for the first time, how in the evening it suddenly started shaking, only for a minute or two? How we searched for the cause for almost an hour, worried sick, before finding, that the poor thing was in distress because the gardeners old dog had died? How strange it is, to see such a spirit laying snares. By the time I had reached the pomegranate tree at the foot of the central hill, my boots were muddy and my spirits were low.
When I had ascendet through that cursed garden, unscathed only due to my power, I found him there by the old marble pagoda, looking out over the Garden. That place was almost the same it had been all those years ago, when I was standing there with the Fourth while it was slowly drifting towards the sky. He looked so solemn and sad up there, stoicly looking over that ruined wonder. When I approached and he turned to me I could see it so clearly, somewhere inside of him, a child that had found the fairyland it had heard of in so many epics and poems and fables, that it had seen in so many paintings, just to see it for the ruined wasteland it had become.
In many ways David reminds me of the First, whom I must admit to only have ever seen and never spoken to. The way he wears rapier and pistol shows he knows how to use them well. His face shows countless hours of marching through the harsh climate of the north. One can see that he is, as the first was, more at home at the front of an army than in a palace. Above all he has that same deep desire, to be more refined in the arts than he is capable of being. The reason why he sent out ships for us is plain to see.
Two things, he asked me then. First: how I would estimate the Gardens defensive potential, and it's possible value in war. Second: If I thought it could be restored. The first I answered, honestly and briefly: The Garden is no less than unassailable with todays weaponry, and it will take centuries yet, before a bombardment heavy enough to even scratch it could be devised. The second, has no easy answer. You, my collegues, will likely say, that this is not so; that the easy answer is no. But that is a practical evalutaion based only on the few attempts at similar projects known to us. It is known, that such a place can not be soothed again in a hundred years; but what about two, three, four hundred years. We have a patron on our hands who can supply an empires worth of artists and philosophers. The Gardens visage is colder now, but still beautiful. If we could found and strengthen a tradition; perhaps success could be found. I am well aware of the dificulties this entails. The Garden is no longer as hospitable to artists as it once was, and the negative aura is oppresive; but that need not be an insurmountable issue. There is beauty to be found in pain and sadness, and there is beuty to be found despite it.
You have already surmised it, I presume: David asked me to help him to restore the Garden. And he has convinced me of the project. The question now, is if I can convince you. So take this as my apeal to you: You know this as theoritcally possible. Let us prove it practically possible as well, for science, if not for beauty alone. Let the mages of Grypia be remembered, as the ones who repaird the broken spirit of King Hethubs flying Garden.
The advice Khalastar left before returning to Grypia on that day, was that David was to prevent all violence in the garden, and that he was to invite every artist he could find, under the condition the First had set up so long ago, a tax of comissions. A week later, he visited the Garden again, this time with a group of mages who were keen to take a closer look at the state of the Garden. What exactly they discussed with David behind closed doors is not entirely clear. The practice of inviting artists into the Garden would stick, in fact it survives to this day, the specifics of the open invitation varied over the years, though basic principal of a tax of comissions has stayed the same. The mages of Grypia were seen at court more often after that, though what they were doing to aid the Gardens restoration remained unclear. This state of affairs would continue, even after David was succeeded by his son, Hethub Xfootnote Who was the first to take up the old naming convention after the unfortunate events around the IXth. /footnote, and after the Xth was succeeded by his Daughter, Hetha, who reigns to this day.
War has not touched the Garden for almost a century now, but a clear change in its nature has not become apparant. Even so, the artistic tradition surrounding it has solidified. As a result of this the best and greatest artists of the last generation have written in and about the Garden, in the sombre and melancholic way that its current state encourages. This movement has generally found support from artists without access to the Garden, so a certain bittersweet quality has become standard in most respected works of the current day. These evaluations are, however, much too young to be called history; so this is where this overview of the history of King Hethubs flying Garden ends.
The Garden of War and Poetry
Fair and still the garden of war and of poetry lies
Heart so sad and so cold, beauty forever now lost.
Can it ever shine so fair and so bright again?
Is it doomed to stay harsch and viscous as a beast
Will we strive and work and enudre such hardship
Just to see it lost? Will we achieve our goal?
R'lyeh is risen; Cthulu left, not bothering to kill the humans; now it's the roaring twentys, and the risen city is filled with Jazz, Gold, Anarchy, and so much unknown and unkowable.
From within and without the city, thousands flock to the old tombs gate. Dreams call them there. Dreams that become unbearable if ignored for too long. Dream that push their recipient to throw open the gate, and wake the eldritch herald that hasn't been home for over fifty years. Unfortunately for those remaining, he did not turn off his alarm. After much anarchy and violence in the early days, a system has been set up to manage the many applicants. A "non-profit" company, that control access to the gate. It has puplicly promised to make the gate free to approach for at least twelve hours a day. Paying applicants have longer opening hours, and a much shorter que. While their obvious profit insentive is scoffed at, they do clos the gate in a reasonable amount of time, and they make sure "the cat" is well fed. Most people don't mind it, since the dreams don't tend to return anyway.
A mysterious substance has emerged in various forms. Star something, they tend to call it; as in: Star Wine, Star Absinth, Star Cider, Star Juice, Star Butter, Star Coke. It is won of an enigmatic slime found more and more the deeper you go. Most of the stuff is harmles, some gives you quite the trip, and some change you in ways that may be bad, or good, or great, or terrible, or just weird. In more concentrate doses folks call them morphics, because the aspect that makes them so nice for beverages, the fact that they change your body to be more in line with the mental aspect of your person, makes them esentially capable of changing ones body quite drastically. Changing gender is not uncommon, changing size and shape even less.
It might not seem intuitive at first, but the Anarchists around here tend to be nostalgic. "In the early days" they'll say "There were no coppers anywhere 'round here; none at all. Just steel and lead, and hardy folks, and a whole lot of freedom." That said, the wild west days of the city are far from gone. The police are few and underfundet, they work only on the cases with the highest profiles or the most wealthy victims. The further you go down or out, the less there is a law.
Some say R'lyeh University is more an idea than an institution. The various research inspired by the mystical and eldritch taking place in the city only vaguely coalesces around the university. While the science conducted at the university is usually considered radical and dangerous by those who don't know the city well, many scientists think the university restrictions tyranical, hence why so much research is privately fundet.
Muriel's House of Candles is a well known establishment in the buisness of selling comfort. A few years ago a rather large group of the more austere citizens of R'lyeh tried to have it shut down, or at least banished from main street. It turns out they had no idea what kind of establishemnt Muriel's actually is.
Prickfinger street is the most famous of R'lyehs cheap housing. The buildings aren't bad mind you, it's just that the street has a tendency to disapear at times. Only the most patient, poor, or esoteric kind of people see this as aceptable. Physically it's a nice street, though it is offly steep. At least it has a nice café with an ever changing fiew at the verry top.
When the fires of the new milleniums conception subsided, mankind found itself above the physical ills, that had been the cause of the strife, which had set Terra aflame for so long. There was no starvation, nor sickness left. The riches, that had once caused war, now abundand and unimportant.
"Thank you for giving me a ride."
"It's hardly an issue, I was just sitting around at the station anyways. Besides, I recall you gave Percy a ride in your manual when I ran off."
"That was during the wireheading epidemic as well. He was worried half to death."
"At least you don't have to worry about that kind of thing with her."
"Hopefully I don't, you never know."
Alexandrine:
v - v - v - | v - v - v -
As Spiders spin their webs, so do we spin our world
v - v - v - | v - v - v -
As fragile as a web, is our dear world as well
An optimistic eulogy:
v - v - v - v v -
What marvels did the old ones plant
v - v - v v -
in years of fire and light
v - v - v -
How little did they know
v - v - v -
of what their seeds would grow
v v - v - - v
Their ancient faults ground out
v - v - v - v
by centuries of reason
v - v - v v -
Their fears they doomed to fall
v - v - v -
in raising critic might
v - v - v v -
Though Systems came and went
v - v v - v v - v v
and Critisism did beget Dogmatism
v - v v - - v -
The whetstone they once spun
v - v - - v
remains until today
v - v - - v
It turns and will turn on
v - v - v - v
In time it will succeed
- v v - v -
Faults that we hold or held
v - v v - v - v
In time will be no more
I am not usually a being of great emotion. I haven't lost my mind to panick in over two hundred years, nor have I lost sight of reality by love, or depression, or even curiousity. And yet, here I am, dased and confused.
How can this place be? What could possibly withstand time itself. Am I dreaming ? Is this some kind of leftover, from the old times, when I was still flesh and my inner workings were a mystery to me? My people thrived in the physical. Through logic we built our empire of understanding. We grew in the certainty of our knowledge. We foresaw the things happening to the Universe outside, not in some drugriden dream or hermeneuticaly ambiguos message from tentatively real gods, like some of the other people here, we calculated it. It was clear to us, that we would die, that everything would die, for we are physical, and the physical will succumb to entropy. Many of the others think they did the same, but they didn't, not like my people.
Characters:
Scientist1,
Scientist2,
Mailman
Act 1:
Scene 1:
Two scientists in Labcoats standing in a room with a table, one of them holding an envelope
Sci1: See my friend, we have done.
After years of trying we finnaly succeed.
Age is no more, I hold it's cure in my hand at last
All that remains is to send it away now,
to the patent office, to register it as free to use,
so none may abuse it for selfish gain.
Such a simple substance, that will end this ancient ailment.
Sci2: You know, I have been thinking for a while
And though I remain proud of our achievement,
I have doubts about this last act.
Sci1: Surely you can't mean we should keep it
for ourselves ?
Sci2: No!
Sci1: Patent it, for our own gain ?
Sci2: Never!
Sci1: What then ?
Sci2: Perhaps we ought to hold it back,
The world is hardly ready for immortals yet.
Sci1: How do you mean, not cure the evil,
That we have worked so hard to cure?
Sci2: In a way.
Sci1: But why ?
Sci2: When we set out to make our cure,
We saw only the pain and despair.
But now I see more, I see what it has done,
This law of nature we call a sickness.
How many Villains has it stuntet,
that would never have left the world at peace ?
How many Tyrants has it toppled,
that no human could assail ?
How many ideas has it brought forth,
by ending the reign of stagnant elders ?
Has it not been the source of renewal,
that kept humanity in progress ?
Had it not been,
would not kings still reign
above a flock so ignorant,
that it might have never shacken off the chains of dogmatism,
to find salvation in godgiven reason ?
Scientist1 lays the envelope on the table
Sci1: Well perhaps it has done more than ill,
but it still does more ill than good.
Perhaps the old are close minded now.
How couldn't they be
when their bodies start breaking,
their children grow distant,
and their brain starts to rot.
Imagine the wisdom that may come of age,
when health is not as fleeting as it is today.
Sci2: I envy you're optimism friend.
You're arguments are good but they are not complete,
Say is not this world that we're creating
not one where tyrants may last?
Are we building a world
where Stalin and Mao would not have to die?
What world would we be in,
where only assasins could end such a reign?
The two move away from the table slightly while talking.
The mailman enters and walks up to the table
Mailman:(to himself) I hear, they argue again.
I wonder of what, another conundrum of science perhaps?
He listens
Sci2: I tell you the world is not quite ready yet.
Give it a decade, half a century perhaps.
We, who don't age, have the time
to judge this with care.
Sci1: No, we should not delay.
This weight on all minds must be lifted,
the sooner the better.
Mailman:(to himself) If my ears don't deceive me,
they argue as though they are done.
Sees the letter
To the Patend Office?
Just my luck,
and that of the world.
These ingenious idiots would take this from them,
not thinking of what they were trying to end.
They may argue of tyrants and philosophers as long as they want,
I won't let them keep the cure from the sick.
My aunt with dementia shall regain her mind,
my uncle's parkinsons shall shake him no longer,
and Fortuna be willin,
my hair shall grow back.
He takes the envelope and leaves
Sci1: You think in terms of the now, my friend,
today's status quo.
But it shall be liftet as soon as the cure comes to light.
Nothing will be the same.
Those who are evil shall stay so at first,
but who would not be a philosopher
after a hundred youthful years?
Who could keep from ending their own evil,
when time forces them to see it so clearly?
Sci2: You say I think in today's status quo,
but I say I think what the next one may be.
Revolutions have come again and again,
but evil remains.
How can we put eternal power in hands
that we know will abuse it?
How can we end what has been
the great equalizer since the beginning of life?
Sci1: Your worry is founded,
but think of the promise.
Think what would come of eternal youth.
Artists and philosophers that hone their craft,
until aeons have past and their skill may be so sublime
that they put to shame the old gods of myth.
Think of societies where wisdom is normal
and where ignorance may once be erased.
Think of the glory that mankinf may reach.
Sci2: But how can these dreams compare
to an evil as grand as them?
How can we risk endless tyrany?
Sci1: We are ending ageing, not time.
The question is one of human nature.
Do you really believe that mankind is evil?
That we are doomed to make ourselves suffer,
more than nature ever could?
I don't believe that.
I can't believe that!
Lest I dispair in the knowledge
that the world can't be helped.
Sci2: I suppose…
How can I deny this.
In time human nature shall turn this to good.
The risk will remain, but it seems that it must.
Go on ahead, the mailman ought to come soon,
we'll walk out to meet him.
Sci1: Oh, where did I put it just now?
Sci2: The table.
Sci1: So I thought but look
The table is empty.
They look around for a second
Sci2: Oh well. I'll print another.