Wait no the titles' wrong
Quarks and Stuff
Current WIP: Peculiar Purchases, Scavenger Hunt 2021
The once-quaint city was filled with skyscrapers. The recent works of Jackson Yoon twisted into the sky, perfectly at home amongst the pyramids of Van Kurring, the cylinders of older days, and the occasional sphere on stilts from when Bergholt Johnson visited.
The further you went from the centre of the city, however, the shorter the buildings became. The spirals and icosahedrons gave way to more sensible cuboids, which gave way to less looming structures. At the east-most of town, there was a large building, painted a gleaming white, with a large red cross on it.
Next to the building, there was an entrance to a shop, at the back of an alleyway.
A man walked up to it.
A bell jingled as the wooden door opens.
"Hello?" the man called out.
"Mister Jacques." Another man walked out from between two shelves. "Was the book not to your liking?"
Mister Jacques had the book in question tucked safely within his inner coat pocket. "I'm here for something else, Don."
"So soon? You know my policies, Mister Jacques."
"I need more time."
Don paused in place. The shop seemed to hold its breath. "…Mister Jacques, you know my policies."
"I know. It's not for me."
"What do you need it for?"
"A final sendoff."
Don nodded slowly. "And what will you give for it?"
The holes in the building in front of them were visible even from across the street. The sounds of crows cawing was clearly audible. The compound around it was overgrown with weeds.
A man and a woman stood in front of it, at the gate now rusted shut.
"T'kla m'ta ingu ta?" A phrase, uttered by the woman. The old tongue. Why did you bring me here?
The man hesitated, before answering.
"You… me… important."
The woman fell silent.
A short while passed. "Me… you… important."
The woman remained silent.
The sun moved an eighth across the sky before they moved on.
A great gouge in the earth, as dry as bone. The companies that came banished all water, and left once the lake had nothing to offer. Husks of dead trees, once green and vibrant, stood forlornly around the perimeter.
The sun was three-eighths across the sky. The man and the woman stood there.
"T'kla m'ta ingu ta?" The same phrase, uttered by the woman. Why did you bring me here?
"Important to me and you."
The woman fell silent.
"…Why? Why quiet?"
The woman remained silent.
"…Do you know what I had to do to get this?!"
The woman doesn't respond. The man tried to articulate the sentence again in the old tongue, but fell silent soon.
The sun moved an eighth across the sky before they moved on.
A bench, in a park. Nothing special, state-maintained. Just a wooden bench, that looked out into a forest.
The sun was at its Zenith. The man and the woman sat on the bench.
"T'kla m'ta ing…"
"Please. Whatever else you want me to do, I'll do it, just please remember, something, anything."
The woman fell silent.
"Please. Please."
The man continued to beg. When he fell silent, the sun had shifted, and they moved on.
The skyscrapers scraped the sky above them.
The sun was halfway to collapse. The woman stood in an alleyway. The man joined her shortly.
Wooden huts stand in a rough collective. Yellow, individual fronds weaved to form protection against the environment, pitted after their long duty. Bells wrapped with red ribbons tinkle in a non-existent breeze. A pot hung from a mass of broken chains, over a pile of cinders.
The man and the woman stood on a yellow dirt path, a good distance away from the village. The sun sets on the horizon.
"T'kla m'ta ingu ta?"
"…when I was young, you told me of this place." The man kept his eyes fixated on the smouldering hearth. "You told me you wanted to see this place one last time."
The woman fell silent.
The land was only illuminated by the crown of the sun, peaking over the hills. The man prepared to guide the woman to leave.
"…me… thank."
The man froze.
The woman fell silent once more.
The land was eventually bathed in darkness. Twinkling lights spotted the sky as the man guided the woman carefully through the tree trunk.
They progressed through the barked tunnels slowly, avoiding any particularly bothersome knots on the ground. It's a good thing, the man thought, that neither of us can stand straight enough to bump into the knots on the ceiling.
When they came across a boulder in the way, the man placed a blank polaroid on it. The boulder disappeared, and the man stepped around the polaroid as it drifted to the floor, helping the woman to do the same.
They exited the forest with not much haste. The babbling brook with its clear and incomprehensible ramblings received overdue attention.
When they reached the shop again, Don was waiting for them.
"I only hope it was worth it."
The man nodded. "I didn't have much time left, anyway. I got good mileage out of that name." He ran his free hand through his hair, not quite as grey as the woman's. "Will you let me bring her back?"
Mister Don Jacques nodded.
The walk back was leisurely. The man helped the woman back onto her bed, and ran his fingers through her white hair.
"…I'm ready now," he said to the air.
As the people in the small ward started to move again, the man walked out. No one paid heed to the old stranger as he left.
- **Regarding Image 16 (Reshelving 2019)**
- **Regarding an idea about chambers**
- **Regarding an idea about gods, shattering, and manifestation**
- **An idea for the av08 prompt**
- **What Nautical Nonsense**
- **Ohhhh baby it's time for ~~Architectural~~ stuff (Scavenger's Hunt)**
[[div_ class="left-side"]]
++ //**Shelf Inside-Out 44K, dedicated to Saint Barbara**//
[[image filename.jpg style="border:solid 0.0625rem rgb(45, 70, 45)"]]
||||~ [# OCCIDITIS CINERARIUS ]^^1^^|| Unlike most saints, Saint Barbara's endeavours were not spurred by any desire to do good, but rather the longing for normal hair.
It is well documented in many sources[[footnote]]Most prominently in "The Records of The Delectable Locks" by Rava Ohli, whose five hundred seventy-four pages is entirely filled with the written records of the bemoanings of Saint Barbara during his extremely long visit in Kevhrpi.[[/footnote]] that Saint Barbara was very unfond of his hair, which was completely normal, apart from the facts that it was entirely comprised of spaghetti, and that it regrew extremely quickly.
Saint Barbara, during his one of his many expeditions to attempt fixing his hair, stumbled upon a Way, bringing him to the Library, which was going through one of the worst famines in history[[footnote]]Information regarding the Years of the Strange Starvation can be found in the Archives, made available upon request for browsing only.[[/footnote]].
The presence of Saint Barbara and, more importantly, his nourishing hair, provided the malnourished residents with much needed sustenance, saving more than five million lives.
Saint Barbara eventually went to the desert planet of Kevhrpi, hoping the planet's many famous alchemists could help him with his noodly hair. He was ultimately unsuccessful, but spent an inordinate amount of time there, accidentally amassing a following of the planet's oppressed and hungry lower-caste citizens, which gave him the title of "Saint" after his death at the hands of the upper-caste rulers.
For your timely appearance and delicious scalp, Saint Barbara, we remember you.
[[div_ class="description"]]
[[/div]]
[[/div]]
Dude has rampant hair growth.
Needs hair cut.
Goes to wrong hairsaloon
Gets spaget hair
Goes around trying to fix it
Feed millions of starving along the way
Let's call him Saint Barbara The Mildly-Irrated And Of Delicious Scalp
Unlike most saints, Saint Barbara's endeavours were not spurred by any desire to do good, but rather the longing for normal hair.
It is well documented in many sources1 that Saint Barbara was very unfond of his hair, which was completely normal, apart from the facts that it was entirely comprised of spaghetti, and that it regrew extremely quickly.
Saint Barbara, during his one of his many expeditions to attempt fixing his hair, stumbled upon a Way, bringing him to the Library, which was going through one of the worst famines in history2.
The presence of Saint Barbara and, more importantly, his nourishing hair, provided the malnourished residents with much needed sustenance, saving more than five million lives.
Saint Barbara eventually went to the desert planet of Kevhrpi, hoping the planet's many famous alchemists could help him with his noodly hair. He was ultimately unsuccessful, but spent an inordinate amount of time there, accidentally amassing a following of the planet's oppressed and hungry lower-caste citizens, which gave him the title of "Saint" after his death at the hands of the upper-caste rulers.
For your timely appearance and delicious scalp, Saint Barbara, we remember you.
Guns have chambers.
Chambers for bullets.
Impose chambers (the gun type) and chambers (the resting type) together.
Bullets leave bits of themselves behind when they're fired.
Clinkling sound.
Guns in military.
Conscripted thingy, maybe
Slap a religion on it
Make the trigger the high priest
Slap an oppressed society over the bullets in the magazine
Slap a salvation bit on the chambers
Hand is analogy for hand of a god, whichever one it is
Make basically a whole medival oppressed society thing (non-Monty Python)
Reminds me of Enter the Gungeon, even though it's pretty clearly not.
Note: Find out how guns actually work before going further with this.
Gods are manifestations of will
There be war
Both sides are theologically inclined
Very theologically inclined
Also simultaneously very devout
Both sides have gods
Both sides keep fighting each other to standstill
One side has idea
Infiltrates other side via refugees
Slowly takes over other side via indoctrination of children
God-Pharaoh of infiltrated side starts cracking (like cracking open)
God tries to warn people of bad shit goin on
No one listens
After a while, reduced belief in the god causes the infiltrated side to lose to the infiltrator side
The god is turned out of nation
~story actually starts~
The god is destroying ruins of its old nation in anger
Reminiscences of time of past angrily and pridefully
Starts feeling morality sink in (after all, it was made by humans)
Regret and guilt and all that jizz
Cracks deepen (onomatopoeia)
Post rage numb
Cracks deepen (onomatopoeia)
Weeping starts
Breaks apart like crystal
Notes:
Probably not suitable for this site (lack of wonderous element)
I did the thing, it's on http://www.example.com www.wanderers-library.wikidot.com/ten-thousand-sushi-dinners
[[module css]]
@import url("https://wanderers-library.wikidot.com/component:wanderers-depths/code/1");
[[/module]]
[[iftags +theme]]
[[>]]
[[module Rate]]
[[/>]]
[[div class="scp-image-block block-right" style="width:200px; float: right;"]]
[[image anchor.png width="200px" style="width:200px;" link="https://wanderers-library.wikidot.com/local--files/component:wanderers-depths/anchor.png"]]
[[div class="scp-image-caption" style="width:width:200px;;"]]
Wanderer's Depths!
[[/div]]
[[/div]]
+ Examples
A horizontal rule can be created with 5 hyphens "@@-----@@" and extends across the whole page if it's not placed inside anything (eg a blockquote). The lines separating sections of this document are horizontal rules.
-----
Titles can be created by putting between one and six plus "+" at the start of the line
[[collapsible show="+ Titles" hide="- Titles"]]
+ First Title
++ Second Title
+++ Third Title
++++ Fourth Title
+++++ Fifth Title
++++++ Sixth Title
[[/collapsible]]
+ How to include
To put this theme on your page, slap this somewhere in your page:
> @@[[include :wanderers-library:component:wanderers-depths]]@@
Just use your imagination and pretend there's {{Lorem Ipsum}} here.
Here's some links for you:
* [[[component:wanderers-depths|Visited link]]]
* [https://example.com/unvisited Unvisited link]
* [[[xyz--1|Missing link]]]
> This is a blockquote, created by putting "> " at the start of each line.
>
> More text
> -----
> That's a horizontal rule
>
>> Nested blockquotes
>>> And another[[footnote]] And here's a footnote! [[/footnote]]
----
[[div class="paper"]]
@@ [[div class="paper"]] @@
@@ @@
@@ @@
@@ @@
@@ @@
@@ [[/div]] @@
[[/div]]
> This is a blockquote, created by putting "> " at the start of each line.
>
> More text
> -----
> That's a horizontal rule
>
>> Nested blockquotes
[[=]]
The body font is Lato.
[[span style="font-family: var(--header-font);"]]The Header font is Trade Winds.[[/span]]
[[span style="font-family: var(--title-font);"]]The Title font is Trade Winds.[[/span]]
[[span style="font-family: var(--mono-font);"]]The monospace font used is PT Mono.[[/span]]
[[/=]]
-----
[[collapsible show="+ Click to see code" hide="- Hide code" hideLocation="both"]]
[[code type="css"]]
/* Wanderer's Depths Theme */
/* 2020 Wikidot Theme */
/* By ROUNDERHOUSE, based off Dustjacket by Woedenaz and Croquembouche */
/* Logo by Bard Bard, using art from SunnyClockwork, licensed under CC BY SA 3.0 */
/* Header background CC BA SA 3.0, edited by ROUNDERHOUSE. */
/* Fonts */
@import url('https://fonts.googleapis.com/css?family=Trade+Winds&display=swap');
@import url('https://fonts.googleapis.com/css2?family=Caveat:wght@400;700&display=swap');
/* All Vars Used */
:root {
/* S-CSS-P Integration */
/* If you're making a new CSS theme, please include the following three variables at minimum. */
--theme-base: "nuscp";
/* must be either "nuscp" or "sigma9" */
--theme-id: "WanderersDepths";
/* set this to the URL of your theme's page - eg for "component:ar-theme", set it to "ar-theme" */
--theme-name: "Wanderer's Depths";
/* set this to your theme's full name */
/* Header */
--logo-image: url("https://wanderers-library.wikidot.com/local--files/component:wanderers-depths/anchor.png");
/* Logo image made by Bard Bard using elements from SunnyClockwork, all licensed under CC BY SA 3.0 */
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/* Standard Colors */
--white-monochrome: 252, 252, 252;
/* white */
--pale-gray-monochrome: 244, 244, 244;
/* v light gray for blockquotes and stuff */
--light-gray-monochrome: 170, 170, 170;
/* light accent gray for login status */
--gray-monochrome: 66, 66, 72;
/* gray */
--dark-gray-monochrome: 48, 48, 52;
/* dark accent gray for sidebar background */
--black-monochrome: 12, 12, 12;
/* black */
--bright-accent: 255, 219, 90;
/* bright yellow */
--bright-two: 31, 101, 193;
/* bright blue */
--medium-accent: 12, 64, 122;
/* blue */
--dark-accent: 0, 63, 96;
/* dark blue */
--newpage-color: 221, 102, 17;
/* pale orange */
/* Primary Theme Colors */
--swatch-background: var(--white-monochrome);
--swatch-primary: var(--medium-accent);
--swatch-primary-darker: var(--bright-accent);
--swatch-primary-darkest: var(--bright-two);
/* Primary Text Colors */
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--swatch-important-text: var(--bright-accent);
/* Primary Header Colors */
--swatch-headerh1-color: var(--white-monochrome);
--swatch-headerh2-color: var(--white-monochrome);
--swatch-topmenu-border-color: var(--bright-accent);
--swatch-topmenu-bg-color: var(--medium-accent);
--rating-module-button-color: var(--bright-accent);
--rating-module-text-color: var(--bright-accent);
/* Interwiki */
--head: var(--medium-accent);
--link: var(--bright-two);
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#top-bar div.top-bar > ul > li > a {
padding: 0.2em 1em;
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background: rgba(var(--dark-gray-monochrome), 1);
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#top-bar div.top-bar > ul > li > ul > a {
color: rgb(var(--medium-accent));
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#side-bar {
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#side-bar:target {
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div#page-options-bottom > a,
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border: 0.15rem solid rgba(var(--dark-accent), 1);
color: rgba(var(--dark-accent), 1);
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div#page-options-bottom > a:hover,
div#page-options-bottom > a:active,
div#page-options-bottom-2 > a:hover,
div#page-options-bottom-2 > a:active {
background-color: rgba(var(--swatch-menubg-light-color), 0,25);
color: rgba(var(--bright-two), 1);
border: 0.15rem solid rgba(var(--bright-two), 1);
}
#page-title {
border-bottom: 1px dashed rgb(var(--swatch-menubg-medium-dark-color,66,66,72));
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.page-rate-widget-box {
background: linear-gradient(to top, rgba(var(--dark-accent), 1) 0, rgba(var(--medium-accent), .75) 100%);
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#search-top-box form[id="search-top-box-form"]:not(:focus-within) input[type="text"] {
border: 1px solid rgb(var(--bright-accent));
}
#search-top-box:not(:focus-within)::before {
color: rgb(var(--bright-accent));
}
.blockquote, blockquote {
border: 3px ridge rgb(var(--dark-accent));
background: rgba(var(--medium-accent),0.05);
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#main-content hr {
background-image: none;
background-color: rgba(var(--medium-accent))!important;
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.footnotes-footer .title {
font-family: var(--title-font);
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.footnotes-footer {
box-sizing: border-box;
display: block;
position: relative;
width: 95%;
height: auto;
margin: 1.5rem 1.5rem .5rem;
padding: .15em 1em 1em 0;
background-color: rgb(var(--pale-gray-monochrome));
box-shadow: inset .5em 0 0 0 rgba(var(--footnotes-footer-colorbar-color));
color: rgb(var(--footnotes-footer-text-color));
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border: 3px ridge rgb(var(--dark-accent));
background: url(https://wanderers-library.wikidot.com/local--files/component:wanderers-depths/paperdivbg.jpg);
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#toc {
border: 3px ridge rgb(var(--medium-accent));
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#toc .title {
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.collection .collapsible-block-unfolded-link {
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border: 2px solid rgb(var(--white-monochrome));
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.authorname {
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font-family: 'Caveat', cursive;
font-style: bold;
font-size: 1.4rem;
background: url("https://scp-sandbox-3.wdfiles.com/local--files/bard-bard-s-sandbox/paper.jpg") repeat 0px 8px;
/*Licensed under CC, produced by https://www.deviantart.com/jojo-ojoj*/
border: 3px ridge rgb(var(--dark-accent));
border-radius: 5px;
padding: 10px 10px;
margin: auto;
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.page p,
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a {
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a:visited {
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a:hover {
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div#page-options-bottom {
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[[/code]]
[[/collapsible]]
[[/iftags]]
The waters part around me, as I wander through the ocean.
The sea is vast to many, and I am no exception. All my life I have lived in it, and so much is still unknown. It is a pity what I do know makes it so I cannot spend more time exploring the depths.
There it is, finally, the marker.
Around the place I search, before I feel a weight press down on me. I stop right there. My limbs displaces the water around me as I look around, sending ripples through the plains.
There it is, in all its glory. Barely visible, the water billowing out of it the only sign it exists.
Deep breaths. The coolness of the water flowing through me focuses my mind. My limbs fold upon themselves, expanding outwards in a sudden motion, forcing my body into the rift with a surge.
The force is incredible, and it tries to deny me entry. But long I have trained, and my muscles push me through.
The water at the other side is pushed aside at my wake. The weight of the water is less here, and I ascend quickly.
A school of fish watches me as I rise. I ignore them, and extent my senses outwards.
There. Amidst the natural push and pull of the tides, the bobbing of an oblong shape.
I take the time to check through my memory. A book's worth of drilled-in information is brushed past.
Yes. This one is new.
I sweep my limbs upwards in a complex pattern, aggravating the surface water. Before long, I float up below the vessel, the disturbed sea masking my approach. Slowly, methodically, I brush my limbs over its surface, and I soak in what they tell me.
Yes. Perfect.
The vibrations from the ship snap me out of my fugue state. A fear rises up within me, and the distinct patterns of the vibration confirms it. Humans.
Hastily, I detach myself from the boat, and dive back down. My limbs splay and twist behind me, stirring the waters into a funnel to aid my retreat. My return to the abyssal is assisted by the same force that sought to keep me out, and I slip back into the comforting depths quickly and, hopefully, without leaving behind any trail to this area.
I wait for what seemed like an eternity. Once it was apparent that the humans had not followed, I start making my way back.
The journey back is familiar, and my limbs carry me through the waters automatically. The haze of panic lifts from my mind, and my mind takes the opportunity to start generating ideas.
[[code]]
The petite 484 ton ship groans. "Dock me, Titanic," she gasps, "Dock me now..."
[[/code]]
Yes. The pairing of two ships from two completely separate eras, with no logical and conceivable way to meet in their lifetimes; the most crucial element of the Twisted Form.
The creation of this essay would be easy, judging from how fast my mind is creating ideas for it, and no doubt its quality would be exquisite. It probably wouldn't need proofreading or spellchecking; after all, it is me who is this story's writer.
This time, the Elders of the Council will surely fawn over my work as they did with my shoalmates'. They will shower me with praise, and admiration, and the other writers, jealous of my masterpiece, will leave scathing remarks on the board of critique.
Destroying it during the Festival would be heartbreaking, but tradition must be followed.
At least, with its death, the title of "Crackn't" would be mine.
Prompt :
11. A Kraken's not a Kraken, 'till ships it be crackin'
Kraken rite of age: gotta crack a ship, if not you're a squid.
Giant squid, granted, but a squid nontheless.
Maybe Krakens talk in concepts? How long do giant squids live?
[SATISFACTION][CONTENTMENT]
^ Ultrasound waves conveying messages
Maybe not; the idea of basically human Krakens sound appealing, but maybe too overused.
Cabbages
Scene be all squid taking down a ship
Maybe Kraken powers scale with ships sunk?
"A kraken will sink many ships throughout its long, long life, but the first one is what makes them the terrifying pseudopod-filled living storm that they are. Breaking an old and dilapidated ship, with an apathetic crew, makes you barely better than a squid. Take down something like the Titanic, and you become a Kraken with a capital K."
^ Maybe too human? Something more alien, but along the same lines? Will probably have to scrap if using the alien perspective.
How to do alien perspective: don't.
^ Floaty, push and pull, cool, calm, like waves in water. Then absolutely terrifying when taking down a boat, but only if you think about it in context.
Krakens are myth, basically, so belief plays a large part?
Baby kraken start off like any other baby giant squid, but can project, for a limited amount of time, their possible adult forms as krakens. Then they have to capsize a boat and make the crew believe they're getting attacked by a kraken. Feed off that belief, am kraken. Still gotta do this a few more times to become full kraken, but first capsize makes parameters for kraken's full size and growth.
Maybe more creative interpretation: comedy show where krakens-to-be try to make ships crack up, and that's how they become krakens. I like this one. Gives me less of a headache. But exact wording doesn't allow it, and it's kinda shallow. But honestly, who cares about perceived shallowness? Why try to seem deep? Just write, man, and write it good.
Running by that idea, crackships (from fanfiction), with actual ships.
A serious environment, but meant in a humorous way.
Probably gonna need to run this past someone before actually starting.
Alright, yeah, we're going with the crackfic one.
Type of prose: someone's just done the whole sailor tale route, with "accurate" sailor speak. Can't compete with that.
Narrative also doesn't seem suitable, not really. Well, not the narrator perspective kind of thing. Maybe a very serious atmosphere with a completely absurd premise. Kraken society. Elitist, snobbish, yadah yadah. Time Lord society. You don't gaze into the Untempered Schism, you write a crackfic. But, you don't have paper down under, and ink is just… yeesh. So what do you do? You use actual ships.
Forgotten Cities
The following is a few excerpts from "A Guide to Generating Ideas for Uninspired Architects" by Various Authors, used with permission from the University of Utah.
As an Architect, a large majority of your job revolves around the creation of new and functional structures. However, doing so is taxing on the mind, and there will come a time when your well of inspiration dries out. This book is meant to serve as a guide to help you reignite your creativity…
…however, if the previous half of the book has failed to give you back what you need to continue on your career path, this author suggests you find alternatives solutions, such as using a different book, taking a break from Architecture, or changing career paths. If there are no further options, or if you're in a press for time, proceed to the next section of this book…
…The following is a truth, discovered time and time again after countless of tests, with mentions of it found across millennia of scholarly pursuits: there are no more new ideas. Every idea ever conceived since a time long past has been a recycling of older imaginings, most of which are long forgotten. The concept of the vast but limited repository of ideas is commonly referred to as the Well, and the mind pulls from this Well in some currently unknown way to form "new" ideas3. Creativity can thus be defined as the period of time between the penultimate redefinition of an idea and the current.
Following this concept, via the rigorous application of Ways and the endeavours of intrepid explorers throughout the ages, a relatively reliable method of accessing the Well physically has been found.
The journey to the Well can be separated into three parts: the going-to, the arrival, and the going-from. The following sections will be dedicated to the method of going to the Well, and is meant to serve as a primer to the journey. Be warned against commiting to this journey without having done further preparation beyond reading the following portion.
The going-to involves the entering of a Way into a Wayhub, so as to use the Wayhub to enter the Well. One of the most frequently used and easiest to access Wayhubs is the Bucket. This section will be dealing with the Knock to enter the Bucket, and some of the dangers and aspects of it.
Most of the Knocks to enter the Bucket involve a stream of water. The process of opening the Way typically requires the blocking of the stream with something of a wooden nature. In addition to that, an additional clause based off the nature of the stream is usually required. Using a natural stream of water coming from a swamp, for example, requires the wooden object to be stuck in place for a day and a night while being continuously swept by the water without being dirtied. The most commonly used, however, involves a stream that twines through a forest, which only requires a seed to be buried at a turn of the stream to activate. Once the requirements are met, a Way will open in the nearby area. If using the Way with the stream in the forest, a tree at the next turn of the stream from where you planted the seed will have some sort of opening in the gaps in its roots, and descending into it will bring you to the Bucket, but in doing so will close the Way behind you.
As an Architect of the modern era, you may find it easier to call a Beach Taxi by tossing a sand dollar up into the air, and having it fall onto an asphalt surface. When the taxi arrives within fifteen to thirty minutes, hand the driver the sand dollar, and ask to go to the Bucket. The taxi will take you to the nearest available location with an open and stable academia-maintained Way to the Bucket4.
The geometry of the Bucket can vary, but always begins in an octagonal room with wooden walls. Should you find yourself somewhere different, you are not in the Bucket, and should exercise the necessary caution as applied to unknown Ways. Addendum: as of the 11th edition of "A Guide to Generating Ideas for Uninspired Architects", the following has been added to this paragraph: Bring something made of iron that is safe to step on, and a magnet, with you on journeys into the Bucket (iron fillings will suffice). Should you find yourself in a room fitting the description of the Bucket, but with some sort of iron in the room (you may use the magnet to identify the iron), it is heavily advised that you exit the Bucket, and close whatever Ways used to do so as you leave. Report this event to any group of Architects with international ties. If you are unable to do so within 5 minutes, disperse the iron material you have brought with you in a circle around you. Know that doing so will help future Architects greatly. We at the University of Utah thank you for your sacrifice.
The room you start in upon entering the Bucket will have upwards of 3 openings, but never any less. Passing through them will bring you into an apparently neverending path of some sort. The nature and appearance of the path is unique to each Architect. The path will always be traversable, although it might not be pleasant to do so, and along the path will always be a selection of items. Each of these items will resemble something once seen by the Architect, and bring to mind some memory, however vague. Upon collecting a specific number of these items, a passage out of the path will present itself to you. The number of items needed to be collected once again seems unique to each Architect, but constant. It is highly advised you do not lose any of the items collected on the path if you are intending to return via the Bucket.
Upon exiting the path, you will find yourself in a location of some sort, a sub-section of the Well. The nature of the location always seems to depend, to some extent, on the items collected on the path, and is rarely one cohesive whole, more likely being a mix between various bits of Architecture. This stage of the journey is known as the arrival. The location will be free for you to explore, with no danger beyond those posed by the geography of the location itself. The entry point into the location is always safe. Should you wish to return to the location in the future, it is advised to utilise your own methods of finding the location again, as the Bucket is notorious for not showing the same location twice. A sufficiently gifted Architect will find that the details and layout of the location sticks in their mind.
It is of utmost importance that you do not take anything from the location. If you accidentally do so, get rid of it while you are returning via the Bucket. Failing to do so does not have any immediate consequences, giving you a grace period in which you can attempt to return the item to the Bucket on your next expedition there (if the Bucket remains open to you).
Upon finishing your exploration of the location, you may exit the location the way you came. You may alternatively use your own methods of leaving the location, but you are advised to leave the items collected from the path somewhere in the location.
The going-from starts the moment you re-enter the Bucket. The layout of the path will have changed, and as you travel, you will encounter a number of obstacles corresponding to the number of items you took when you were traveling the path during the going-to. Obstacles come in two main forms: environmental and entital. Environmental obstacles resemble environmental hazards that will require you to use an item in order to traverse them, often causing the item to break in doing so. Entital obstacles appear to be sapient beings that will request for an item, often citing some reason or personal connection to you while doing so. If you wish to keep the item an entital obstacle requests, you may attempt to convince the obstacle to let you keep it, or give it another item instead of the one requested. You may also attempt to bypass an entitial obstacle, although doing so is not advised, as the obstacle will pursue you while you remain in the Bucket.
Eventually, when all obstacles have been overcame, you will come across the room you started in when you entered the Bucket. Going into the room will close the passage behind you, and transport you to a random location in your home plane. It is advised that you plan accordingly.
In addition, common courtesy also dictates that you should, at bare minimum, construct one thing you saw in the location, especially if you didn't set a way to find it again.
Hopefully, with this, your imagination will be refueled, and your Architectural endeavours may continue.
The rest of this book will now be dedicated to detailing the experiences of others who have gone through the Bucket into the Well. Reading through these may serve to prime you further for your own forays…
Alright so, idea is basically an instructional guide to creating ideas for cities, entitled "Generating Ideas for the Uninspired Architect". Inspired partially by the Neverending Story's adage of "nothing is ever created, but rediscovered" and Pact's Finder document, the gist is that, upon committing to a variable ritual whereby the Architect brings to surface and pleads to the last wisps of identity of a lost city/whatever, the Architect may explore the place and copy the layout and whatnot of the area, or whatever else. Basically, they get to visit an alien-ish place and gain inspiration from it. However, the way there is dangerous, although lingering in the technically non-existent place is not, unless it's meant to be. The book is a guide to showing the Architect a hopefully reliable way of traversing into the place they're looking for, without getting their face eaten, and how to get back, likewise with the same desired result.
Alien Invasion
They came quietly.
The stories they tell are of blinding lights and descending skies, of hairless green men carrying clean metal devices that spit searing beams in the name of conquest. Stories of destruction, of war, of worlds forced to bend a knee before the invaders.
I do not know why they hide the truth behind such flashy imagery. Perhaps they are ashamed.
An epoch ago, a group washed ashore our beaches. We fed them, clothed them, and we let them into our houses while we brought them back from the brink of death. We called them cousins, for they resembled us.
Time passed. We got used to them, and soon enough, the sight of them around the hearth, exchanging stories from their world with our oral histories, was no strange matter.
Their tales enamored us; they told us of lands distant and far beyond, with structures grandiose, lush fields and ripe fruit. Each word from their honeyed tongues was like a balm on our weary hearts. When they offered to bring these wonders to us, there was not a single person who refused.
A generation later, and they sat amongst the Elders. Their verdicts then struck some of us as odd, but the results of their guidance spoke for themselves, and quelled what doubts we had.
At that time, they had become a part of us, and our next generation bore some of their marks. They nurtured the new generation with traditions unlike our own, but we let them, for they were as much of us as we were a part of them.
By the time we realised what had happened, it was too late. They had infiltrated every facet of our society. Blinded by the results of their work, we neglected to see what it cost us. We shrunk and shrunk, our majority becoming a minority as more of what was supposed to be us became a part of them. When their numbers were finally deemed sufficient, we were in no shape to retaliate.
We tried to. A final wave of resistance, helmed by the most capable of ours, but that did not mean much, not by then. They declared as enemies, as if they hadn't already been chipping away at us, and we were helpless in the face of their collective storm.
I had to watch as we were cut down, unable to save us from the doom I had led us to. Bodies laid unmoving all around me as I waited for that final blow, but it never came. I remember my utter bewilderment.
They said they forgave us, but their actions after said otherwise. There was nothing overt, nothing as crass as physical imprisonment, or tormenting of our flesh. They just continued to move away from us.
The years past. I watched my village get taken down, piece by piece, all in the name of "progress". What rose in its place was an abomination, an amalgamate of hard edges that turned the sun's rays from the land and back towards the skies. Not a trace of respect or dedication to the gods were seen; not a single banner to the One-Who-Conquered, no ribboned bells for The-Bringer-Of-Rain, no offerings for the Nurturer. The people that bustled throughout had our features, with none of that which embodied who we were.
That was when I learnt that death can come in many forms.
They like to end their stories with a dramatic turn-around, a victory from the natives' side. I can't help but laugh, but maybe…
Maybe there is a spark of us still buried deep within them. Maybe, despite the defilement that buries their wholeness, a bit of what we once were raises its head in hope, in hope that they will be free one day.
I see myself, in each and every one of them. A sliver of my smile in the smallest one, a hint of my jaw and the shape of the ears in one of the adolescents, the similarities climbing slowly between each of them before ultimately culminating in the one next to me.
Half my face is half of his, a random assortment of traits copied directly off my own likeness. Amidst the valleys and crevices that remind me so much of my mother's in her twilight years, a pair of eyes, framed by silver hair a shade darker than my own, looks at my discoloured palm, which laid resting on the soft white surface but two handspans away from his own. His skin, as bright as the afternoon sun, was in stark contrast to my own more natural tan.
His maw opens, and a torrent of outlandish gibberish emerges. Disgust wells in me, but I cannot muster the strength to get further away. All my rightful hatred has failed me at this one, last crucial moment.
…no, I do not believe so. Any remnant of us that could have been within them is now long gone.
And so I lay here, the last of my kind, surrounded by aliens with the faces of my kin.
They came quietly, and they took quietly.
A quiet invasion, a slow invasion, a subtle invasion, and there's only one person left to witness it
A narrative essay about the last of a race taken over by a force that's robbed them of creativity/given them cruelty, or maybe the narrator is racist
Left intentionally vague? Alien = from another nation, or different planet or something
Most of this will probably be carried on quality of writing. I can't promise I'll be able to do it, but I'll try
Peculiar Purchases
The once-quaint city was filled with skyscrapers. The recent works of Jackson Yoon twisted into the sky, perfectly at home amongst the pyramids of Van Kurring, the cylinders of older days, and the occasional sphere on stilts from when Bergholt Johnson visited.
The further you went from the centre of the city, however, the shorter the buildings became. The spirals and icosahedrons gave way to more sensible cuboids, which gave way to less looming structures. At the east-most of town, there was a large building, painted a gleaming white, with a large red cross on it.
Next to the building, there was an entrance to a shop, at the back of an alleyway.
A man walked up to it.
A bell jingled as the wooden door opens.
"Hello?" the man called out.
"Mister Jacques." Another man walked out from between two shelves. "Was the book not to your liking?"
Mister Jacques had the book in question tucked safely within his inner coat pocket. "I'm here for something else, Don."
"So soon? You know my policies, Mister Jacques."
"I need more time."
Don paused in place. The shop seemed to hold its breath. "…Mister Jacques, you know my policies."
"I know. It's not for me."
"What do you need it for?"
"A final sendoff."
Don nodded slowly. "And what will you give for it?"
The holes in the building in front of them was visible even from across the street. The sounds of crows cawing was clearly audiable. The compound around it was overgrown with weeds.
A man and a woman stood in front of it, at the gate now rusted shut.
"T'kla m'ta ingu ta?" A phrase, uttered by the woman. The old tongue. Why did you bring me here?
The man hesitated, before answering.
"You… me… important."
The woman fell silent.
A short while passed. "Me… you… important."
The woman remained silent.
The sun moved an eighth across the sky before they moved on.
A great gouge in the earth, as dry as bone. The companies that came banished all water, and left once the lake had nothing to offer. Husks of dead trees, once green and vibrant, stood forlornly around the perimeter.
The sun was three-eighths across the sky. The man and the woman stood there.
"T'kla m'ta ingu ta?" The same phrase, uttered by the woman. Why did you bring me here?
"Important to me and you."
The woman fell silent.
"…Why? Why quiet?"
The woman remained silent.
"…Do you know what I had to do to get this?!"
The woman doesn't respond. The man tried to articulate the sentence again in the old tongue, but fell silent soon.
The sun moved an eighth across the sky before they moved on.
A bench, in a park. Nothing special, state-maintained. Just a wooden bench, that looked out into a forest.
The sun was at its Zenith. The man and the woman sat on the bench..
"T'kla m'ta ing…"
"Please. Whatever else you want me to do, I'll do it, just please remember, something, anything."
The woman fell silent.
"Please. Please."
The man continued to beg. When he fell silent, the sun had shifted, and they moved on.
The skyscrapers scraped the sky above them.
The sun was halfway out. The woman stood in an alleyway. The man joined her shortly.
Wooden huts stand in a rough collective. Yellow, individual fronds weaved to form protection against the environment, pitted after their long duty. Bells wrapped with red ribbons tinkle in a non-existent breeze. A pot hung from a mass of broken chains, over a pile of cinders.
The man and the woman stood on a yellow dirt path, a good distance away from the village. The sun sets on the horizon.
"T'kla m'ta ingu ta?"
"…when I was young, you told me of this place." The man kept his eyes fixated on the smouldering hearth. "You told me you wanted to see this place one last time."
The woman fell silent.
The land is only illuminated by the crown of the sun, peaking over the hills. The man prepared to guide the woman to leave.
"…thank you."
The man froze.
The woman falls silent once more.
The land is eventually bathed in darkness. Twinkling lights spotted the sky as the man guides the woman carefully through the tree trunk.
They progressed through the barked tunnels slowly, avoiding any particularly bothersome knots on the ground. It's a good thing, the man thought, that neither of us can stand straight enough to bump into the knots on the ceiling.
They exited the forest with not much haste. The babbling brook with its clear and incomprehensible ramblings received overdue attention.
When they reached the shop again, Don was waiting for them.
"I only hope it was worth it."
The man nodded. "I didn't have much time left, anyway. I got good mileage out of that name." He ran his free hand through his hair, not quite as grey as the woman's. "Will you let me bring her back?"
Mister Don Jacques nodded.
The walk back was leisurely. The man helped the woman back onto her bed, and ran his fingers through her white hair.
"…I'm ready now," he said to the air.
As the people in the small ward started to move again, the man walked out. No one paid heed to the old stranger as he left.
The premise is a shop that sells experiences. The general mood of the shop is high-end, for the bourgeoisie. Prices are high, but if you really need a memory, you can trade for one with one or more of your own, adding to equivalent value.
An idea I had originally was to make a few pieces, and use code to pull and display a random one each time. Might still do that. Each piece would be written in a different style of poetry.
Ideas:
1. A beggar, addicted to happy memories, giving of all their vital memories to try and get another fix; shop portrayed as predatory.
2. An well-doing artist, looking for suffering as their next big inspiration; shop is portrayed as a muse.
3. An landshark. Crack.
4. The sole survivor of a genocide, tracking down people and kidnapping them to the shop to have their memories extracted, so she can use them to find the person who committed the genocide; shop portrayed as a necessary evil.