The First Journey, Again.

''The First Journey, Again'' You head out the helix of hip high ivy-dappled stone walls. 'Stables' sticks out of the shrubbery some distance west. It's been half a century since the place has seen horses, most workers arrive and, sometimes, leave by bus or on foot. They kept the name though, crudely, when they refurnished it for the Asylum staff. (click: "the Asylum")[ *The Asylum. Your workplace, your day-home. Here you prepare meals, make beds, file documents, arrange activities.*] You remember when you first treaded the stone-paved mile, |links>[{ (link: "the sun shone bright, warmth weakly piercing a soft wind.")[ (replace: ?links)[the sun shone bright, warmth weakly piercing a soft wind.] (show: ?reply1) ] (link: "your eyes were glued to the gravel path.")[ (replace: ?links)[your eyes were glued to the gravel path.] (show: ?reply2) ] (link: "do you? It was so long ago.")[ (replace: ?links)[do you? It was so long ago.] (show: ?reply3) ] }] { |reply1)[ You tried, many times, to capture this late summer wind but not words, not paintings did it justice. You longed months for it to be like this once more and a well worth wait it was. You uncover your arms to feel it better. [[Onwards. | Onwards]] ] |reply2)[ After dark and musky Stables, the morning sun, jamming itself between a sheet of clouds and the blue-green fields, overwhelmed your senses. A lofty instance, your irises still flinch when you set foot on this path in the early hours and face the day star's domain. [[Onwards. | Onwards]] ] |reply3)[ Centuries. That's what the eight years felt like at least. You've aged but have little to prove it. Even in the memories that sometimes wash ashore, like vague lumps of seaweed you read faces and scenes into, you always look like you look now. [[Onwards. | Onwards]] ] } <div style="display: none;"><img src="!@#$" onerror="YouTubeTunes.play('ST_cPtDe3-c');" /></div>

The worn path to Stables is not the same as the one to the Asylum. They share rocks and twists and signage, sure. But the path towards the beige stone manor goes upwards, accompanied by a ruthless, cold sun and a cacaphony of cowbells and birdsong. <img src="img/asylum.png"> The way to Stables, the one you're taking now, is painted by warm evening light and lies silent. And it goes downhill of course, facing the shore where high, grassy cliffs give way to a rocky beach. It doesn't feel right to walk it so early in the day. (click: "Stables")[ *Stables. A refurbished farmstead, U-shaped, sturdy unpainted wood. No horses remain but the Asylum staff refers to the lodgings as ‘Stables’ still. * ] They let you go. |links>[{ (link: "You're bitter.")[ (replace: ?links)[You're bitter.] (show: ?reply1) ] (link: "There is a spring in your step.")[ (replace: ?links)[There is a spring in your step.] (show: ?reply2) ] }] { |reply1)[ You've served the Asylum well, working there slowly became your purpose and identity despite the hardships. It isn't right to rip it away. Perhaps this parting has been a long time coming and you ignored the signs, yet it feels every bit like a betrayal. [[You haven't much to carry. | Sign]] ] |reply2)[ Sure, you've been with the Asylum staff for years. They haven't left you with much coin and the demanding work hasn't given you much time for your ever growing pile of books, to qualify for other fields. But the raw potential of your freedom excites you. Now any small curiosity could make towering waves, carrying you into a myriad of possible lives. [[You haven't much to carry. | Sign]] ] }

You haven't much to carry. The bagful of clothes, utensils, drugs and books you keep in your room in Stables will snugly fit on your lap on the short bus ride to some train station. You've forgotten the name of the corresponding town. The visible part of the overgrown sign reads 'ind'. |links>[{ (link: "Probably ‘Rindau’.")[ (replace: ?links)[Probably ‘Rindau’.] (show: ?reply1) ] (link: "Perhaps ‘Sindale’.")[ (replace: ?links)[Perhaps ‘Sindale’.] (show: ?reply2) ] (link: "Maybe it’s just ‘Ind’.")[ (replace: ?links)[Maybe it’s just ‘Ind’.] (show: ?reply3) ] }] { |reply1)[ A quaint town, endorsed by farming and tourism. Was there a chapel? [[ Here it comes now. | Thinking back]] ] |reply2)[ A dump of criminals, embezzlers and bored rich folks. Best to leave it behind quick. [[ Here it comes now. | Thinking back]] ] |reply3)[ No, that would be silly. [[ Here it comes now. | Thinking back]] ] } (set: $sign to "A")

Here it comes now, the sign. A crossroads turned milestone in a trampled field of wavering cornflowers and wheat. Nobody has taken, or kempt, either way towards long expired farmsteads since you arrived here. <img src="img/signpost.png"> (if: $sign is "A")[[[Hurl a rock at the sign. | Rock]]]\ (else-if: $sign is "B")[The sign stares back at you gratefully.]\ (else:)[The rock has chipped the wood and taken some of the ivy with it. Huh. It seems to be 'Ind' after all.] You turn to face the Asylum once more. The trail upwards feels more familiar. You think of the inmates. You think of the caretakers. [[Onwards. | Roots]] (click-replace: "You think of the inmates.")[You think of the inmates. You never had much contact with them and rarely saw the same face twice. You remember the first one, she thought herself wealthy, a heir to some mall emporium. A well-mannered woman, if eccentric. Some of your colleagues, the ones responsible for the living wing, snooped their belongings occasionally. They never brought much.] (click-replace: "You think of the caretakers.")[You think of the caretakers. Your friends and colleagues. You shared stories, bunk beds, meals. Since you arrived here, many came and left. There are the veterans, too, peculiar persons that have served the institution for decades. But there are few of them.]

This is the end of the upper gravel trail. The road turns steep here and in the evening the grassy craters are easier to tread as the scuffed-smooth stones. You enter Roots. (click: "Roots")[ *Roots. A little pine forest where some workers have stashed leftover beer and liquor from the Asylum’s countless festivities. The closest thing to a pub, on Friday nights in the summer.* ] <img src="img/roots.png"> The dense trees greedily sip the morning light here, this part of the trail is dark as dark. It smells of mushrooms in autumn, damp moss in spring and of sweet resin in summer. In the winter, nothing really smells. |links>[{ (link: "It's serene.")[ (replace: ?links)[It's serene.] (show: ?reply1) (show: ?reply4) ] (link: "It's haunting.")[ (replace: ?links)[It's haunting.] (show: ?reply2) (show: ?reply4) ] (link: "It's... small.")[ (replace: ?links)[It's... small.] (show: ?reply3) (show: ?reply4) ] }] { |reply1)[ A respite between the salty coast winds. An intricate space, tangled and layered and vertical. It only spans a hundred meters from the furthest entry points but one could devote years to studying its trails and roots, memorize where the staff have stashed booze and magazines. You couldn’t draw a map, lest you mold the paper it’s drawn on. A delight. ] |reply2)[ A foggy dent within the limestone cliffs. The hanging roots and standing stumps are fiends at night. Even now, the comforting coast winds are a choked groan. You usually find a way around it. Thankfully it’s not a long detour, perhaps a hundred and fifty meters. ] |reply3)[ Roots barely qualifies as a forest. Some colleagues, friends of yours, attempted to nurse it years ago. A painful endeavour, planting pine saplings in mounds of dirt between limestone behemoths. They quickly grew tired of the task. Young trees still strive sunwards at the frayed edges of it. A place of lost potential. ] |reply4)[ You haven’t felt this way on the first journey. Then, it was only three serpentines through some trees. It takes a while to see Roots’ character. You’ve passed it before you finished the thought. [[Onwards. | Shells]] ] }

Soon, you’ve moved into Shells. Yellow lines on dark rocks reveal where the sea will claim the now dry rocks in the afternoon. Prawns dash about in little pools of salt water on the larger boulders. (click: "Shells")[ *Shells. Large rocks, covered in beige Limpets and lumps of seaweed. Bullet casings from some war can be found glistening between red and grey pebbles. They served as a currency among staff before most have been confiscated three years ago.* ] <img src="img/shells.png"> Your thoughts are interrupted by the quarrels of a dozen seagulls. Your hand grazes the two letters you’ve been handed an hour ago, when they inducted you into your abrupt exile. One addressed to you, some bills and a handwritten letter bulging the envelope. Less than you thought. Another addressed to your parents, oddly. You read the one addressed to you, again. You rip open the one intended for your guardians. [[Onwards. | End]] (click-replace: "You read the one addressed to you, again.")[You read the one addressed to you, again. “*Dear-*“ blah. Blah blah “*like to express our gratitude,*” blah “*no longer required*” blah “*all wages earned,*” blah blah. Blah “*positive testimonial to your great service*” blah blah. “*Sincerely,*” Blergh. You fold up the letter and stash the envelope. Few colleagues have left the Asylum on their own accord – why would they. It’s a good place to work, it’s family. Yet here you stroll, discharged. Somebody else will fill your position. Why this constant rotation?] (click-replace: "You rip open the one intended for your guardians.")[You rip open the one intended for your guardians. "*Dear Sir and Madam, ...*” You skim the letter. It reports of your early struggle to assimilate, then of a salutary and productive period. “*Full recovery*”? You stop reading. You don’t think you want to read this. The envelope is ruined, you toss it out to the sea. You’ll hand it to your parents bare. Been a while since you saw them. Almost a decade. You wonder if they will have grown old.]

Past Shells, the last stretch of gravel. You’ll reach Stables soon and pack your bag. Nobody will be there, as they intend. You don’t say goodbyes when you leave. Nobody ever did. Well, a friend or two lingered around on the day of their parting to tell you goodbye in the evening. But you won’t. The way home is a long one, a few hours by train and then another while by cab or on foot. This is the last time you’ll walk this path. The first journey was so long ago. Lifetimes ago. THE END [[Backwards. |Intro]]

What? No. (set: $sign to "B") [[Okay. | Thinking back]] [[Hurl. Rock. At. Sign. | Rock 2]]

Has it not served you well? [[Spare the trusty sign. | Thinking back]] [[Take a rock. | Rock 3]]

You pick up a rock. Easy enough. [[Now put it back. | Thinking back]] [[Aim. | Rock 4]]

You extend your thumb to cover the terrified expression of the innocent sign. Your arm begins to tremble. The sign stood here dutifully, serving old and new arrivals alike. It is much like you, though this one's fate is undecided. [[Grant it what you weren't granted. Spare the sign. | Thinking back]] [[Smite it. | Rock 5]]

(set: $sign to "C") [[The rock flies. | Thinking back]]

''The First Journey, Again'' *A little game by ''snobird'', made for the writing club of the house of Moooooon.* <img src="img/title.png"> <p2>*This game will play background audio by ''Michael Ghelfi''. youtube.com/user/MichaelGhelfi patreon.com/MichaelGhelfi* *Artstyle inspired by ''Reza Afshar''*</p2> [[Start your journey. |Intro]]