And It Echoes (test)

//Void, my name.// [[And it echoes.]]

The sound of [[emptiness decaying.]] Wind howls through the crumbling husk, rattling what remains of the wood skeleton and scraping jagged fingernails across the peeling paint before swirling back into the [[abyss.]] The blossoms of the [[rotting tree]] flutter past us, white in the shadows, brilliant, brilliant. And above, the dusty chandeliers rock back and forth, back and forth. Brilliant, brilliant. Some cling to the broken [[mirror]] in a vain attempt to stay aloft, but again comes the wind, and so they perish. Brilliant, brilliant. [[Be the blossom, must you?]]

...sick and wet; the sound of a forested hollow where bodies are flung to be strangled among the slick roots. Green. There would be green. And dew would drip down from a sunless sky. Mist. But these are the things we never will see. Only the sound of star-death, decaying in the [[empty void. |And it echoes.]]

A cliff spears off to the left, jagged and swept as if sculpted from dark paints. Look, through the splintering wooden scaffolding; they say you can see [[the Abyss]] if you tilt your head to the left just right. Can you see it? [[Yes?]] [[Or perhaps not...?]]

Teetering on the edge of the Abyss, framed perfectly by the nearest broken window, the rotting tree makes a last stand against the winds of time eternal. It could be an old lady, with its broken limbs and the hangman's noose draped around it like a thick rope cowl. But even old ladies perish; the rotting tree still stands, scattering its sickly blossoms. For how long has it lived? I cannot know. Even gods wonder. You would like to see it? We must find a way to it, [[then.|And it echoes.]] Perhaps we will find a way to be free.

There is nothing to see in a shattered mirror--even the gilded frame is blanketed in moss--and yet, still you look. How vain. [[Come.|And it echoes.]]

I know. You, too, desire beauty. White like koi against black ink. Hair in a waterfall of midnight. Eyes like children of the Abyss--swallow your soul, never give it back. [[Little thief.]] [[Lamb.]]

Stare into the Abyss. She will not stare back. She will consume you. [[Devour.|abyss.]]

//darkness// //brilliant darkness// //i want to be--// No. Silence. Even the wise men of distant places do not dare describe what lies beyond the cliffs. //i see--// See nothing. //nothing// The more you focus your eyes, the stranger the world will seem, until the Abyss swallows even your masquerade and //phantasm// ==i love you== Come, turn [[away.|And it echoes.]]

Few can--and of the few that do, even fewer keep their eyes. The Abyss is terrible in her beauty. You should consider yourself lucky in that you see nothing. Better ignorance than painful awareness; better Eden than Earth. So come, now, dear Eve in all your blissful ignorance, turn [[away|And it echoes.]] while you still can.

Once there was a stranger. This stranger wore blue. And they walked through a portrait of many colours. Then down an endless hallway in a palace made of green glass, and at the end, they found us. They took you, but they forgot me. Stole you took you left me //forget me// I do not forget. [[But you do.]]

It's almost maddening. You see no blood. You see no tears. Does the world not turn red and hateful when you smile? Foolish, young, unversed in the [[woes]] of the world-- Ah. But, I'm being spiteful now. //[[spiteful]]// Yes. I hear you. Come again? ... Unreasonable, you say? Here, at the edge of the world, in the sagging husk tormented by stygian winds, I am being //unreasonable?// //you are unreasonable//

Lamb, little lamb Stay your death throes Thou knows not Of the world and its woes ~voidsong, [[1:1]]

<<insert "un·rea·son·a·ble">> (ənˈrēz(ə)nəb(ə)l) adjective definition i: not guided by or based on good sense. example i: "Your attitude is completely unreasonable" synonyms: <<cyclinglink "uncooperative" "unhelpful" "disobliging" "unaccommodating" "awkward" "contrary" "difficult">> definition ii: beyond the limits of acceptability or fairness. example ii: "an unreasonable request" I feel //pain.// I feel...I feel //hurt.// And yet I have no right...? You tell me I have no right? You know nothing! You cannot know anything, and yet you dare-- //childish// --to call me childish. Unjustified. Because I am weak? Is that so? If I were stronger, such things would not hurt me--is that so? If I were normal, I would not be coloured as unreasonable--is this true? //[[yes]]// <<set $is_unreasonable = "yes">><<endinsert>>

Spit, little serpent, I know your poison. Choked on it always, and now I'm immune--by dying a little until I'm past death. You think I'm just spiteful? //and empty. you're pitiful// Maybe she just laughs at everything. //because you're not special// Should I believe that? Why should I believe that? At the edge of the world, was I not the one-- //you're envious and dead// --and now I am nothing. Should I believe that? Why should I believe that? //[[because it is true]]// <<set $is_spiteful = "yes">>

Because now you are them. Is this true? Tell me, is this<<hoverreplace>> [[true?|true?]]<<becomes>> true? Please tell me this is [[not true.]]<<endhoverreplace>>

<<set $has_voidsong1_1 = "yes">>Did you hear that? The Old Ones say lost souls sometimes sing in hopes another will hear their story and remember them. Down, down, deep in the Dark, they raise their voices--and up, rebounding off broken spires and steep cliff faces, up and up and up, a precious few howl up from the Abyss and beg to be recalled. Secrets, stories, love poems, pleas--all are borne up with the wind. <<insert "And it echoes.">> What befalls those who hear a voidsong in its entirety? Ah...well, no one knows. Not one has been remembered fully, not since the Dark. Ah. I see you're curious now. //phantasm// //burning// You [[hear]] it too, then, I see. //brilliant, brilliant// <<endinsert>>

//i am// You are a stranger now, kaleidoscope green and blue? <<insert "//yes.//">> Yes, I see it now. Down the hallway you go, unknown to me, and I can only watch as the mirrors on the floor confuse me. Can you feel it? We face each other but do not speak the same language. You grow further from me. We meet each other but you do not recognize me because you are the stranger. Now we are apart. I want to end. Why must you be green and blue. //because we are different// Are we truly so? //and we are of different worlds// Yes...yes...you come from the land of green and blue. ==I am sad and sullen and missing you.== This is [[pointless.|Come,]]<<endinsert>> <<set $is_thief = "yes">>

No...? I thought not. Green and blue--the colour of a sick death, the shade of pastel shadows--they do not suit you. ==i would never forget you== So now I wonder...what are you, truly? <<insert "...">> I suppose that is a question for another time. [[Come,]] then, let us a find a way out of the husk. <<set $not_thief = "yes">><<endinsert>>

Let us focus on the task at hand. There may be a way to be free again. Again, return, to the sound of [[emptiness decaying.|emptiness decaying ii]] Wind howls through the crumbling husk, rattling what remains of the wood skeleton and scraping jagged fingernails across the peeling paint before swirling back into the [[abyss.|abyss ii]] The blossoms of the [[rotting tree|rotting tree ii]] flutter past us, white in the shadows, delicate and rare. The dusty chandeliers sway overhead, refracting the light. Delicate and rare. Some cling to the broken [[mirror|mirror ii]] in a vain attempt to stay aloft, but again comes the wind, and so they perish. Delicate and rare. //[[let us go down the hallway]]// <<if $not_thief>>Very well, as you wish. <<else>>Fine, then. We shall go.<<endif>>

You hear it...the sound of [[emptiness decaying.|emptiness decaying iii]] Wind howls through the crumbling husk, rattling what remains of the wood skeleton and scraping jagged fingernails across the peeling paint before swirling back into the [[abyss.|abyss iii]] The blossoms of the [[rotting tree|rotting tree iii]] flutter past us, white in the shadows, sweet and soft like the gentle Lamb. Sweet. And soft. And knowing of nothing. //repulsive// I find you ==beautiful==

<<if $not_thief eq "yes">>Do not dare stare into the Abyss. Do not go gentle into that goodnight. Her beauty is terrible and proud. And you will [[perish.|Come,]] <<else>>Stare into the Abyss. She will not stare back. She will consume you. Swallow your soul, never give it back. [[Devour.|Come,]]<<endif>>

Did I not tell you? There is nothing to see here. [[Step away.|Come,]]

<<if $not_thief eq "yes">>Whisper whisper, hush hush. Low eyelashes, coyly blush. Whisper whisper, kiss kiss. Nothing here to want or miss. That a song you used to know? //no. that song was not mine// Then I don't want to hear it. ==whisper whisper== ==hush hush== There is nothing to hear but the whispering of the void; [[come back.|Come,]] <<else>>...how hollow it sounds. As if someone...as if someone took--no, //stole//--something...vital to its existence...and now it crumbles inwards, silently imploding under imagined pressure, folding in on itself a thousand leagues under the sea of dreams where even its screams are muffled and the surface is but a [[rippling mirage.|Come,]]<<endif>>

<<if $is_thief eq "yes">>Its blossoms dance on tormented airs, delicate and rare. If you would like to better see those twisted boughs, though, you and I ought to find a way free from the husk. Can you hear the wind singing through the branches? It seems to sing of freedom...perhaps it will allow escape... //an old lady. i see an old lady, sash of rope// Come away. //and a hanged man, scarf of skin. they are the same.// ...no. ==we are the same== That's enough now. I said shut up. [[Come away.|Come,]] <<else>>Its blossoms dance on tormented airs, delicate and rare. If you would like to better see those twisted boughs, though, you and I ought to find a way free from the husk. Can you hear the wind singing through the branches? It seems to sing of freedom...perhaps it will allow escape... //an old lady. i see an old lady, sash of rope// Come away. //and a hanged man, scarf of skin. they are the same.// ...no. ==we are the same== That's enough now. [[Come away.|Come,]]<<endif>>

I find it amusing, how you pretend to know me. You call me spiteful. <<insert "Do you see me now?">> I am a narrow fork of lightning, hot and white against the sullen yellow sky. Breathe, breathe in the fumes coughed up from the cracked ground. Feel the scorching wind, pressing fiery fingers against your white chiffon scarf, sharp nails peeling your lips back and staining your teeth with spice until your tongue goes numb and black. And the roar of a thousand volcanoes presses heavy against your covered ears--the warcry of an ancient race that worships gods of fire. Primal fury explodes into pinwheeling orbs, leaving glowing trails underneath your eyelids. Look out over the cliff. Angry titans spitting fire and smoke rise up as far as the eye can see, fists growing from molten rock, torsos carved up from the ground, chiseled stomachs sculpted of cooled lava. //yes// It is over this incensed realm I preside--for I am the trident of the storm, tongue of white lightning. <<insert "Is this true?">> //yes// Yes...yes...I am mindless and malicious, petty and hungering to avenge imagined wrongs. And I strike, strike, strike the ground. Lash the earth--it too must know the pain of skies. Burn, burn, burn, I say! Everything must perish! Is this so? //[[yes|yes ii]]//<<endinsert>><<endinsert>>

...like the sound of those joyous to be oblivious and lost. Listen closely to the wind's whistle; sounds strong enough to destroy this looming skeletal scaffolding and send the cavernous ceiling crashing down on us in a spray of shattered chandeliers. I know you feel it, running its unfeeling fingers through your hair. Seek [[shelter, away from the howling Dark.|hear]]

Do you...do you hear that? //an old lady, a hanged man// No, no. I hear... //dead man's rope fluttering black against a red sun--// No, those memories aren't ours. I'm trying to listen to the wind...strange. Hmm. We should find a way to the rotting tree. Somehow...I feel... //as if we'll find something there// [[Yes.]]

<<if $is_thief eq "yes">>And now a passage has opened before us--a hallway, where the wall collapses in on itself and the wind rushes through. The sickly green. Murmuring blue. Thick shadows, and everything feels...un-growing. The anti-flourishing. Do you see? The hallway seems crooked. Splintered planks hang down from above. Here, [[step forward with me.]] <<else>>And now a passage has opened before us--a hallway, narrow and crooked, an ugly blemish in the wall. If you stare too long into the shadowy corridor, it will fall out of focus and disappear; just as stars fade when gazed upon unblinkingly, so too will this sinkhole blend into the thick shadows until your eyes are crossed and confused. Follow me forward, we will--ah, careful. The floor of the husk is falling away. Keep to the spiderweb of planks. Don't look down. [[We must hurry, then.]]<<endif>>

The Abyss is not innocent. I suggest you not pry. Even gods do not question, so [[neither shall I.|hear]]

And now a passage has opened up before us; the wall folds in, revealing a room. At our feet form stairs, gilded and glittering, their marble faces dusted with cherry blossoms. But the blossoms are white--sweet and soft--and the gold is not gold, and the room that lies beyond is lined with monochrome flowers, all of them swaying in the Abyss's breath. Stone cherubs hang suspended in the air, stone hands extended in dance. Soft wind chimes. The air is sweet and soft. See the golden door on the other side of the room? We must [[go there.]] Surely that will lead us out. But perhaps we should [[take our time.]]

But I cannot be stronger. I will never be normal. And now I am violet and scarlet--the colour of a bruise, deep and left untended. Skulking beneath the skin, I mutter in these shades and shadows of a squashed sunset, unpleasant and unappeased. Yes, yes, <<insert "I see it now.">> I wear a cloak of violet and scarlet and walk in a sunset world, robes trailing behind me along the ivory ground. A colonnade to my left; white vines wander up their engraved sides. The heavens are frozen, marbled of crimson and starlight, motionless clouds straying across the flat dome of this depthless sky. Can you see it? <<insert "Do you see this?">> Lone emperor of distant spires, cold and dissatisfied always. Too young to rule, immature and unwise and uncontrollable, I. Have. //Issues.// Stop me. Stop me. [[Stop me.]]<<endinsert>><<endinsert>>

Double-click this passage to edit it.

At the pinnacle of the staircase, the golden door could be seen across the grey grove, glittering amidst the black and white. On the path strewn with blossoms, the golden door could be spied rising from the rippling floral sea. But here, at the nadir of the garden, the door seems to have...disappeared. Strange. Surely there is no harm in [[lingering, then.|take our time.]]

<<if $has_beenthere eq "yes">>There is no hurry; we no longer need fear the collapsing husk or the splintering chandelier. We can linger in this stone garden, if you wish. Look around. All in this room is fashioned from shades of grey--the lightest near white, the darkest a black that swallows your eyes. Walk forward, down the marble stairs and onto the golden pathway, cherry blossoms whispering underneath our feet. Walk beneath a flowered arch. [[Stone cherubs]] float. [[Stone angels]] stand. [[Blossoms]] flutter past, some landing in the [[stone fountain's|stone fountain]] water, where they rest, drifting, before sinking below the cool, grey surface.<<later>> Strange...I could've sworn the door was just ahead, but it seems to have...disappeared.<<becomes>> //do you hear?// Yes. The air has taken on a silvered edge. And with it, the sound of chimes...clear, ringing through a crystal chamber...<<becomes>> There must be a way out, an exit path, a door leading to another freedom...//somewhere//...surely?<<becomes>> This room grows tiring on the eyes; surely we've seen these trees, these flowers, this fountain, these statues, countless times before. And before. And before. Again, again, again.<<becomes>> //i grow tired of this carnival. why forge forward? [[turn back]]//<<becomes>> It seems we can never escape...we are trapped here, in this room of blossoms and angels, forever. <<endlater>> <<else>>There is no hurry; we no longer need fear the collapsing husk or the splintering chandelier. We can linger in this stone garden, if you wish. <<insert "Look around.">> All in this room is fashioned from shades of grey--the lightest near white, the darkest a black that swallows your eyes. <<insert "Walk forward">>, down the marble stairs and onto the golden pathway, cherry blossoms whispering underneath our feet. <<insert "Walk beneath a flowered arch.">> [[Stone cherubs]] float. [[Stone angels]] stand. [[Blossoms]] flutter past, some landing in the [[stone fountain's|stone fountain]] water, where they rest, drifting, before sinking below the cool, grey surface.<<endinsert>><<endinsert>><<endinsert>><<endif>>

Into the bowels of the ship. Smell the sea salt, feel the rock and tumble and sway as the great galleon leans hard to one side. There's a leak. Put your fingers to the wall--you can feel the water trickling down the planks, into the sponges of slick barnacles, everything green and wet and blue. Where are we? Nowhere. On the galleon, sailing on the high seas. <<insert "Can't hear the wind anymore.">> Only the creaking of the vessel. Like a living being. Wood all around. The only light comes from the water between the floorboards; rippling patterns glowing on the ceiling. <<insert "Can't see the Abyss anymore.">> I wonder where we are. We should keep going. [[Follow me]] down this hallway, there must be a way out somewhere...somewhere...<<endinsert>><<endinsert>>

The husk is groaning now, shuddering against the caress of the waves. Steady yourself against the sagging wall--now against a closed door, hands braced against the frame. Touch the handle. Slimy. [[Are you entering?]] Maybe someone waits inside, reclining under a rotting canopy, a sunken treasure waiting to be stolen...little thief.

Through the muddied darkness we go, hands reaching out in search of a familiar wall. But the walls are gone now--we walk in a hall of shadow. The darkness is suffocating. I can still hear the Abyss howling, can hear it calling after us as we disintegrate into the nothingness. //wait// What? What do you see? //[[a light...at the very end]]//

Fine. //Fine.// I shall be spiteful and malicious, and you shall see what it is truly like to be scorned. Do you even know that? To be repulsive, disgusting. Derided. //despised// Ah! So the little lamb of glass is not so spotless after all. Be the lamb, then, and I spiteful Mary--I shall [[lead you out,]] so we can be free again.

The ship tosses--a restless dreamer--and the door swings inwards. Step inside.<<once>> <<insert "Look up and down.">> Seawater between the floorboards reflects rippling light across the ceiling. <<insert "Look around.">> A room--a simple one, with only [[a bed]] against the wall and [[a chest]] at its feet, [[a bureau]] pushed in a corner and [[a mirror]] dangling above it. Framed portraits of stern, old men have been crucified against the slimy wooden planks. They glare through flaking spectacles, jowls spilling out over frivolous jabots, wigs powdered and spotted with mold. Beady eyes follow intruders around the room, disapproving. There are three of these silent judges: one fat, one narrow, one sagging in strange places. <<endinsert>><<endinsert>><<becomes>> Look up and down. Seawater between the floorboards reflects rippling light across the ceiling. Look around. A room--a simple one, with only [[a bed]] against the wall and [[a chest]] at its feet, [[a bureau]] pushed in a corner and [[a mirror]] dangling above it. Framed portraits of stern, old men have been crucified against the slimy wooden planks. They glare through flaking spectacles, jowls spilling out over frivolous jabots, wigs powdered and spotted with mold. Beady eyes follow intruders around the room, disapproving. A grandfather clock stands in one corner, boasting a beard of barnacles, its face misted with salt and its pendulum tangled in a spiderweb of seaweed. Its hands are frozen at 6:00. Strangely, despite its stillness, it emanates a sense of urgency. There are four silent judges: one fat, one narrow, one sagging strange places, and one smiling.<<becomes>> Look up and down. Seawater between the floorboards reflects rippling light across the ceiling. Look around. A room--a simple one, with only [[a bed]] against the wall and [[a chest]] at its feet, [[a bureau]] pushed in a corner and [[a mirror]] dangling above it. Framed portraits of stern, old men have been crucified against the slimy wooden planks. They glare through flaking spectacles, jowls spilling out over frivolous jabots, wigs powdered and spotted with mold. Beady eyes follow intruders around the room, disapproving. A grandfather clock stands in one corner, boasting a beard of barnacles, its face misted with salt and its pendulum tangled in a spiderweb of seaweed. Its hands are frozen at 6:00. Strangely, despite its stillness, it emanates a sense of urgency. There are five silent judges: one fat, one narrow, one sagging in strange places, one smiling, and one jovial.<<becomes>>Look up and down. Seawater between the floorboards reflects rippling light across the ceiling. Look around. A room--a simple one, with only [[a bed]] against the wall and [[a chest]] at its feet, [[a bureau]] pushed in a corner and [[a mirror]] dangling above it. Framed portraits of stern, old men have been crucified against the slimy wooden planks. They glare through flaking spectacles, jowls spilling out over frivolous jabots, wigs powdered and spotted with mold. Beady eyes follow intruders around the room, disapproving. A grandfather clock stands in one corner, boasting a beard of barnacles, its face misted with salt and its pendulum tangled in a spiderweb of seaweed. Its hands are frozen at 6:00. Strangely, despite its stillness, it emanates a sense of urgency. There are six silent judges: one fat, one narrow, one sagging in strange places, one smiling, one jovial, and one laughing.<<becomes>> Look up and down. Seawater between the floorboards reflects rippling light across the ceiling. Look around. A room--a simple one, with only [[a bed]] against the wall and [[a chest]] at its feet, [[a bureau]] pushed in a corner and [[a mirror]] dangling above it. Framed portraits of stern, old men have been crucified against the slimy wooden planks. They glare through flaking spectacles, jowls spilling out over frivolous jabots, wigs powdered and spotted with mold. Beady eyes follow intruders around the room, disapproving. A grandfather clock stands in one corner, boasting a beard of barnacles, its face misted with salt and its pendulum tangled in a spiderweb of seaweed. Its hands are frozen at 7:00. Strangely, despite its stillness, it emanates a sense of urgency. There are seven silent judges: one fat, one narrow, one sagging in strange places, one smiling, one jovial, one laughing, and one with his lips in a tight line.<<becomes>> Look up and down. Seawater between the floorboards reflects rippling light across the ceiling. Look around. A room--a simple one, with only [[a bed]] against the wall and [[a chest]] at its feet, [[a bureau]] pushed in a corner and [[a mirror]] dangling above it. Framed portraits of stern, old men have been crucified against the slimy wooden planks. They glare through flaking spectacles, jowls spilling out over frivolous jabots, wigs powdered and spotted with mold. Beady eyes follow intruders around the room, disapproving. A grandfather clock stands in one corner, boasting a beard of barnacles, its face misted with salt and its pendulum tangled in a spiderweb of seaweed. Its hands are frozen at 8:00. Strangely, despite its stillness, it emanates a sense of urgency. There are eight silent judges: one fat, one narrow, one sagging in strange places, one smiling, one jovial, one laughing, one with his lips in a tight line, and one frowning.<<becomes>>Look up and down. Seawater between the floorboards reflects rippling light across the ceiling. Look around. A room--a simple one, with only [[a bed]] against the wall and [[a chest]] at its feet, [[a bureau]] pushed in a corner and [[a mirror]] dangling above it. Framed portraits of stern, old men have been crucified against the slimy wooden planks. They glare through flaking spectacles, jowls spilling out over frivolous jabots, wigs powdered and spotted with mold. Beady eyes follow intruders around the room, disapproving. A grandfather clock stands in one corner, boasting a beard of barnacles, its face smudged with handprints and its pendulum hanging motionless. Its hands are frozen at 9:00. Strangely, despite its stillness, it emanates a sense of urgency. There are nine silent judges: one fat, one narrow, one sagging in strange places, one smiling, one jovial, one laughing, one with his lips in a tight line, one frowning, and one grimacing.<<becomes>>Look up and down. Seawater between the floorboards reflects rippling light across the ceiling. Look around. A room--a simple one, with only [[a bed]] against the wall and [[a chest]] at its feet, [[a bureau]] pushed in a corner and [[a mirror]] dangling above it. Framed portraits of stern, old men have been crucified against the slimy wooden planks. They glare through flaking spectacles, jowls spilling out over frivolous jabots, wigs powdered and spotted with mold. Beady eyes follow intruders around the room, disapproving. A grandfather clock stands in one corner, boasting a beard of barnacles, the cracks on its face apparent and its pendulum slowly swaying. Its hands are frozen at 10:00. Strange—I do not ever remember being able to hear its ticking. There are ten silent judges: one fat, one narrow, one sagging in strange places, one smiling, one jovial, one laughing, one with his lips in a tight line, one frowning, one grimacing, and one baring his teeth in a snarl.<<becomes>> Look up and down. Seawater between the floorboards reflects rippling light across the ceiling. Look around. A room--a simple one, with only [[a bed]] against the wall and [[a chest]] at its feet, [[a bureau]] pushed in a corner and [[a mirror]] dangling above it. Framed portraits of stern, old men have been crucified against the slimy wooden planks. They glare through flaking spectacles, jowls spilling out over frivolous jabots, wigs powdered and spotted with mold. Beady eyes follow intruders around the room, disapproving. A grandfather clock stands in one corner, boasting a beard of barnacles, its face gleaming and its pendulum swinging. Its hands are frozen at 11:00. The ticking has grown louder. There are eleven silent judges: one fat, one narrow, one sagging in strange places, one smiling, one jovial, one laughing, one with his lips in a tight line, one frowning, one grimacing, one baring his teeth in a snarl, and one cackling, tongue speared on his sharp teeth.<<becomes>> Look up and down. Seawater between the floorboards reflects rippling light across the ceiling. Look around. A room--a simple one, with only [[a bed]] against the wall and [[a chest]] at its feet, [[a bureau]] pushed in a corner and [[a mirror]] dangling above it. Framed portraits of stern, old men have been crucified against the slimy wooden planks. They glare through flaking spectacles, jowls spilling out over frivolous jabots, wigs powdered and spotted with mold. Beady eyes follow intruders around the room, disapproving. A grandfather clock stands in one corner, boasting a beard of barnacles, its face gleaming and its pendulum swinging. Its hands are frozen at 12:00. The ticking has grown deafening; the entire room seems to shudder with every toll. There are eleven silent judges: one fat, one narrow, one sagging in strange places, one smiling, one jovial, one laughing, one with his lips in a tight line, one frowning, one grimacing, one baring his teeth in a snarl, and one cackling, tongue speared on his sharp teeth. Another frame has appeared, but the painting’s canvas is pitch black. <<endonce>>

Again, we return to the sound of [[the howling emptiness.]] Wind shrieks through the crumbling husk, rattling what remains of the wood skeleton and scraping jagged fingernails across the peeling paint before swirling back into the [[maw of the Abyss.]] The blossoms of the [[rotting tree|rotting tree iv]] flutter past us, white in the shadows, sharp shards of glass. Above, the dusty chandeliers hang, garbed in dresses of jagged diamonds. Cutting splinters. Biting shards--of the broken mirror, some still clinging to the spotted frame that once upon a time was gold.

...angry and sour, as if done some great personal wrong. I know how it feels. //echoing endlessly to no one, for no one cares// Yes, do remind me. //[[always|lead you out,]]// For //no one cares, no one cares// ==i care==

Can you see the dark fingers clawing their way up the chasm? The hungry mouth stretching open with the sound of snapping bones as its jaw caves in and its teeth fall away--even as it opens, wider and wider, to swallow the world. The Abyss is hungry. The Abyss is mad. [[We should make our way out soon...quickly now...|lead you out,]]

The aged wood bends in the wind, shawl of rope fluttering in the Abyss's angry wheezing. //i would like to go there// To the rotting tree? //yes// For what? To cut it down? //[[why would i do that]]//

Fine, then. Very well, then. We shall go, just as you wish. Down the passage that stretches before us, through the shadowy doorway sunken into the wooden walls. [[We should hurry;]] I feel the husk stirring, the rotting skeleton structure threatening to be torn away in the rising gale. Above, the ceiling is creaking, the chandeliers swaying amongst the many sharp shards of blossoms.

Through the sunken door...and into a scarlet room. <<insert "//what is this place//">> Red velvet tapestries hang from the patterned, gold walls and spill across the carpeted floor. The ceiling is made of golden cushions, each button glowing with warm light--and, look, the same gentle light pulses from the lamps at the bedside. <<insert "//bedside...//">> Yes, bedside; there, head to the middle of the wall, a bed sits, crowned by a white canopy. Everything is neat and pressed and warm--a hotel, on the eighteenth floor. <<insert "//there, a window//">> Indeed, a window is set to the bed's right. Eyes nearly missed it behind the curtains...hmm. [[I shall look.]]<<endinsert>><<endinsert>><<endinsert>>

A night sky above. Below--a madding city. Neon lights pulse, garish and loud, billboards large against the buildings' dark faces and shouting out their latest most necessary item. Airplanes streak through the air; helicopters cut jagged silhouettes against the throbbing heart of the metropolis. //[[i don't like this]]//

And now the cushions along the ceiling unfold and the canopy collapses and the room falls away as the hotel ceases to exist and we find our feet firm against the slick, gum-stained, graffiti-ridden ground of the night-crazed city--and before us, the neon lights of the club pulse and beckon and wink, cabaret girl. <<timed 5s>>And to the left, a street crying rain, the lights of the skyscraper billboards like running mascara streaking down its smooth, dark face. Which do we take? The [[club, ahead]] or the [[street, to our left?]]<</timed>>

We approach it. Pass through it. And the wind hits our faces in a cold, rippling wave as the light washes over us--and then disappears, leaving us standing, stranded, on a plateau at the edge of reality where the world ends and the Abyss begins. The sky is a dome, streaked with grey, black, and white, the clouds torn apart as if flayed. The sky is a sphere, and we are inside, and everything swirls around us in curls of wind. The dead grass sprouting from between the rock stirs in the breeze, lashing our knees. The ground is dead. <<insert "//look behind us//">> There is nothing there. The husk is gone; the creaking, complaining, wood scaffolding is gone; the dusty chandeliers that rocked back and forth are gone. We are alone now, on this plateau at the mouth of the Mother of the Dark--alone, with the [[rotting tree.|rotting tree v]]<<endinsert>>

<<if $has_voidsong1_1 eq "yes">>Finally, after roses and gilded thorns and gardens of stone, we find ourselves before the stooped old lady fashioned of aged wood. Never realized how close the rotting tree grew to the edge of the plateau; its roots are bared, clutching at the cliff face as they struggle to burrow back under the cracked ground. <<insert "Lean forward...">> ...and stretch your arms out, little lamb, as if you could fly. Feel the wind against your back. Embrace the great emptiness that is the Abyss. So flat and yet it has such depth; the Abyss distorts what your eyes know of space and time. A plane of dark clouds unfurls across the grey dome sky--and reaches out beyond eternity. <<insert "Lean farther forward...">> ...and stare, dizzied, as the cliff face plummets directly down, into the darkness. Perhaps the plateau reaches the bottom. Is there a bottom? Surely the plateau is not floating...unless there is no bottom...and one could fall forever... <<insert "//fall...forever?//">> Ah. I forgot. The little lamb does not know of peering off cliffs and wondering if it will hurt at the bottom. Let us [[return our focus to the rotting tree.|right?]]<<endinsert>><<endinsert>><<endinsert>> <<else>>Finally, the stooped old lady fashioned of aged wood. Never realized how close it was to the edge of the plateau; its roots are bared, clutching at the cliff face as they struggle to burrow back under the cracked ground. Lean forward a little <<insert "too much...">>and you could [[tumble right off the edge...|almost tumble]] But that is not what we came here to do, [[right?]]<<endinsert>><<endif>>

This is how we escape. Closer, closer, to the edge. We're so close, we could just... No. //do you ever// stare off the edge of a cliff and wonder if it will hurt when you hit the bottom, yes //no// We came here for something else, were //meant// for <<hoverreplace>>[[something else]]<<becomes>>nothing, worthless as we are<<endhoverreplace>>... This is how we escape. It would be so easy. It is so tempting. //you want to// There is no knowing such despair, no understanding the black hole that gapes in your chest and tells you to fall asleep and never awake ==you mustn't== I do not want to die //alone and unnamed and unknown// neither thief nor lamb, is this how it ends? ==no, stay with me== ==stay== Just...one...step...<<mousereplace>>[[backwards, to safety, where the ground is solid and reassuring...]]<<becomes>>[[forwards, into nothingness...]]<<endmousereplace>>

<<if $has_voidsong1_1 eq "yes">>You still stand, motionless, arms stretched out and face tilted up. The blossoms of the rotting tree rush past us, soft and sweet, fragile and ever so pale. Is it not sorrowful, in a way, to see something so beautiful...perish before the Mother of the Dark...that they could be saved... Ah. But I wax sentimental. You would not understand. <<insert "//do not treat me like a child//">> Says the Lamb. Indeed. Never mind. We are here only for the [[rotting tree, only came to escape.|rotting tree vi]] We heard it calling--we came, we saw, and now we wait.<<endinsert>> <<else>>We were not meant to end, not yet. This is not the way to escape. See, the blossoms of the rotting tree rush past us, delicate and rare, fragile and ever so pale. Is it not sorrowful, in a way, seeing something so beautiful...perish before the Mother...that they could be saved... Ah. But it is not our place to wish after meaningless emotions. We are here for another purpose. For [[the rotting tree.|rotting tree vi]] We heard it calling--we came, we saw, and now we wait.<<endif>>

null passage

It ought to be harder to die. There should be <<cyclinglink "a struggle" "death throes" "a strong, spasming desire to live">>...but that would require a reason to live. //and that i have none// ==i am your reason== You... <<timed 2s>> You are my nothing. <<next>> My //nothing.// NOTHING, you are NOTHING to me--why can't you go away like all the other pretty people, get out of my head-- ==i am your everything== and I want you to DIE <<next>>and END <<next>>and DESTROY YOURSELF //i never want to ever// see you again because ==i love you to death, to death, to death, i want to== //die// <<next>>//end// <<next>>end <<next>>and fall away like the blossoms of the rotting tree <<next>>brilliant, brilliant brilliant... <<next>>...brilliant they rush past us and out, over the mouth of the Mother of the Dark, white and alone against all that black and grey. Fluttering. Alone. i want to be brilliant, too i want to be like you <<next>>and end <<next>>us but look behind //us// see only one shadow [[and end]]<</timed>>

//and end// <<timed 2s>>lean forward, neck straining to follow the white blossoms of the rotting tree as they flutter out into infinity <<next>>why can't i be brilliant, brilliant, like the blossom, delicate and rare i too want to be carried by the wind lift my arms and let the wind take me away, to the horizon, away, away, where i never have to exist again away away ==come to me== come away, come away <<next>>this is how we escape <<next>>just one step forward one small step forward and now we're <<next>>falling <<next>>falling <<next>>falling <<next>>//falling,// Mother of the Dark swallows us whole into the //void my name// ... <<next>>and it echoes ... //[[End|badEnd]]//<</timed>>

A heavy form must have once laid in slumber upon this bed; its middle droops miserably, dirty white sheets pooling on the ground. The legs are crudely hewn of wood, string tied around their base and pinned to the wall in a poor attempt to anchor the bed. [[A pillow,]] wrinkled and yellow in places it should not be, lies crooked at the head. I suggest you tear your attention away from this soiled bunk [[as soon as possible;|Are you entering?]] even the imagination shies away from whatever could be hidden beneath the [[soggy mattress.]]

<<if $mirror_broken eq "yes">>The carcass of the mirror lies facedown on the floor, surrounded by shattered glass. //You// did this. I hope you're happy. I hope you're reveling in the destruction you've wreaked. Now, when you're done [[admiring your handicraft...|Are you entering?]] <<else>><<if $has_crowbar eq "yes">>Ack. Even here, trapped as we are, you cannot resist your own reflection. //no, the mirror...there's something curious about it...// How so? You're reaching for the crowbar--you don't mean to lay at it with that crude stick of metal? <<insert "//wedge the bar between the mirror's back and the wall//">> You will break something. Glass was not meant to be met by metal. <<insert "//lever the bar betwixt glass and wood//">> Can you hear the ship protesting? The walls groan, disagreeable. <<insert "//wrench, twist--hard//">> The mirror comes crashing to the ground in a spray of splinters and crumbling paint, landing solidly on the bottommost of its frame. The looking glass shudders with the impact--and its face shatters in a cascade of silver, spotted shards. For a brief moment, the frame remains upright. Then a gust of wind stirs past; the mirror topples forward and hits the floor with a crunch. Wonderful. Beautiful. Now look at what you've done. Have you no fear of ill fortune? And--see, the wall behind the mirror is plain, unmarred by irregularities or possible clues. You have destroyed, for nothing. How do you feel now? Have you gorged yourself enough on your wanton violence? Are you happy, now? //[[do not be like that]]// //[[yes, i am pleased]]// <<set $mirror_broken = "yes">><<endinsert>><<endinsert>><<endinsert>><<else>>Ack. Even here, trapped as we are, you cannot resist your own reflection. //no, the mirror...there's something curious about it...// How so? //i wish to pry it from the wall// With what? //we must [[find something...|Are you entering?]]// <<endif>><<endif>>

Hunched over at the foot of the bed, the silver leafing lining its lips now tarnished and black, the chest's keyhole almost seems to glare--a challenge, a taunt. Approach the little wooden dwarf. It scowls. <<insert "Kneel.">> [[Peer through the keyhole?]] [[Try and force open the lock?]]<<if $has_lockpick eq "yes">> [[Use the lockpick?]]<<else>> [[Seems there's not much that can be done here just yet...|Are you entering?]]<<endif>><<endinsert>>

//a dresser...?// Yes. Altogether, an unattractive addition to the room. Saltwater drips from the jagged edges and makes white runs down its face like the droppings of a bird. Three drawers decorate the front; the [[top drawer]] is stern and harsh, silver handles across its face like the spectacles of a cruel matron; the [[middle drawer]] is meek and sagging inwards, wooden cheeks looking to disintegrate at a slight touch; and the [[bottom drawer]] is bold and pigheaded, lips jutting out in a bad underbite as it dares the passerby to pry it open. Do we dare, or should we [[look elsewhere?|Are you entering?]]

Not much can be seen through the chest's narrow eye; the dim light provides no aid. However, if you were to press your ear to the keyhole, the faintest of breathing could be heard, the gentlest of winds stirring your hair...like echoes of a long-lost sea... We should [[find a way to open this chest...|a chest]]

With what? Fool. Amateur thief. Perhaps if you [[throw yourself against it,]] the chest's rotting hull will give way under your sheer weight. Or, perhaps you'd exercise wisdom for once and [[refocus on the task at hand.|a chest]]

Gently slip it in, twist to the side and let it fall into place as the keyhole's jaws grate against the strange intruder before surrendering and clicking open. Lift the lid--its lips of silver are heavy against your palms, though the wood itself is splintering and frail. <<insert "Peer inside the chest.">> Surprisingly, for something so guarded, the chest is rather empty. //disappointment// Greater worth had been anticipated--but here, we have only half of a page, viciously torn from its parent, and what would appear to be-- <<insert "//three keys//">> Indeed. Run your greedy fingers over them, feel them. Yes, yes, //touch// them. I know you desire to. <<mousereplace>>One is gold, glittering with crystals of salt and cheap cracked rubies, a wolf's head shaped of the key's bow.<<gains>> Have we seen this key before? [[Yes?|key 1 yes]] <<insert "Or is my imagination playing cruel tricks on me again?">> This key, in all its glimmering beauty, is unknown to me. I remember instead something duller, a key more worn... //no rubies or snarling wolf//<<endinsert>> <<endmousereplace>> <<mousereplace>>The second is swathed in detailed engravings of flowers, the ghost of pink paint collecting in the crevices. <<gains>> Have we seen this key before? [[Yes?|key 2 yes]] <<insert "Or is my imagination playing cruel tricks on me again?">> This finger of the rotting tree, adorned with its blossoms--this cannot be the key I once saw in passing. Perhaps I remember something brighter, a key more grand... //a king's instrument, not a queen's?//<<endinsert>><<endmousereplace>> <<mousereplace>>The third is tarnished and undecorated, plain and oddly ugly to look upon. <<gains>> Have we seen this key before? [[Yes?|key 3 yes]] <<insert "Or is my imagination playing cruel tricks on me again?">> A gargoyle's key, this is; brutish and warped. This is surely not the key we seek. The key I struggle to recall was delicate in its form, and so plain it was not.<<endinsert>><<endmousereplace>> <<mousereplace>>A broken key lies discarded nearby, its teeth twisted and its bow bent; such is the fate of that which is forced into a lock it was never meant to fit. <<gains>>At first glance, it appears to have flowers in relievo decorating its sides--but closer inspection reveals instead small suns and their spreading rays. Perhaps this was but a waste of time; only broken keys and ripped pages here. //we should gather the page, no?// What of the [[page?]] You believe it to be important?<<endmousereplace>><<endinsert>><<endinsert>>

You didn't actually think that would work, did you? Daft. Foolish little thief. //[[enough|a chest]]//

//a journal...// Yes, a book, bound in leather and faded from years of use and poor care. A feather--ah, a quill--lies nearby, caked with dried ink. Crumpled papers...discarded sketches of fish and seabirds...the only thing of interest seems to be the journal. Perhaps it is a diary, recounting a seafarer's tales through strange, uncanny seas. //open the journal...?// No doubt you have no qualms about rumaging through another's personal property. <<revision diary>>Go ahead, then.<<becomes>>The cover is stiff and unyielding, but finally falls open to a random page, baring its yellowed face. A rough drawing of a grandfather clock decorates one side, its hands at 6:00. Next to it--a sketch of a key, intricate and engraved with flowers. Once, there might have been words to annotate these drawings, but time has since worn them away to less than watery smudges. However, there does seem to be an arrow leading from the key to the grandfather clock's...face? To the pendulum? Age has made the arrow's path hard to decipher. Strange. <<revision pageprevious>> The corner of the previous page is slightly bent, <<becomes>> The previous page also bears a picture of a grandfather clock; this one's hands are at 9:00. Thin scrawling can barely be seen on the opposing leaf of parchment; grey against yellow, it reads //"...time...moves as if in a dream, here, in this strange...beneath the sea. Be wary of...fast, may pass you by dare you blink. An hour may be no more than a minute, a minute...years. I will continue to...research...notes...this strange...and continue my observations. Note: clock hands? broken pend...//”<<endrevision>> <<revise pageprevious begging to be turned.>> <<revert pageprevious "Turn back to the main page.">> <<revision pagenext>> The next page is heavily wrinkled, its edges curling and demanding attention. <<becomes>> The page protests when turned; gently peel it apart from its neighbor. Again, the grandfather clock looms up from the bottom--but this time its angles are harsh, its face shadowed, its hands sharp and stabbing angrily at 12:00. Spidery handwriting frantically crawls across the page, fading in and out of legibility, reading, //"...must find a way to open the...ck...time grows ever closer to the dreaded hour...no time...open..."// As the words trail off into meaningless etchings, another picture begins--one of heavy, dark strokes and violent smudges, as if the inkwell had spilled on part of the drawing and drowned it in black. A picture frame can barely be made out, and in it, the creases of a grin can be seen. And the gleaming teeth. And the glowing eyes. And the-- Strange. Perhaps we shouldn't dwell on this page for much longer.<<endrevision>> <<revise pagenext Attempt to turn the page, parchment delicate between your fingers.>> <<revert pagenext Let the page fall back into place.>> <<endrevision>> <<revise diary "Open the journal.">> <<revert diary "Close the journal.">> When you're quite done shuffling through that which is [[not yours...|a bureau]]

//...scissors?// Yes, it would seem that the middle drawer holds a pair of scissors. Its blades are rusted, its grips worn away in favour of slimy metal. One cut would no doubt give rise to a nasty infection... //no. no cutting// In any case, perhaps these will be useful later on. Take it, and we may [[find good use for it elsewhere.|a bureau]] <<set $has_scissors = "yes">>

<<if $has_crowbar eq "yes">>Test the crooked <<insert "handles.">> <<insert "Tug.">> The bottom drawer refuses to budge. <<insert "Pull.">> The bureau shakes, tilting forward slightly--but the bottom drawer itself only groans before settling back into place with an incorrigible snort. Stubborn, is it? Then we have no choice but to use the metal bar you found <<insert "under the bed's mattress.">> Force the flattened end between the bottom drawer's upper lip and the bureau's face--and now, <<insert "wrench!">> <<insert "Hard!">> <<insert "Harder!">> Ah. Finally, it tumbles open. Though...perhaps you used too much force; the drawer's bottom has fallen out, [[spilling its contents]] across the creaking, slick floor.<<endinsert>><<endinsert>><<endinsert>><<endinsert>><<endinsert>><<endinsert>><<endinsert>> <<else>>Test the crooked <<insert "handles.">> <<insert "Tug.">> The bottom drawer refuses to budge. <<insert "Pull.">> The bureau shakes, tilting forward slightly--but the bottom drawer itself only groans before settling back into place with an incorrigible snort. If only we had something sturdy of build to pry this stubborn drawer open...if we [[look around|Are you entering?]] a little more, we may find something of use.<<endinsert>><<endinsert>><<endinsert>> <<endif>>

<<if $has_scissors eq "yes">>The pillow is...damp. //strangely shaped// Yes, there does indeed seem to be something irregular about its proportions; one corner is more pronounced than its soggier brothers, almost as if something is pressing against the pillow case, struggling to force its way out...//long and narrow--the object inside// Yes, I feel it now; a long, skinny object, its end sharp and its body hard. //what could it be?// Are you not the burglar? Surely you should know of hidden things--and obtaining them. //i would open the pillow case, yet it has no opening and the fabric is tough and sturdy// Ah...then it is good we have something with which we may cut away the pillow case; remember, the scissors from the bureau? Those will do. Yes, <<insert "cut there.">> <<insert "Aha.">> Something long and metallic slides out, spilling onto the moist sheets. A knife, perhaps? No, it is too narrow to be a blade. What, then? //a lockpick, perhaps// Hmm. Unsurprising, the way your mind works. //i do not know what you mean// Very well, then. Perhaps something can be done with this lockpick. We should [[return|a bed]] and investigate the room once more.<<endinsert>><<endinsert>><<set $has_lockpick = "yes">> <<else>>The pillow is...damp. //strangely shaped// Yes, there does indeed seem to be something irregular about its proportions; one corner is more pronounced than its soggier brothers, almost as if something is pressing against the pillow case, struggling to force its way out...//long and narrow--the object inside// Yes, I feel it now; a long, skinny object, its end sharp and its body hard. //what could it be?// Are you not the burglar? Surely you should know of hidden things--and obtaining them. //i would open the pillow case, yet it has no opening and the fabric is tough and sturdy// If only we had something to cut away at the pillow case--as it seems our hands and nails are not enough. Perhaps if we [[return|a bed]] and investigate in detail...we may find something of use...<<endif>>

You're...you're not actually going to go near that...filthy //thing,// are <<insert "you?">> Ah. You are. <<insert "I see.">> That's terribly nasty. I hope you can comprehend how revolting your ac--and now you're placing your hands //under// it? What are you-- //silence. look// What is it? What are you dragging out from under that unclean mattress? A...a metal bar? //one end flattened, as if made for prying// [[Where could we ever find use for such a contraption...|a bed]] <<set $has_crowbar = "yes">><<endinsert>><<endinsert>>

This glimmering key can only be the one we were meant to take. See, how it sparkles, to catch your eye? The chipped jewels, how they cry for attention? This is a key for royalty; surely we were meant to have it. //royalty...// And yet, still, I question this regal device. Are you certain you would take this key? <<hoverreplace>> [[Yes?|yes? key 1]] <<becomes>> [[Yes,|yes? key 1]] or is it a usurper, [[imposter?|no? key 1]]<<endhoverreplace>>

Archaic in design--but beautiful in its dainty antiquity--this flowering key, finger of the rotting tree, is surely the elegant instrument I remember once seeing. //delicate and rare// But is it, <<hoverreplace>> [[truly?|yes? key 2]]<<becomes>> [[truly,|yes? key 2]] or are its tender, sculpted blossoms [[fake?|no? key 2]]<<endhoverreplace>>

Plain, it is. And yet, somehow, it attracts the eye. Its crudeness is strangely charming, its gothic construction alluring to the innocent passerby. In the fairytales of old, the youngest son is always seen as the simpleton--but it is the youngest son that always has a happily ever after. Perhaps the third key is this way, too. //happily ever after// And yet, still I hesitate. Is this key <<hoverreplace>> [[authentic?|yes? key 3]]<<becomes>> [[authentic,|yes? key 3]] or is it the [[wrong one|no? key 3]]--does my memory betray me?<<endhoverreplace>>

<<if $has_secondhalf eq "yes">>Ah...these scrawlings, these match those on the other half of paper we found in the bottom drawer...yes, this seems to be the torn page's sibling. If we join them, we may finally be able to [[read the ghostly scribblings in full.|completed page]] <<else>>//perhaps// Ripped, wrinkled, barely legible; you find worth in strange things. Words inch across the paper's face and tentatively approach the tattered edge, not daring to finish. //the other half. this page will have more meaning whole// Then we must find the other half, [[wherever it may be.|Are you entering?]] <<set $has_firsthalf = "yes">> <<endif>>

<<if $has_secondhalf eq "yes">>Yes, yes, there can be no denying it. This key was seen before--perhaps in a drawing, perhaps in a frame--and certainly we must have it. Let us go, then, now that we have found-- //the torn page// What of it? //joined with its whole, it may be useful// Its whole? Wait...I'm beginning to understand. Ah, yes...these scrawlings, these match those on the other half of paper we found in the bottom drawer...yes, this seems to be the torn page's sibling. If we join them, we may finally be able to [[read the ghostly scribblings in full.|completed page]] <<set $has_pagewhole = "yes">><<set $has_key1false = "yes">> <<else>>Yes, yes, there can be no denying it. This key was seen before--perhaps in a drawing, perhaps in a frame--and certainly we must have it. Let us go, then, now that we have found-- //the torn page// What of it? //joined with its whole, it may be useful// The page? Ripped, wrinkled, barely legible; you find worth in strange things. Words inch across the paper's face and tentatively approach the tattered edge, not daring to finish. //i shall take it// As you will; you take everything. Come, then, take the torn page; perhaps we will find its sibiling [[elsewhere in the room.|Are you entering?]] <<set $has_firsthalf = "yes">> <<set $has_key1false = "yes">> <<endif>>

Indeed, there is something false about this key; the glint of its gold is insincere, a temptation for fools. Return it--ah, but the chest has fallen shut. The little dwarf must be indignant that its gift was rejected. Let us open it once more and [[put away this false instrument.|Use the lockpick?]]

<<if $has_secondhalf eq "yes">>This key is indeed the correct key--and now my memory sharpens and tells me as much. We may look back now, triumphant, to the room and find this key's lock. //no, wait// What? //the page// What of it? Wait...I see. Ah, yes, yes, I see now; the scrawling on this ripped scrap here match those on the other half of paper we found in the bottom drawer...yes, this seems to be the torn page's sibling. If we join them, we may finally be able to [[read the ghostly scribblings in full.|completed page]] <<set $has_pagewhole = "yes">><<set $has_key2correct = "yes">> <<else>>This key is indeed the correct key--and now my memory sharpens and tells me as much. We may look back now, triumphant, to the room and find this key's lock. //no, wait// What? //the page// What of it? //joined with its other half--it may prove useful in the future// Useful? Ripped, wrinkled, barely legible; you find worth in strange things. Words inch across the paper's face and tentatively approach the tattered edge, not daring to finish. //i shall take it// As you will; you take everything. Come, then, take the torn page; perhaps we will find its sibiling [[elsewhere in the room.|Are you entering?]] <<set $has_firsthalf = "yes">> <<set $has_key2correct = "yes">> <<endif>>

Truly, the petals are false, even in all their prettiness. You were right. Ah, now this key disgusts me; I find its beauty sickeningly sweet. Take it away--put it away--ah. Seems the chest lid has fallen shut. Perhaps crestfallen that its cruel trickery did not deceive me. Open the sullen dwarf once more and let us choose the [[correct key.|Use the lockpick?]]

<<if $has_secondhalf eq "yes">>In fairytales of old, no one has any faith in the youngest son--but those that dare do are always rewarded for the risk. We too should trust in the third key. Let us take it and return-- //the page// What of it? //pages that are torn must have another half. and we hold the other half// Ah, yes, yes, I see now; the scrawlings on this ripped scrap here match those on the other half of paper we found in the bottom drawer...yes, this seems to be the torn page's sibling. If we join them, we may finally be able to [[read the ghostly scribblings in full.|completed page]] <<set $has_pagewhole = "yes">><<set $has_key3false = "yes">> <<else>>In fairytales of old, no one has any faith in the youngest son--but those that dare do are always rewarded for the risk. We too should trust in the third key. Let us take it and return-- //the page// What of it? //pages that are torn must have another half// Ripped, wrinkled, barely legible; you find worth in strange things. Words inch across the paper's face and tentatively approach the tattered edge, not daring to finish. You believe we could read these fading scratches, even whole? //yes// Very well, then. Let us take the key and the paper and [[find the missing half.|Are you entering?]] <<set $has_firsthalf = "yes">> <<set $has_key3false = "yes">> <<endif>>

Double-click this passage to edit it.

Words. So many words. Like worms chopped in two, frozen in their death throes, writhing across the paper and away from the tear down the middle. Sentences are written over sentences. Letters are tilted and slanting and upside down. //"...I must...the pictures...haunt me...I have run out of time, they're coming for me; I hear the heavy swing of the pendulum--every tick brings me clo...12:00, and th...is surely when I die. If you f...nd this, please, you must know--do not let...un out...perish. I took too long, as did th...unate...souls before me. I pray you do not befall...ame fate. They are coming.//" Ominous. And strange; "heavy swing of the pendulum," this doomed writer says? ...And yet, in all our time here, the pendulum has not moved once. I do not understand. //i am worried// ... We should make haste, now-- //wait. [[the other side of the page]]//

<<if $has_firsthalf eq "yes">> Nothing of importance seems to have been lost in--ah, wait, what is this? The other half of the page? Yes, the page found in the chest; we seem to have stumbled across the rest of its miserable, tattered body. Now we may be able to [[read the ghostly scrawling in full...|completed page]]<<else>> Nothing of importance seems to have been lost in--ah, wait, what is this? A half of a page? Strange...it looks to have been torn free from a journal, only to have a frustrated poet wreak his wrath upon it and rip it in two. Now it is sad and alone, less of a page, wrinkled and yellow. If we find the other half...we may be able to decipher [[what another tried to conceal.|a bureau]]<<set $has_secondhalf = "yes">><<endif>>

A short collection of scribblings decorates the back of the page. Can you <<insert "read it?">> One tick right for the broken face One tock left for the pendulum's line Stay late, night--but if you race Know true treasure always lies behind Two ticks right if you count the hour Two tocks left if you're lost to find One lockpick to steal the flower But know true treasure lies behind Curious. I cannot begin to understand, should there be meaning behind this nonsense...but perhaps other things will be revealed in time. Take the paper with us; we must return our focus to the [[room,|Are you entering?]] and to finding an escape.<<set $has_pagewhole = "yes">> <<endinsert>>

Pray tell, like what precisely? //childish and unreasonable// Do not lecture me now--not in this place. Neither of us has the time to allow for petty verbal fencing. [[Return to the task at hand|Are you entering?]] before you destroy something else. <<set $is_unreasonable = "yes">>

Oh, joyous day. How wonderful, that your childish antics bring you such joy. //spiteful// Me? You call me //spiteful?// //and petty and unstable and--// Hush. I have no time for bickering, //thief.// Neither of us has time. We must [[return our focus to the room|Are you entering?]] so that we may find a way to escape...and then we may continue our verbal fencing. <<set $is_unreasonable = "yes">>

Their faces are blank, their hair in the tight coils of a lamb's, their eyes clay orbs unmarred by iris or pupil. Neither string nor net keeps them aloft, yet still they float, stone wings motionless. Some clutch water jugs to their chests and let the contents spill into the [[stone fountain|stone fountain]] beneath them; others are frozen in jubilation, hands extended in dance. However, despite their apparent gaiety, only one is smiling--and his teeth are sharp. <<set $has_beenthere = "yes">>

You [[look back,|take our time.]] considering, and then face forward once more. Look at the statues of angels before us. They stand, solitary among the blooms, three sentinels of the stone garden. One bears a shield, wings of her helmet covering her ears. The second carries weighing scales in one hand, her other clasped tight over her mouth. The third is blindfolded, sword wielded in one hand.<<set $has_beenthere = "yes">> <<later>>Her sword points [[right, down the golden path.]] <<becomes>>Her sword points [[left, down the blossom-stained path.]] <<becomes>>Her sword points [[forward, accusing. There is rigid tension behind the blade's stillness.]] <<becomes>>Her sword lies on the ground at her feet, crushed flowers splayed out beneath the flat of the stone blade. You feel strangely compelled to pick it up--it's surprisingly light--and [[return it|pick it up]] to the stone angel's outstretched, groping hand. <<becomes>>Her sword points [[down, to her feet swathed in sandals.]]<<endlater>>

Colourless cherry trees bow over the pathway, forming an arcade that showers those beneath with petals. A monochrome sea of flowers floods the floor. It rustles in the breath of the Abyss, patterns of black and white rippling in concentric circles out from our legs as we wade through the ashen ocean and to the golden path. [[The pathway glistens.|take our time.]] It stretches out like a tongue from the marble stairs behind us. <<set $has_beenthere = "yes">>

Wreathed in grey statues and dark blossoms, the fountain is a flower of white, petals peeling outwards as crystalline waters cascade down from its lips and into the next tier. Its gentle waterfall is the only sound in the room aside from the ringing of chimes. Chimes... Curious. I wonder where they are. They [[can't be far...|take our time.]] Ah. Above us. [[Stone cherubs,|Stone cherubs]] letting water spill from their jugs and into the fountain's mouth. <<set $has_beenthere = "yes">>

Follow the sword's tip and down the golden path to our right. Grey flowers to the left. Grey flowers to the right. White flowers crawling up the trellice and over our heads. Reach the end of the gilded walkway, and find a world that seems [[strangely familiar.|take our time.]]

Every step sends petals swirling in storms around our ankles. The path is short and twisting, jaggedly cutting through a grove of elegant white trees--ladies in large hats, posing for a portrait--before coming to a rest in an [[oddly familiar location.|take our time.]]

It seems to inch closer with every blink, threatening to spear the viewer through dare they turn away. An imperious aura emanates from the statue. She is the stone judge, blind Justice--and in place of scales, the cold Executioner wields her blade in punishment and condemnation, all fury and reason. I suggest we [[step away, now.|take our time.]] We have done nothing, but unseeing Justice cannot weigh our innocence against her bitterness. To linger would be unwise. The stone arm trembles as we turn away.

The stone hand creaks as its fingers slowly move to grasp the sword's hilt. Tentatively pull away. The sword stays, held fast in the statue's grip. Justice appears otherwise unchanged--although, I do not recall her lips curving upwards in so gentle a smile. //it would seem worse choices might have been made// Perhaps. Or, it may be that even the Lamb is beyond the fires of judgement. We should not dare to [[test her patience.|take our time.]]

Ah. We aid her, and this is how cruel Justice rewards us for our troubles. //no. do not be hasty--look down// <<insert "Down where?">> To her feet, to the flowers intertwined with her toes, to the petals scattered about the pedestal upon which she towers. And amidst the silver stalks, gold against the marble ground, a door's handle rises and beckons. //a door// How curious. A door where it should not be; perhaps a welcoming mat is pinned to a wall nearby. Clear away the blossoms carpeting the ground and reveal the rest of this anomaly, this inconsistency in the conventions of architecture. Part the monochrome sea and discover the door's face of white enamel, <<mousereplace>>run your hands over the flowers raised in relievo along each panel that trail down the sides to gather in a bouquet at the bottom--<<gains>>their thorns run through with gold, frost accents along the curves of each petal--<<endmousereplace>>and let your eyes rest finally on the handle as it slowly turns to stone. It begs <<insert "opening...">>but what fool would [[open a door in the ground?]] <<endinsert>><<endinsert>>

Indeed. Why persist, the stubborn and sightless insect following another's scattered trail in hopes it leads home--why obey rules designed to never allow your success? Break free of these gilded chains and turn your back on the path, [[for we shall forge our own.]]

Turn away and march back the way we came. <<insert "Down the path,">> crushing blossoms beneath our heavy steps. <<insert "Down the path,">> smearing the blood of roses across glittering gold. <<insert "Down the path,">> wading through stone corpses and broken angels. //carefully, now. [[there is no hurry|take our time.]]//<<endinsert>><<endinsert>><<endinsert>>

//open the door// <<insert "Grip the handle and pull.">> The door opens in a spray of white blossoms--a bride emerging radiant to the showers of celebration. <<insert "Peer down,">> toes inching cautiously towards the doorframe. Where the white of the door ends, the darkness of the grinning pit begins and drops down to fathomless depths, stairs lining each wall like tiers of teeth. //could drop directly down the middle--down into the thick blackness--// <<insert "Surely it is not bottomless.">> <<insert "//could drop straight down--//">> And land with a sickening crunch, ankles rolling and snapping, femurs splintering apart down the middle, knees shuddering with the impact as the full weight of your upper body drives jagged fragments of bone through your joints and impales yours stomach with your folding hip bones-- <<insert "//must drop straight down--//">> No, let us take the <<mousereplace>>[[stairs and make a safe descent.|null passage stairs]]<<becomes>>[[...ah, the stairs peel back into the wall at every venture of our feet, leaving us balanced, precarious and faltering, over this new rectangular abyss.|stairs recede]]<<endmousereplace>> <<endinsert>><<endinsert>><<endinsert>><<endinsert>><<endinsert>>

Double-click this passage to edit it.

Alice in a colourless Wonderland--we fall down the warped rabbit hole, and tumble <<timed 1s>> down, <</timed>> <<timed 1.5s>> down, <</timed>> <<timed 2s>> down the tunnel checkered black and white, stone queens and crumbling angels looming from the darkness with gleaming swords held aloft. Gold and silver flowers swirl through the shadows as an eternity rushes past. The roar of the wind tears at our ears, cold and deafening, and grasps desperately at our skin, <<insert "howling--">> ==stay, stay, stay== <<insert "--but we cannot--">> ==stay, stay, stay== --and we plummet through the inky fabric, marbled statues crumbling in our wake, before the dark Mother of Cosmos spits us out and into the [[light--]] <<endinsert>><<endinsert>><</timed>>

//brilliant, brilliant// Only to fade--star-death, unworldly in its glory--leaving our vision to slowly return. <<insert "//soft...sweet...//">> And then the wind hits our faces in a cold, rippling wave. And we are standing, stranded, on a plateau at the edge of reality where the world ends and the Abyss begins. The sky is a dome, streaked with grey, black, and white, the clouds torn apart as if flayed. The sky is a sphere, and we are inside, and everything swirls around us in curls of wind. The dead grass sprouting from between the rock stirs in the breeze, lashing our knees. The ground is dead. <<insert "//look behind us//">> There is nothing there. The husk is gone; the creaking, complaining, wood scaffolding is gone; the dusty chandeliers that rocked back and forth are gone. The room of gold that was not gold and monochrome rainbows is gone; if no one is around to see them, do stone cherubs still float? The sweet sound of chimes has been usurped by the howl of the wind, and our past has been swallowed by Wonderland's thick throat. We are alone now, on this plateau at the mouth of the Mother of the Dark--alone, with the [[rotting tree.|rotting tree v]]<<endinsert>><<endinsert>>

<<if $has_voidsong1_1 eq "yes">>The rotting tree is <<insert "dying, slowly.">> Elderly, it wilts, weary and eager to succumb to old age. Those were its last words we heard, carried by the wind and through the walls of the crumbling husk; we were summoned here to witness the rotting tree's last will and testament. By its sickbed, we wait, its white petal tears rushing past us and to the infinite plane beyond. [[And we wait.]]<<endinsert>> <<else>>The noose hangs loosely around the dying tree's neck. It seems the Mother of the Dark did not wish a quick end on the rotting tree--and instead, now tortures it with the Abyss's rancid breath, both sustaining the sickly plant and destroying it. Or perhaps it is already dead, neck already snapped--and now it hangs, limp, the noose slack for its work here is already done. Approach it now, as one approaches a [[wounded animal.]] <<endif>>

I can almost feel the sorrow seeping from your soul. What, do you pity the rotting tree? Ah...you do, don't you. How absurd. The rotting tree is a pulsing knot, a festering wound, a blood-encrusted-- <<insert "//stop.//">> Ah, ah, sorry, I forgot--the Lamb is easily upset by such things. Very well, then. I will not make you watch the rotting tree die. But it too will pass...and when it does, we will be <<cyclinglink "free." "free of its sickly blossoms." "free of its perfume of decay." "free of its hideous, twisted boughs." end>> And now you [[turn away,]] as the hanged man's noose--the old lady's scarf--begins tightening around the rotting tree. <<endinsert>>

<<mousecontinue>>Gently place your hands against the rotting tree's skin, feel the dry bark as it peels away and joins the fleeing blossoms.<<endmousecontinue>> Sap oozes from oily lacerations and rolls languidly down the rotting tree's angular twists and turns and arthritic burls. A few fat droplets of the amber liquid collect in the corners made by your hand against the tree. You pull your hand away--and a spiderweb of sap stretches between your fingers and the rotting tree. <<insert "How unclean.">> Quick, wipe it away. //the sap will not...// Ah, too late. The tears of the rotting tree dry fast. //it will not come off...// And it seems some still ties your hand to the tree. Come, now, <<insert "pull away.">> //the sap clings to the bark...// Then tear the bark away, or be shackled forever to the rotting tree. Do not hold back, <<insert "//pull,// now!">> See? Not so hard, was that now? //the bark was pulled free of the tree...// Necessary casualties. But now we may-- //no, listen to me--look. the bark was pulled free...and what lay behind is now [[exposed]]//<<endinsert>><<endinsert>><<endinsert>>

How strange. Beneath the crumbling armor a hollow hides. It oozes tree blood, its skin a fleshy pulp of green and blue--a discoloured bruise, a swollen black eye. Surely this was not a natural formation; the scars and scabbing gashes suggest this hollow was carved by clusmy hands not belonging to nature. //[[look. inside the hollow]]//

How strangely alluring the Abyss has become; the ground almost seems to peel away beneath our feet, the sky rushing towards us a dizzying gust of wind. Should it be so easy? To simply...tip...<<insert "over the edge...">> No. We came for...we came for the rotting tree, not to [[rot, ourselves.|right?]] //[[no, we came for nothing...|tumble right off the edge...]]<<endinsert>>

What is it? There is nothing there to see but the rotting tree's [[innards.]] //not look.// <<insert "//listen...//">> Tilted head. Straining ear. And...the wind rustles past, wild animal on the prowl. It circles cautiously around the rotting tree, wary of sudden moves--and then suddenly pounces, hurling itself at the tree. The rotting tree makes no move, the wind's teeth--no mark. Dissatisfied, the wind returns and continues its assault. //but do you hear// <<insert "Yes.">> With every pass of the wind, the hollow whistles. //can you [[hear?]]// <<endinsert>><<endinsert>>

...wet and purple, clear liquids seeping from between folds of slick skin. If you look closely enough, you can almost see the rotting tree breathing--almost see its shriveled heart convulsing behind layers of pulsing membrane. It will die soon. And when it is gone, we [[shall find a way to escape.|look. inside the hollow]]

Whisper whisper, hush hush. Low eyelashes, coyly blush. Whisper whisper, kiss kiss. Nothing here to want or miss. ~voidsong, [[2:1]] <<set $has_voidsong2_1 = "yes">>

Again, that song. Crying up from the Abyss--a lost voidsong, echoing endlessly within this dying tree. <<insert "//voidsong...?//">> The Old Ones say lost souls sometimes sing in hopes another will hear their story and remember them. Down, down, deep in the Dark, they raise their voices--and up, rebounding off broken spires and steep cliff faces, up and up and up, a precious few howl up from the Abyss and beg to be recalled. Secrets, stories, love poems, pleas--all are borne up with the wind. <<insert "And it echoes.">> What befalls those who hear a voidsong in its entirety? Ah...well, no one knows. Not one has been remembered fully, not since the Dark. Ah. I see you're curious now. //whisper, whisper...// And you hear it, too. The voidsong. //hush, hush.// Remember...do you remember? [[To remember...]] <<endinsert>><<endinsert>>

...perhaps that is how we can be freed. //from the dying, rotting tree// Yes--it, too, must pass...and when it does, we can be free of ourselves. <<mousecontinue>>Here, take my hand.<<endmousecontinue>> We stand here, white petals rushing past us, the breath of the Abyss stirring our hair, eyes transfixed on the horizon..and we wait for the <<insert "tree to die.">> And now, as I stand here, I realize something. About you. //[[me?]]// <<endinsert>>

Yes, you. Neither thief nor lamb. What are you? Unnamed, unknown. But I know now. You are the carrion crow. The parasite. A shadow that flirts with light. And feeds from it. Why were you drawn to the rotting tree? Did you smell <<mousereplace>>[[death?|null passage death]]<<becomes>>dinner?<<endmousereplace>> Did you seek out <<mousereplace>>[[a creature in need of care?|null passage care]]<<becomes>>prey?<<endmousereplace>> //[[no...]]//

null passage

==yes== It is not hard to understand you, because-- <<insert "==we are the same==">> No. //no// We both want to escape. That is all that links us. And now the boughs of the rotting tree wilt and its body bends--an old lady succumbing to her aches and pains. Yes, yes, let it happen, do not fight it. You and your scarf of rope are the centers of our madness. Maybe if you go away, [[everything else will too.]]<<endinsert>>

Slowly, slowly, the noose tightens around the rotting tree's neck. The winds raise their voices; the plateau trembles with the force of their howling. <<insert "The noose tightens.">> The rotting tree begins to bend; the old lady stoops to her knees, having dropped her basket and spilled her wares; the hanged man struggles and claws at his neck. <<insert "The noose tightens.">> The rotting tree begins to splinter, cracks tearing down its sides and champing at its roots; the old lady stumbles and falls, searing pain streaking through her decaying insides; the hanged man is desperate, now, desperate to escape the coarse, frayed snake slowly strangling him. <<insert "And still...the noose tightens...">> The rotting tree struggles to stand, but her legs are frail and useless; the old lady's blossoms peel away, abandoning the sinking ship as its branches twist and contort; the hanging man is burning, flames curling up his sleeves and scorching his purple face. <<insert "...until it can tighten no more.">> The rotting tree snaps in two. The old lady gasps her last breath. The hanging man has ceased to struggle. [[Look at what we've done.]] <<endinsert>><<endinsert>><<endinsert>><<endinsert>>

//i do not understand...// Do not understand the death we just witnessed? //we did nothing but watch// And it was the watching that killed the rotting tree. <<insert "//that cannot be//">> You try to pull away, but you must watch. Do you hear that? The wind has ceased. The dead grass has calmed. The broken corpse of the rotting tree lies on its side, its thorny crown splintered and sharp--and whistling no more. [[turn around. look behind us.]] <<endinsert>>

<<if $has_voidsong1_2 eq "yes">>Where before there was the husk, and the throat of Wonderland, there now stands a door. A single door, rising from the plateau's earthen face, frame slightly slanted as if still struggling against the wind. The paint is faded and peeling; the paint is white and gleaming. Approach the door from the front. <<revision doorfront>>Grip the door handle--smooth and cold.<<becomes>> The door creaks, swings forwards, and <<insert "reveals...">> Nothing. Nothing but the other side of the plateau, where the husk and the hole should've been but are not--flat, flat ground run through with grass and spreading cracks. And the sky stretches beyond where the cliff ends, all blended heavy strokes of grey and black as if tortured from the brush of the eccentric artist. <<insert "Put a foot through.">> Your foot passes through the frame easily. You stand, unsure, in the middle of the doorway--and the world stands still; even the wind died with the rotting tree. You step back.<<endinsert>><<endinsert>><<endrevision>> <<revise doorfront "Pull the handle, open the door.">> <<revert doorfront "Let the door swing shut.">> //[[perhaps the other side...?]]// <<else>>Where before there was the husk, there now stands a door. A single door, rising from the plateau's earthen face, frame slightly slanted as if still struggling against the wind. The paint is faded and peeling; the paint is grey and unremarkable. Approach the door from the front. <<revision doorfront>>Grip the door handle--smooth and cold.<<becomes>> The door creaks, swings forwards, and <<insert "reveals...">> Nothing. Nothing but the other side of the plateau, where the husk and the hole should've been but are not--flat, flat ground run through with grass and spreading cracks. And the sky stretches beyond where the cliff ends, all blended heavy strokes of grey and black as if tortured from the brush of the eccentric artist. <<insert "Put a foot through.">> Your foot passes through the frame easily. You stand, unsure, in the middle of the doorway--and the world stands still; even the wind died with the rotting tree. You step back.<<endinsert>><<endinsert>><<endrevision>> <<revise doorfront "Pull the handle, open the door.">> <<revert doorfront "Let the door swing shut.">> //[[perhaps the other side...?]]//<<endif>>

<<if $has_voidsong1_2 eq "yes">>Circle around, hands out and cautious as if a wall of mirrors might materialize and the magic trick be revealed. But we come across no walls. And now we stand before the other face of the door. It is identical to the other...side of the door. I do not know what you expected, but-- //open the door// Very well. //and look// Look? To what? The paint that flakes away at my touch? The strands of coarse rope tangled in the splinters, as if forcibly torn from a dead man's neck... //no. stop. don't talk about that. just...open the door// <<revision doorback>>Grab the handle.<<becomes>> The door swings out, [[and...|and...ii]]<<endrevision>> <<revise doorback "Pull.">> <<revert doorback "Let the door close.">> <<else>>Circle around, hands out and cautious as if a wall of mirrors might materialize and the magic trick revealed. But we come across no walls. And now we stand before the other face of the door. It is identical to the other...side of the door. I do not know what you expected, but-- //open the door// Very well. //and look// Look? To what? The paint that flakes away at my touch? The strands of coarse rope tangled in the splinters, as if forcibly torn from a dead man's neck... //open the door// <<revision doorback>>Grab the handle.<<becomes>> The door swings out, [[and...]]<<endrevision>> <<revise doorback "Pull.">> <<revert doorback "Let the door close.">><<endif>>

...another world lies beyond, like a living, moving, painting within the doorframe. I see a path...yes, a cobblestone path winding down through a city of blank buildings.\ <<timed 2s>><<replace "#changing">>rolling plains of smooth eggshell.<</replace>>\ <<next>><<replace "#changing">>a splintered cemetery of giants.<</replace>>\ <<next>><<replace "#changing">>a dream of a hanging garden.<</replace>>\ <<next>><<replace "#changing">>a city of blank buildings.<</replace>>\ <<next>><<replace "#changing">>a splintered cemetery of giants.<</replace>>\ <<next>><<replace "#changing">>a dream of a hanging garden.<</replace>>\ <<next>><<replace "#changing">>rolling plains of smooth eggshell.<</replace>>\ <<next>><<replace "#changing">>a mirror of light and a sea of milk.<</replace>>\ <<next>><<replace "#changing">>a city of blank buildings.<</replace>>\ <<next>><<replace "#changing">>a mirror of light and a sea of milk.<</replace>>\ <</timed>> A flat sky stretches above, and a gust of wind--sharp with the scent of something cold and metallic--brushes past our face. Step through the doorframe, testing, to be certain this is not some strange trick of the eyes... //it is real// The path is solid under your feet, slick with past rains. You step back quickly, away from the cold gusts and back to the stale air of the plateau. There is something unnerving about the realness of this portrait world. But it is an opportunity--it is a way out. Do we [[step forward, into the breathing painting,]] or do we [[remain, here, on the safety of the plateau?]]

<<if $has_voidsong1_2 eq "yes">>We pass through the frame--reality ripples, and the door falls shut behind us. <<insert "Turn at the sound of wood slamming against the shuddering doorframe.">> //look// The door is gone. Instead--a wall. Seems we have no choice but to continue [[down the path.|down the path ii]]<<endinsert>> <<else>>We pass through the frame--reality ripples, and the door falls shut behind us. <<insert "Turn at the sound of wood slamming against the shuddering doorframe.">> //look// The door is gone. Instead--a wall. Seems we have no choice but to continue [[down the path.]]<<endinsert>><<endif>>

You would truly stay here? //...no.// Here, at the edge of the Abyss, where all is swept and harsh and smudged? ==stay with me== //...no.// Some sick part of me harbors the perverse desire to stay--at least here my emptiness has meaning. But we cannot. Do you not wish to escape? ==stay with me== //...i do.// When you have only one exit path, you have [[no choice.|step forward, into the breathing painting,]] Through the doorway we must step, and leave the Mother of the Dark behind.

The city is made of paper.\ <<timed 2s>><<replace "#changeterr">>plains are fragile.<</replace>>\ <<next>><<replace "#changeterr">>cemetery is vast and grey.<</replace>>\ <<next>><<replace "#changeterr">>dream is lush and empty.<</replace>>\ <<next>><<replace "#changeterr">>city is made of paper.<</replace>>\ <<next>><<replace "#changeterr">>cemetery is vast and grey.<</replace>>\ <<next>><<replace "#changeterr">>dream is lush and empty.<</replace>>\ <<next>><<replace "#changeterr">>plains are fragile.<</replace>>\ <<next>><<replace "#changeterr">>mirror is cracking.<</replace>>\ <<next>><<replace "#changeterr">>city is made of paper.<</replace>>\ <<next>><<replace "#changeterr">>mirror is cracking.<</replace>>\ <</timed>> The city is hollow.<<timed 2s>><<replace "#hollowcity">>The world is hollow.<</replace>><</timed>> And as we walk, it collapses, folds in on itself and reshapes itself until the city is now a valley and then a flat plain--smooth like an egg. And now, look, as it becomes a city of blank buildings.\ <<timed 2s>><<replace "#changing">>rolling plains of smooth eggshell.<</replace>>\ <<next>><<replace "#changing">>a splintered cemetery of giants.<</replace>>\ <<next>><<replace "#changing">>a dream of a hanging garden.<</replace>>\ <<next>><<replace "#changing">>a city of blank buildings.<</replace>>\ <<next>><<replace "#changing">>a splintered cemetery of giants.<</replace>>\ <<next>><<replace "#changing">>a dream of a hanging garden.<</replace>>\ <<next>><<replace "#changing">>rolling plains of smooth eggshell.<</replace>>\ <<next>><<replace "#changing">>a mirror of light and a sea of milk.<</replace>>\ <<next>><<replace "#changing">>a city of blank buildings.<</replace>>\ <<next>><<replace "#changing">>a mirror of light and a sea of milk.<</replace>>\ <</timed>> //where are we going?// I do not know. I only follow the path--blindly then, numbly now--and hope it leads to a somewhere other than here. Is that not how we pass through life? <<mousecontinue>>Here. Again, take my hand. I wish to walk with you.<<endmousecontinue>> I have been thinking. //thinking? of what?// Of you. Carrion crow. Parasite. ... No, no, don't be like that. <<mousecontinue>>Please, give me back your hand.<<endmousecontinue>> //[[what now? on what else have you been speculating?]]//

You. <<insert "Only you.">> //flattered// Yes, I have been thinking...and now I must ask: what are you? Parasite? A feeding creature? Suckling, newborn? <<insert "What //are// you?">> //no longer flattered// Please, tell me. I do not understand--you are neither thief nor lamb, so you must be something. //can i not be nothing?// Can one be nothing? Surely you must exist within some parameter. //[[must i, now]]// <<endinsert>><<endinsert>>

And now we pass through a [[field of glass coffins]]--and in every one, I see you. As the world continues to implode and reform around us, I wonder-- //i must be empty, then// Pardon? //unnamed, unknown--if i cannot be nothing, i must be a something that is of very little substance indeed// [[Is that what we think, now?]]

<<if $has_voidsong2_2 eq "yes">> Delicate meteors, fallen from the sky--now rising from craters in the shifting land. The fields stretch on forever. In the distance, you can hear the sharp cascade of shattering glass. Near the path, however, the caskets remain unharmed. The cold wind whistles through the coffins, ricocheting from one to another and filling the air with a clear ringing...like the song of something lost and [[searching to be found.|must i, now]] <<else>>Delicate meteors, fallen from the sky--now rising from craters in the shifting land. The fields stretch on forever. In the distance, you can hear the sharp cascade of shattering glass. Near the path, however, the caskets remain unharmed. The cold wind whistles through the coffins, ricocheting from one to another and filling the air with a clear ringing...like the song of something lost and [[searching to be found.]]<<endif>>

<<if $has_voidsong2_2 eq "yes">>//i do not care--// Truly? //i do not wish to speak of this any longer// I...well. As you wish. Seek out the [[glass coffins|field of glass coffins]] nearby, then, or <<insert "continue down the path.">> //i will continue// Down the path we go, then, as the sky grows darker and the plains to either side slowly cease to shift from city to garden to grave. Dusk settles over the land--how long have we walked, now--and little needles of light spear through the paper sky. The wind picks up. [[And with it comes darkness.]]<<endinsert>><<else>>//i do not care--// Truly? //i do not wish to speak of this any longer// I...well. As you wish. Will you not, at the very least, seek out the [[glass coffins|field of glass coffins]] nearby...or...must you brush me aside and <<insert "continue down the path.">> //i will continue// Ah. Well...I see. Down the path we go, then, as the sky grows darker and the world to either side slowly ceases to shift from city to garden to grave. Dusk settles over the land--how long have we walked, now--and little needles of light spear through the paper sky. The wind picks up. [[And with it comes darkness.]]<<endinsert>><<endif>>

Empty head and empty airs-- Never blinks and blankly stares Nothing here for Nothing cares About our fleeting love affairs ~voidsong, [[2:2]] <<set $has_voidsong2_2 = "yes">>

Strange, to hear a voidsong where there is no void. Unless...curious...in all directions I see only glass towers; the darkness of the Abyss cannot be here. Perhaps a lone voice followed us through the door and now rebounds endlessly through the valley of coffins. Perhaps we'll find the final verse somewhere...if we [[return to the path,|must i, now]] we may come across it soon, and so complete the voidsong...

Can you see? On the fast-approaching horizon, where land meets sky, shadows thicken and spread in smudged tendrils. It smells like the Abyss. It must be the Abyss. It can only be the Abyss. Even as we approach, the clouds are run through with ink and the air is polluted with the perfume of sickly flowers. <<insert "//can we not escape the Abyss...//">> <<insert "The Old Ones say the Abyss begins wherever the world falls away and ends.">> <<insert "The Old Ones say the Abyss fills in the empty gaps and spaces.">> <<insert "The Old Ones say the Abyss is where the damned escape to; their own mind offers no sanctuary--they have no choice but to flee even that.">> //the old ones, the old ones...[[who are these old ones...?]]//<<endinsert>><<endinsert>><<endinsert>><<endinsert>>

Tall, faceless angels all dressed in coats of white, their heads sometimes mysterious and masked, their hands sometimes shrouded and gloved. What they say is law and widely accepted. Surely they are right in all they say. These Old Ones know much of the [[Abyss, the Mother of Cosmos, and the Mother of the Dark.]] They tell me every day, that I may remember. Remember...remember... Ah...such things are not for us to dwell on, though. We have a [[road to travel, no?]]

Come, sit for a while, and let me tell you a story. <<mousecontinue>>Yes, yes, sit //here,// there is time to rest before we again begin our trek.<<endmousecontinue>> Once upon a time there was the Mother of Cosmos and the Mother of the Dark, and each fell in love with either. But the Mother of Cosmos looked into its pond and saw a fish; the Mother of the Dark looked into the silvered sky and saw a bird. They did not realize they were a different sort of creature from the animals they spied--they simply saw and assumed they were meant to copy. The Mother of Cosmos was then an elegant golden fish. The Mother of the Dark was then a majestic silver bird. However, fish cannot love birds. Doomed to never be with the other, the two immortal lovers created the Abyss from their despair. It was the Abyss that distorted and allowed dreams to come true. It was the Abyss that twisted truths and let lies become dark and bottomless. And it was into the Abyss the two deities escaped, to live a life that was not theirs--together. Understand, now, that the Abyss was not made for mortal men like you or me. Rather, it might drive such temporary constructs to madness. We have rested enough. [[Let us continue.|road to travel, no?]]

Down the road we go. It is almost ending, this road. We have come a long way, now, <<insert "you and I.">> Perhaps you truly are a parasite, feeding from me, and I sustain you; you might discard me when I am no longer needed, the interest sucked dry from my marrow. //i would not...// You do not know. It may be in your nature, against your will, beyond your control. //do you hear?// Yes. The roar of the Abyss, as we approach the horizon--now the edge of a cliff, jagged and sharp. Yes, I hear. The rattling of the husk. The shivering chandelier. We never truly escaped, did we? //[[no...|did not escape]]// <<endinsert>>

We stand at the cliff's edge, at the seams of this world of paper and glass. The Abyss--now a bruised red and ugly darkness--churns angrily down, down, down, for as far as the eye can see. The clouds are flat and black, strangely outlined against the light, and the air stinks of dying blossoms. The Abyss is not happy, here. And yet, strangely... <<if $has_voidsong2_2 eq "yes">>[[I feel content.]]<<else>>[[I feel empty.]]<<endif>>

Will you take my <<hoverreplace>>hand?<<becomes>> hand? [[Yes,|handyes]] or [[no?|handno]]<<endhoverreplace>>

Take my hand in yours and step forward, closer to the edge. <<insert "Are you ready?">> //ready...? i do not understand...// But you do. We do. We do. ==i do not== <<insert "//ah...i do.//">> Once, before, I gazed over the edge and wondered how it would feel, to float, for a second--weightless as the blossoms of the rotting tree. But that was not the proper time. That was not the proper escape. That was a fleeing. This is a release. <<insert "//i am ready.//">> As am I. Come. <<mousecontinue>>Grip my hand. Tighter. Yes, like that.<<endmousecontinue>>If you tilt your head to the left just right, you can almost hear the final verse of the [[voidsong.]]<<endinsert>><<endinsert>><<endinsert>>

I understand your hesitation; the Abyss tempted you once before--and now you are wary of the same dark allure. But it is not the Abyss you listen to now. It is I. Can you <<hoverreplace>>[[trust me?|trust null passage]]<<becomes>>[[trust me,]] <<mousereplace>>or [[not?|null no]]<<becomes>>[[surely you can trust me.|trust me,]]<<endmousereplace>><<endhoverreplace>>

Whisper, whisper. No one hears But banished are our empty fears For there I stood, when came the end By you, I was, with you, my friend. ~voidsong, [[2:3]] <<set $has_voidsong2_complete = "yes">>

Do not think of it. Do not think of falling. Do not think of breaking. Think of the freedom. Think of the end. It is not a bad one, though perhaps there have been better. ... I still see the blossoms of the rotting tree fluttering past, white birds flying out to sea. I wonder if the rotting tree had to die. //inevitable// As all things are. and i think of falling //do not think of falling// think of freedom [[yes|think of freedom]]

do not think of falling think of letting go down down down i do not remember stepping forward, off the cliff's lip--i do not recall tumbling down into the darkness--i was light and free as i walked on air before the Abyss called me down down down letting go and the Mother of the Dark reaches up as the Mother of Cosmos reaches down and swallows us, into the //void my name// ... And it echoes. ... //[[End|End void2]]//

Whisper whisper, hush hush. Low eyelashes, coyly blush. Whisper whisper, kiss kiss. Nothing here to want or miss. Empty head and empty airs-- Never blinks and blankly stares Nothing here for Nothing cares About our fleeting love affairs Whisper, whisper. No one hears But banished are our empty fears For there I stood, when came the end By you, I was, with you, my friend. ~voidsong, 2 Thank you for playing. One end of six.

Thank you for playing. One end of six.

Double-click this passage to edit it.

To move on is indeed a frightening thing. Without that particular comfort of self-pity, we feel so...empty inside. But this is a way to be free again. Trust in me. [[And I will show you.|handyes]]

You can hear it snapping, can't you? You can hear the old lady's legs give way as her frail body crumples to the ground. You can hear the hanged man struggle and claw at his noose. //i do not wish to hear// You do not have to--[[cover your ears.]]

<<revision earsuncovered>>The hanging tree shrieks as it splits in two, the noose tightening mercilessly around its waist; the old lady's feeble bones break and snap as she succumbs to the aches of pains of her elderly age, her spine twisting horribly as she writhes and collapses; the hanging man convulses, a marionette dancing on the end of a cruel string.<<becomes>>The hanging tree...in two, the noose...merci...waist...old lady's feeble...as she...aches...pains of her elderly age, her spine...the hanging man...a marionette dancing...end of a...string. If you cannot hear them, [[do rotting trees still die?|soon...]]<<endrevision>> <<revise earsuncovered "Cover your ears.">><<revert earsuncovered "Uncover your ears.">>

...soon it is all over. The deed has been done. And we--we did nothing, yet still you feel guilt. How pitiful. //i cannot help but to--// Look, now. The rotting tree lies, snapped in two, like a broken toy discarded among the dead grasses. But, listen, now. The wind whistles through the thorny crown and its tangle of angular branches. <<insert "Can you hear?">> //it almost sounds like singing...// Because it //is// singing. We have found [[another voidsong.]] <<endinsert>>

And if cruel the world Then sweeter your tears Lamb, little lamb Never question your years. ~voidsong, [[1:2]] <<set $has_voidsong1_2 = "yes">>

Are you beginning to remember now? What you were before you were nothing? Innocent, were you? //me...?// No, the singer of this voidsong. Though, perhaps the voidsong changes even those who dare listen. Perhaps the singer was you. //i do not understand// Such is the ignorance of youth. //do not belittle me// Hush, child, I do not understand either. If I did, I wouldn't be here, standing next to you and listening to the songs a tree's corpse sings. //i do not want to be here anymore// Where else is there to be? Some things you cannot escape. //but we may try. [[turn around, look behind us...|turn around. look behind us.]]//

...another world lies beyond, like a living, moving, painting within the doorframe. <<insert "I see...">>a land of gold and diamonds--great curving cliffs of glittering gold, sweeping up in frozen waves, rising from the lush green grounds and yearning for the billowing clouds above. Towers of diamond loom upwards in crooked tiers like the clearest ice suspended in the act of melting. Angels in the sky. A silvered moon sinking into a river. <<insert "Paradiso, sun among stars.">> Step through the doorframe, testing, to be certain this is not some strange trick of the eyes... //it is real// The ground is solid beneath your feet, the slender green stalks of grass lashing at your knees. You step back quickly, away from the sweet, clear air and back to the staleness of the plateau. There is something unnerving about the realness of this portrait world. But it is an opportunity--it is a way out. Do we [[step forward, into the breathing painting,]] or do we [[remain, here, on the safety of the plateau?]] <<endinsert>><<endinsert>>

This must be a city of angels. Heavenly music fills the air--foreign and beautiful, unlike the strangeness of the voidsong--and the wind is gentle, here. Let us venture forth, then, through the golden valleys. //where are we going?// I do not know. I only follow the gilded path--blindly then, numbly now--and hope it leads to a somewhere other than here. Is that not how we pass through life? //i want to know where we're going...// Hush, little lamb, [[we'll find a way soon.]] //a way to where?// We shall see.

<<insert "We walk.">> <<insert "We walk.">> <<insert "//walk where...?//">> <<insert "Hush, lamb, do not question it: we walk.">> And find ourselves in the heart of the city--Paradiso, sun among stars. We are pygmies, here, among winged giants bearing runes upon their faces and masks on their hands and feet. Their bodies are made of diamond and precious metals. They could shatter and melt. They are angels. It makes one wonder if God could shatter and melt too. The angels stare through the [[runes.]] <<endinsert>><<endinsert>><<endinsert>><<endinsert>>

The angels say nothing as we pass, only watching with their seven glittering eyes. Great discs and orbs of gold and silver float overhead. Towers of glass gleam in the light of many moons. A dusty purple--the mask of dusk--settles over the sky, and spears of falling stars cast a twinkling aurora. Constellations make slow arcs across the darkness as the wheels of heaven turn. We walk down the frost-crusted streets, through the silent city, and the sound of bells resound with every step we take. We make our [[way to the center, where the heart of the gardens nests.|way to the center.]]

The tall sentinels, draped in purple robes, follow us as we make our way down the vine-choked arcade. And the moon passes overhead in its endless cycle, waxing and waning and waxing and waning over the garden of the Mother of Cosmos. The sentinels float behind us, six wings fluttering, toes of their icicle boots dragging across the ground and leaving ripples in their wake. We reach the center of the garden, the flickering moonlight painting the world silver and black. A statue stands perched upon a pedestal, one finger [[pointing upwards to the stars.]]

//look, to the statue's feet// Smooth marble run through with veins of blue-- //no, no, look to the pedestal...there is something strange...// ...it seems to balance on a rotating platform, allowing the gentlest of pushes to persuade the statue right or left--and in turning, her pointing arm turns, too. The sentinels have vanished. We are alone, now, in the garden of the Mother of Cosmos--alone, with only the flickering moon for company. With the sentinels gone...surely no one will mind if we [[change the statue's position...|change the statue's position, no?]]

To what constellation would you like to point the pale arm? To [[Perithragas,]] the Flower Eater? To [[Vyvynn,]] the Elder? To [[Taru,]] Fruit of Angels? To [[Khalida'a,]] the Fan Empress? To [[Sephone,]] the Madding Crowd? <<later>> Curious. A sentinel has appeared--but makes no move to stop us. Instead, it simply floats nearby, purple cloak fluttering in the wind.<<becomes>> A second sentinel has appeared.<<becomes>> And now three sentinels wait, patient and eerily silent.<<becomes>> Do you hear? With the fourth sentinel...the faintest of singing can be heard...<<becomes>> Yes, I can hear it clearly now--with the fifth sentinel, [[there came singing.]]<<endlater>>

He was a beautiful boy, golden hair spilling about his shoulders, blue eyes dancing in the light, red lips stained with the blood of roses and pretty things. And he was a cruel little boy, twisted and freakish--for whatever was beautiful in this world, he consumed. He loved the garden, for it held many beautiful things; he believed flowers to be the most precious of all creations. So he ate, and ate, and ate, not realizing that sometimes, it is the prettiest thing that is the most poisonous. He died a beautiful boy, golden hair spilling about his shoulders, blue eyes unseeing and glazed, red lips stained with the blood of the most beautiful blossom in all the world--and the toxin it secretes. See, the statue points to him now, lying motionless amidst the corpses of flowers. [[Would you like to see another?|change the statue's position, no?]]

Vyvynn is an old, sad man. He was once King of the Gods, but when a mortal seduced his wife away, he forswore his heavenly kingdom and took on a corporeal form, determined to win back the hand of his love. He was never seen again. Perhaps gods, like birds, cannot cope with a life on the ground. The pantheon he left behind put his memory into star-form; now the first King of the Gods forever watches over his subjects--and perhaps keeps a jealous eye on the woman he lost to another. [[Come, would you like to see another?|change the statue's position, no?]]

She was the youngest child of Vyvynn, first King of the Gods, and loved by all--both mortals and those eternal. But she was born cursed: any angel, man, or god that dared eat of food she had touched would die as stars do and succumb to the void. So Taru, sweet Taru, sought out a wise woman at the ends of the earth, and begged that the curse be reversed. And the wise woman agreed. Had Taru, sweet Taru, asked that the curse be lifted, perhaps she would still live among gods, not among stars. But she only asked that it be reversed--and reversed it was. So when Taru, sweet Taru, returned that day and drank freely of the wine and ate of the feast, all who consumed that which she touched fell into a great passion for Taru, sweet Taru, and pledged their life to every breath she took. Such obsession can grow dangerous, and the obsessed can perish by recklessness; fearing that soon every angel in all of Paradiso would become enthralled with his only daughter, Vyvynn had no choice but to lock Taru away in a tower in the sky. Look, now--you can see the spire in which she sleeps. She never eats; she now finds food repulsive. There are many sad stories hidden among the stars. [[Let us find a happier one.|change the statue's position, no?]]

Khalida'a is the Serpent-Harpy, the Empress of Fans, the Rider of Winds. Her face is an arrowhead of harsh planes, her tongue made of silver and lined with glittering emeralds that flash in the moonlight when she parts her thin lips. Her eyes are narrow and the colour of envy--her cheeks flush violet when she grows mad. She is the Rider of Winds, Queen Khalida'a of the Seventy-Nine Seas, Jewel-Tongue, Gem-Eye. She swallows stars as she snakes across the night sky, growing ever longer as the year passes by. By the end of the rotation of the heavens, Khalida'a will have conquered all, her sparkling belly swollen with planets and falling stars. [[One day, she may even consume this world. Let us pray we are not here when that time comes.|change the statue's position, no?]]

Sephone is a pulsing amalgamation of ten thousand discarded constellations broken by time and entropy. The great hive mind in the sky, ever alert, ever calculating, Sephone controls the patterns of the heavens and nurtures the abandoned, accepting of the irregulars and mother to the orphans. See the curtain of falling stars? "Tears of Sephone." [[She weeps for the unwanted.|change the statue's position, no?]]

The archangels float before us, their six wings gently stirring the air as they lift their voices in [[song.|voidsong 1:3]]

So look, little lamb Look to the sky Smother the stars With the tears that you cry ~voidsong, [[1:3]]

But...how? The angels of this otherworldly Paradiso should not be singing songs of the void, and yet... <<insert "//i...i am scared...//">> The sentinels loom over us, five towering inquisitors in cloaks of royal purple. <<insert "//i'm frightened...of these...//">> And their crystalline masks begin melting as the porcelain faces on their hands and feet shatter, their six wings flaring out behind them in rays of fire. They raise their voices in shrill chorus--and their jaws fall away, their mouths opening and unfolding and collapsing as the flickering moon falls from the sky and the garden shoots across the grassy plains in a curtain of stars. <<insert "//i hear the roar of the abyss once more//">> The sentinels stretch and warp, growing taller and taller--and over their shoulder, I can see the silvery towers cascading to the ground in sheets of shattered glass. <<insert "//i smell the abyss's rancid breath...//">> [[And then Paradiso is swallowed by Khalida'a and all plunges back into the darkness from which it was born.|Paradiso collapse]] <<endinsert>><<endinsert>><<endinsert>><<endinsert>>

Blink. <<timed 2s>><<replace "#blink">>Darkness.<</replace>>\ <<next>><<replace "#blink">>Blink again.<</replace>>\ <<next>><<replace "#blink">>Still darkness.<</replace>>\ <<next>><<replace "#blink">>It's a crushing darkness, a suffocating sort that seems to shift and dance and paint strange, colourful patterns under your eyelids when you close your eyes in an attempt to [[escape this smothering blanket.]]<</replace>>\ <</timed>>

Feel around, hands tentative and probing. <<timed 2s>><<replace #blinkii>>Only thick emptiness. The air is like soup.<</replace>>\ <<next>><<replace #blinkii>>We must be...ah, yes. <<insert "Do you hear?">> <<insert "//hear what...?//">> [[The sound of the Abyss breathing.|Abyss breathing]] <<endinsert>><<endinsert>> <</replace>>\<</timed>>

<<insert "Open your eyes.">> Look. We stand once more at the edge of the Abyss, at the lips of the Mother of the Dark. The cracked ground beneath our feet. The wind whipping past us. The sky a dome of flayed clouds. But there is no rotting tree, no more. There is no lonely door, <<insert "no more.">> We never truly escaped, did we. //no...// We only went deeper, didn't we. //i do not want to be here, anymore.// The little Lamb wants Mary to lead it home? //i am...so tired...// Ah. So, even the innocents can [[know despair.]]<<endinsert>><<endinsert>>

//i am not oblivious// Oh, truly! //i am NOT// Hear the small child protest... //you think you know so much of me--// So tell me, then--enlighten me; [[what do you know?]]

<<timed 3s>>//...nothing//<</timed>> <<timed 5s>>Indeed...just as I thought. //knowing of pain does not a better man make// No, it is not that you know so little of despair. It is that you know so little of joy, as well. You know nothing of anything! How can you be so pure and...and so //empty?// //i am not...empty...// Where is the fire? The ice? The bittersweet and salt? The chill and warmth? I see no bursts of colour when I look at you, no brilliant display--only deep shades of purple, black, white, and grey. And I wonder. How much of a person are we, truly? How can anyone live like this, unfilled always? //[[is it such a terrible thing? why must you take issue with it?]]// If only because... //[[i wish...i wish to be more]]//<</timed>>

Pardon me, then, foolish child. I only wished to help-- ==i thought you cared== --but I see now my words come from an age too old for you. ==because i care== So it shall be, then! I see, I understand--unlike you, you and your delusional philosophies! Very well, then! Be the Lamb, but I will no longer be your Mary; I will lead you nowhere, and you will be my nothing. If I cannot take from you those rose-coloured glasses, someone else will shatter them, stab their shards deep into your oblivious eyes. That is the inevitable course of existence--and I could almost pity you, if I had sympathy to spare. And yet I don't. //[[and now who is being childish, here!]]//

Do not we all? //but i wish...// The sweet wishes of the unknowing--cast them out, into the Abyss, let them fly fast and far on the back of the wind, as the blossoms of the rotting tree once did. //i wish the rotting tree...could have been spared...// Nonsense. If you knew more, you would not feel the same way...but it is well enough as is. //i want...// Yes, yes...I know how you feel, little lamb. You, too, want to the feel the sun warming your back, the cool crisp wind at your face. You feel a great yearning in the center of your chest--just past your heart and just above your stomach. And you want to lean forward, forward, just a little farther forward, off the edge of the cliff to stare down at the crashing waves below. //yes// Yes. I know this-- ==because you and i, we are the same== --because...[[because.]]

Do not even begin to dare to lift that finger and point it at me. //you are no better than i// You can't possibly understand what you're saying. //leave me, then. i do not need you// Oh, truly? You would say that? //i just want to go back...// Go back where, exactly? //...just...back...// You don't even know. You can't remember. You can't know. //...just...[[leave me alone...]]//

As you wish. As you want. I will leave you here, stranded on a plateau slowly crumbling into the mouth of the Mother of the Dark. I will leave you here, to listen to the howling wind. I will leave you here, to inhale the stench of the Abyss--and rot. //wait...// You want to <<mousereplace>>[[escape with me?|escape null passage]]<<becomes>>escape? You cannot escape.<<endmousereplace>> You want to <<mousereplace>>[[return?|return null passage]]<<becomes>>return? There is nowhere for you to return TO! There is nothing for you here, nothing for you anywhere, and YOU are NOBODY!<<endmousereplace>> //no...i just want to...// So stay here, then. Stay here and rot. [[And you will become the next rotting tree.]]

Double-click this passage to edit it.

//no...please wait...// No. I will not wait. I will not stay. ==stay with me== It was you who drove me away. <<timed 3s>> So stay here. There is nowhere for you to go. You will never escape the edge of the Abyss. And now I leave you, rotting Lamb, little tree. ... //[[End|badlambEnd]]// <</timed>>

Thank you for playing. One end of six.

<<mousecontinue>>Come, take my hand.<<endmousecontinue>>Let us inch closer to the edge together. //but...i don't feel...// No, no, don't worry, nothing will happen. I...//I// will not let anything happen... ==to you== ...to you. <<mousecontinue>>Don't be shy. Just take my hand in yours.<<endmousecontinue>>And here we stand--wind rushes past us, biting and cold but strangely filled with a life I did not think could be found in the Abyss. And ghost blossoms of the ghost rotting tree flutter past; brilliant, brilliant, soft and sweet. We may stand here for an eternity--we may never escape. We may turn to stone, or turn to trees. Can you feel it? The roots of our feet, tunneling through the cracked surface of the earth. Our hands, entwined. You've grown still, now--and I have too, but I can still feel your hand in mine. And our flowers bloom and their petals come free in the wind. Brilliant, brilliant, soft and sweet. And off, to the event horizon of the Abyss, they fly--free. ... //[[End|goodlambEnd]]//

Lamb, little lamb Stay your death throes Thou knows not Of the world and its woes And if cruel the world Then sweeter your tears Lamb, little lamb Never question your years. So look, little lamb Look to the sky Smother the stars With the tears that you cry But lamb, little lamb Do not weep at the end At the edge of the world I stand with you--my friend ~voidsong 1 Thank you for playing

Something is not right. Something is <<insert "missing.">> I am this world; I am paper and glass. FRAGILE, my packaging reads, HANDLE WITH CARE...for I am hollow and will sag in direct sunlight and rain. CAREFUL, the red tape cautions, SHARP EDGES...for I may cut the unaware, but glitter and am obvious to those who are looking. And you... ==we are the same== //no// No, you and I, we...frailty and cutting edges are incompatible pairs; we ruin each other. You, in all your emptiness--me, in all my confusion and grief. What are we? Who are we? WHY, our return address reads, ARE WE? For nobody knows. ==where the wind comes from== <<mousereplace>>Take my hand?<<becomes>>//no// <<mousereplace>>Please?<<becomes>>//...i cannot. your edges may cut// <<insert "And your hollow soul may darken.">> ==and where the wind goes== [[And now we stand, alone and yet abreast, at the edge of the end.|edge end stand]] <<endinsert>><<endmousereplace>><<endmousereplace>><<endinsert>>

Double-click this passage to edit it.

Something is missing. The shard of voidsong rattles about within us, rebounding endlessly down the hallways in my head, yearning and desperate--but something is missing. <<insert "==not your fault==">> <<insert "//it is your fault//">> Ah, yes; classically, you blame me alone for a failure born by two. //your fault// That we are trapped here //your fault// That the voidsong remained unfinished--the lost soul, unfulfulled //your fault// maybe //we// are the lost souls, and this is our //your fault// [[purgatory]] <<endinsert>><<endinsert>>

But //you//...//you// are empty and false. You are a parasite. You are Famine and Gluttony. You hate yourself. ==i love you== //i hate// you //only you// and me, only me, stands here as the wind presses against my back, urging me--only me--forward and forward and ever further forward towards the edge as the Abyss froths and stretches wider its maw... <<insert "I will leave you.">> //do as you please// <<insert "You will be alone.">> //as before! as always! you couldn't care// ==i care== No...I suppose <<insert "I could not.">> I suppose <<insert "I do not.">> ==i care== There is no reason for me to care any longer. Puppet. Marionette. You hate you, only you--and [[you, only you...]] <<endinsert>><<endinsert>><<endinsert>><<endinsert>>

==are me, only me== ...are me, only me. How did it come to this? <<timed 4s>>It happened so fast. <<timed 6s>>One moment, you were a grey mannequin, faceless and escaping all description--and you were beautiful. //in a field of glass coffins// And what are you now? ==[[We are the rotting tree.]]==<</timed>><</timed>>

It is funny how suddenly words lose meaning. <<timed 1s>>Your lips part, but the bark spreading over your face claws your mouth closed once more. <<next>>Your eyes darken, shadows smudging and smoky bruises smothering the stars that used to shine there. <<next>>A hand reaches out, but freezes, consumed by a hardening shell. <<next>>And a heart pulses, a long-haired girl throwing her head back as the shower water runs and the steam rises, the filmy membrane a curtain to tease the darknesses that [[haunt inside.]]<</timed>> <<timed 2s>>How quickly stone turns to dust and the moon to water. <<next>>Is it not amusing, how one thorn tipped with poison--so carelessly trodden upon and as easily forgotten--can kill a lover? It was nothing, no more than a sharp gaze or a shunned kiss or perhaps a proffered hand coldly brushed aside. But it is nothing that comes between; some darknesses [[haunt inside.]]<</timed>>

Where is the rotting tree now? I thought we had escaped the Abyss, I thought the rotting tree had died, but I see now some darknesses haunt inside--and there are others that fester and grow. Can you feel it? Sprouting from the cavity in your chest, from the hollow clawed by hands not belonging to nature--if you look closely, you can see your shriveled heart shuddering behind layers of pulsing membrane, your innards slick and purple. <<insert "The wind howls.">> Your fingers--twisting branches, cruel and reaching. Your eyes--sunken pits. Your tears--sap, and later a hangman's noose. And you are choking. As it tightens. <<insert "The wind circles.">> Like a hungry animal. You reach out to me? //you could not care// No...no, I suppose [[I could not.]]<<endinsert>><<endinsert>>

I will leave you now. ... You say nothing? You do not move. Or, perhaps, sway ever so slightly in the wind as it whistles through your branches. But your mouth has been sewn shut by stiches of sap and thorn, your eyes sunken too deep to see anymore--and your limbs, rooted deep into the ground, clutching at the cliff and scrabbling through the parched ground. ... I will leave you now. <<timed 5s>>...do you hear? The wind as it howls. And as it rushes past, it swirls through the hollow in your chest--and fragments of a [[lost voidsong stir.]]<</timed>>

Perhaps another will stumble free of the husk and find you standing here, solitary and silently screaming--and they will tilt their ear towards your hollow...and they will hear a verse of a <<insert "wandering voidsong.">> And perhaps they will make the same mistakes <<insert "I made...">> ...or perhaps they will not. Perhaps they will have found a way to make <<insert "strange things work.">> But they may not. They may stand on this same cliff and strain their head towards the all-consuming sky as the flesh of trees swallows them; their hands may turn to branches, their eyes become <<insert "sunken pits oozing sap.">> But I hope that does not come to pass for a [[long, long, long time.]] <<endinsert>><<endinsert>><<endinsert>><<endinsert>>

Because<<timed 3s>>, I am you.<<next>> And they are us. <<next>>And for them to pass on, you too must die. <<next>>[[And a new rotting tree must grow.]]<</timed>>

<<timed 3s>>This is farewell. <<next>>And the void reclaims me as you watch, transfixed, your tears turning to white petals that rush past in the wind and out into a flat infinity. <<next>>Lone white birds flying out, out back to sea. [[The End.|notthief bad End]]<</timed>>

Thank you for playing. One end of six.

The black glass doors watch us coldly. It seems the club is closed. We have no choice but [[the street, then.|continue street]]

Are you certain? You would walk alone in the cold? //[[is there any other way to walk?|continue street]]// //[[...no, no, i wish to enter the club...|club, ahead]]//

Turn your back to the club. The music spikes imploringly--but fades with disinterest as we turn onto the street. The monster turns its flashing, neon lights away; perhaps it will later lure fresher, more gullible prey. The night is still young and eternal. <<insert "//where are we going?//">> You ask me? You wished to go this way, not I. You decide. <<insert "//i do not know...//">> Ah, I cannot make these decisions for you. Wouldn't want to be accused of being controlling, now would I? <<insert "//i have not...//">> Make a decision! Or I will leave you to decide on your own. //fine, [[down the street, then]]// <<endinsert>><<endinsert>><<endinsert>>

Down the street, then. Though the sound of traffic tortures the air all around us, there are no vehicles--let us walk in the middle of the road in defiance of the invisible dangers. Surely that is how you live your life, anyways. //and now passive aggressive...// Pardon? //...never mind...// [[Where are we going?]]

//i do not know// To the street corner, then. To the lonely little food cart waiting in the rain, red in the streetlights, white in the billboards' glare. We approach. In a city of glass and mirrors and steel, here sits a single cart of ramshackle wood, a pleasant golden warmth against these modern edges and harsh flares. We arrive. Food is laid out over a grill, an array of drinks to the side. Duck under the drooping overhang, its flaps heavy with water. Steam rises. Paper lanterns dangle from its sign. Warmth. //ah...food...// Yes, a veritable feast in this city where even the people are wraiths: basking in the molten glow of the stove, there waits <<insert "a cup of murky soup, bubbling and rich;">> <<insert "a loaf of bread, flaking and thin;">> <<insert "a bowl of rice liquor, sweet and clear;">> <<insert "and a slab of meat, red and dripping with wines.">> <<insert "//what are we to do?//">> Look, there. [[A napkin.]]<<endinsert>><<endinsert>><<endinsert>><<endinsert>><<endinsert>>

A corner tucked beneath an array of condiments, it flutters in the faint exhales of the grill, hoping to catch our attention. Look. <<insert "//...writing...//">> Indeed, words have been scrawled hastily across its face in dark ink. Free the napkin and take it in your hands, <<insert "read what has been written.">> Wary be of the gift that's free Trust not though helpful deeds may be. Of loneliness comes desperate men And once lost, never found again ~voidsong, 3:1 //[[...what does that mean?]]// <<set $has_voidsong3_1 = "yes">> <<endinsert>><<endinsert>>

...how strange. I did not expect to find a voidsong so far from the Abyss... <<insert "//voidsong?//">> The Old Ones say lost souls sometimes sing in hopes another will hear their story and remember them. Down, down, deep in the Dark, they raise their voices--and up, rebounding off broken spires and steep cliff faces, up and up and up, a precious few howl up from the Abyss and beg to be recalled. Secrets, stories, love poems, pleas--all are borne up with the wind. <<insert "And it echoes.">> What befalls those who hear a voidsong in its entirety? Ah...well, no one knows. Not one has been remembered fully, not since the Dark. //why is a voidsong here?// I do not know. It is a fragment of memory, a shard of the past, a tale of a world that repeats itself endlessly through all its myriad forms. Perhaps it is trying to tell us something... [[What is written on the napkin's back?]] <<endinsert>><<endinsert>>

Nothing. ... I do not trust this food, enticing as it may be. <<insert "Let us not go the way of Persephone.">> We turn our back on the food cart and head deeper into the city. The warmth of the stove fades and is replaced by a stinging cold, bitter with rejection. Two desires we have now foregone. <<insert "What new temptation will present itself, do you wonder?">> //i do not// ...indeed. Well. I do. //good for you// [[...]]<<endinsert>><<endinsert>>

Down the streets--and to either side, the skyscrapers loom, so high as to wage war with the stars. Overhead, the sound of jets streaks across the clouds, but I see nothing. <<insert "We are surrounded by nothing.">> Only an angry absence that gnashes its teeth against reality and tears at the fragile threads that comprise silken fate. We are nearing the heart of the city--I can feel it, in the way the air cracks and static scars the billboard faces. I feel it, in the way the neon lights flicker uncertainly. I feel it, in the way you turn your shoulder to me and refuse to meet my eyes. <<insert "//and whose fault is that?//">> And you call me spiteful! //...there is no point to this. let us continue...// <<insert "Still you avoid...">>ah. Never mind. Very well. [[To the center.]]<<endinsert>><<endinsert>><<endinsert>>

//look...at the street corner...// <<insert "This feels strangely familiar.">> And yet, where there once was a food cart, there now waits a lone phonograph, gleaming gold and scarlet beneath the streetlights and rain. <<insert "We near this strange relic...">>and when we reach it, the ghost of a song emerges from its bell and <<insert "echoes through our ears.">> And caution, you, the siren's song Listen, but don't listen long The anger strangers feel for friends Is full of bitter, tragic ends ~voidsong, [[3:2]] <<set $has_voidsong3_2 = "yes">> <<endinsert>><<endinsert>><<endinsert>>

//...another voidsong?// Perhaps. I do not understand why they are here... //...well. there is no reason to linger.// <<insert "At least have the decency to wait for me.">> We move away. The phonograph stands forgotten on the corner, alone once again, the voidsong trapped in an endless loop until we [[move too far away to hear.]] <<endinsert>>

...perhaps the voidsongs are trying to tell us something. Lost souls beg to be heard. But what is their message? We walk in the echoes of their footsteps, and we change with every step--every step bringing us closer to the same fate, the same end...so do they warn us now? Perhaps with every song we hear, we grow more alike...<<insert "will we too fall prey to the Abyss?">> //we are nothing alike// ...we are different now from when we began, <<insert "in that lonesome husk at the edge of the world...">> //and now i aim to return to that edge--i wish to find the rotting tree// <<insert "And chop it down?">> //again--why would i do such a thing?// <<insert "What, then.">> //...i wish to escape...as do you// Indeed. But to escape, the rotting tree must-- //[[enough]]// <<endinsert>><<endinsert>><<endinsert>><<endinsert>>

... <<timed 2s>>It grows harder to talk with you. <<next>>Stone walls provide better company; I have known frozen worlds to be warmer. <<next>>//shame// <<next>>And you stride on past, briskly now. Do you feel that? The angry absence has grown--now a massive, hulking behemoth, trapped between glass walls, maddened by its reflection in the dark, glossy mirrors. Dark clouds are gathering over the heart of the city, swirling and churning as they overwhelm the moon. The billboards are shattered and cracked and hanging loosely from their fastenings. The neon lights are flickering erratically. The street is awash with litter and last night's dinner, graffiti smeared across the sidewalk. Spires spear angrily into the sky, glass gargoyles snarling from their perch on the overhangs. The sound of traffic is now overwhelming, competing with the rising wind for dominance. [[We have reached the center.]]<</timed>>

There--a streetpost--and from it flutters a lone poster, tattered and torn. It is an old man, clinging to his last shelter, his weathered face wrinkled and blurred in the rain. But the ink tattoes on his paper skin still persist-- "So feed from fury, feed from guilt From rage this burning bridge was built Why in love when love must end? Desire only foe, not friend." ~voidsong, [[3:3]] <<set $has_voidsong3_3 = "yes">>

...these worlds...<<insert "endlessly repeating...">> There is a pattern to everything--chaos is simply our way of saying, "The pattern is too complex, too vast for us to comprehend, so here we have a placeholder." So...could there be...? We have already lived this world, again and again--a palace of angels, a stone garden, a shapeshifting land--now it is a city of temptations. <<insert "We have walked this path before.">> //this is not the same...// But the choices will be. <<insert "It will end.">> As it has before. ...And now we are here again, at the [[heart of the city.]] <<endinsert>><<endinsert>><<endinsert>>

The tallest skyscraper in the city rears its mighty head, its neon crown crackling and hissing as tendrils of eye-scorching colour leak from its shattered rim and spark through the rain--little whips of light lashing at the nearby buildings. Its robe of black glass is embroidered with cracks, its billboard mask painted gold and white. <<timed 3.5s>> The building seems to grow. <<next>>Can you see? Its spire yearns upwards, to challenge the sky. <<next>>The thrum of helicopters shudders the ground and trembles the windows. Perhaps the city will shake apart. <<next>>The clouds have now noticed the intruder. The storm contracts, affronted by this breach of the heavens--and begins to swirl, its countenance darkening in anger. <<next>>The rain has ceased, for the air has grown too tense to allow it to fall--if it did, it would surely catch fire. The spire still reaches, a dark serpent twisting upwards in defiance of its sin. The storm gathers itself, its lips parting in the slightest of grins as something terrible shrieks into existence in its mouth-- <<next>>[[And then its jaws split open--]] <</timed>>

--and the wrath of the gods erupts free from the darkness in a brilliant, violent spear of lightning that shatters the very air and burns our eyes. <<timed 2s>>The Tower of Babel crumbles; [[the serpent spurned.]]<</timed>>

<<timed 5s>>When the light fades and our vision returns...the madding city is no more. Instead, we are left standing, stranded, on a plateau at the edge of reality where the world ends and the Abyss begins. And what a hellish place [[this is.]]<</timed>>

I don't remember the edge of the Abyss looking like this. It never looked like this. This is different. Something is wrong, here. I remember a cold, silent world of grey. But this...//this//...this is a nightmare. //this is not what i saw through the window of the husk...// No. It is not. This here...here, the sky is a dome, streaked with bruises of crimson and stains of yellow sulfur, the clouds torn apart as if flayed. The sky is a sphere of fire, and we are inside, and everything swirls around us in a frenzied tempest. The ground is cracked obsidian beneath our feet and grates like skulls beneath the heels of conquerors. A [[hatchet]] lies nearby, its blade rusted and cruel. <<insert "//...behind us?//">> There is nothing behind us. The city is gone, the husk is gone--only this world of flame and fury remains. And, look--there, the rotting tree we sought. //[[...but it looks different...]]//<<endinsert>>

Through the window we saw an old lady, scarf of rope fluttering. But now here there stands a blackened and twisted creature--the silhouette of a hanged man stark against the fiery iris of the Mother of the Dark's eye. //is this our escape?// <<insert "I do not know.">> //you do not KNOW?// No...I not. I have not seen this hateful world before. I had not known you, either... //you have taken me to the wrong place. this is not right. this is--// <<insert "This is not my fault!">> //i TRUSTED you--// And yet, even now, you lay the blame on me. //you told me we would be free// I never said that. //you told me I would be free// [[I promised you NOTHING!]] <<endinsert>><<endinsert>>

//...ah.// //i thought...you were...different.// I don't--I never meant--what is that supposed to mean?! //you disgust me// What? Am I //spiteful// now? Is that what this is about? //maybe she just smiles at everyone// And I am nothing. //maybe she just laughs at everything// And in my derangement, I hadn't realized how empty and meaningless I had become. Is that what this is about? Answer me. <<insert "Answer me!">> <<insert "...">> <<insert "Why are you picking up the hatchet?">> <<insert "Put the hatchet down. What are you doing? Put...put the hatchet down!">> Why are you--what--no, stop. Stop. I said, STOP! [[Why are you raising it above your head--]] <<endinsert>><<endinsert>><<endinsert>><<endinsert>>

...its edge a wicked grin spotted with red flakes, its handle splintering into wooden teeth that hunger for the wielder's pain. Only in great anger would anyone ever lift this hateful weapon--and it seem that this realm is a place of [[great anger indeed.|this is.]]

--and you sink it deep, deep into the rotting tree. <<timed 3s>>And the world shrieks in agony. <<next>>You have damaged something sacred. The Abyss stirs beneath us, its folds of eternity rustling and shifting. The Mother of the Dark is waking. [[What are you doing?|What are you //doing?//]]<</timed>>

//i am escaping// //i have done what you could not do// With every bite of the hatchet, the crimson sky pulses--the throb of a threatened heart. The rusty metal bites into the black wood, deep and cutting, covering its twisted body with grinning gashes as garish blood pours from its wounds. //i am escaping// //and the rotting tree must die// [[You would burn the world to free it.]]

<<insert "//i am//">> Again, the hatchet cuts into the tree with a triumphant THUD--and the world writhes in pain. The plateau shudders and tilts. The clouds are stained with this bloodletting. Do you not see? This is not the way! <<insert "//who are you to talk//">> THUD The sky flutters and begins to blacken. The blood of trees runs fast and thick. And now the rotting tree sways and begins to lean as its middle is eaten away by your anger. //you are the angry one, the spiteful one, the trident of the storm// I am the white-hot lightning, <<insert "but you are the storm.">> THUD <<insert "The clouds are weeping blood.">> I see cracks running through the dome. And now the Abyss breathes fire--I can almost see it, now, crawling up the cliff face, licking the edge of this obsidian plateau. You will destroy everything. <<insert "//i am escaping//">> THUD The world is burning. The world is burning and the skies are bleeding. The world is burning. <<insert "Stop.">> //THIS is what the pain of skies--// THUD The rotting tree's last sinew, last tattered thread of skin, gives way at the cleft and it falls in two, its stomach chopped open and its innards clinging to the hatchet's jagged edge. //--truly [[feels like]]//<<endinsert>><<endinsert>><<endinsert>><<endinsert>><<endinsert>><<endinsert>>

The rotting tree falls, and the world is consumed by fire. <<timed 3s>>Burning. <<next>>Burning. <<next>>You have set the Abyss aflame. <<next>>Do you hear? The anguished howls of lost souls, bemoaning their immolation. A last voidsong rises, a brief phoenix, from the inferno-- Sweet like rage, revenge will come. 'Tis agony when all's said and done That we will cherish when comes the end Together, let us burn, my friend. ~voidsong, [[3:4]]<</timed>>

This is how the world ends. Howling. It is blistering. I am being consumed--and I see you, now, wraith of fire, vengeful seraphim cloaked in flame. We are drowning in the blood of trees and everything is fire, burning, burning...brilliant, brilliant. I cannot feel anymore <<timed 3s>>My eyes? <<next>>I do not <<next>>This is <<next>>burning <<next>>you are gone now, it is too bright for me to <<next>>cannot <<next>>... <<next>>[[escape]]<</timed>>

Wary be of the gift that's free Trust not though helpful deeds may be. Of loneliness comes desperate men And once lost, never found again And caution, you, the siren's song Listen, but don't listen long The anger strangers feel for friends Is full of bitter, tragic ends So feed from fury, feed from guilt From rage this burning bridge was built Why in love when love must end? Desire only foe, not friend. Sweet like rage, revenge will come. 'Tis agony when all's said and done That we will cherish when comes the end Together, let us burn, my friend. ~voidsong 3 <<insert "The End.">> Thank you for playing. One end of six.<<endinsert>>