The Memory Man

[Ataraxis]

The Memory Man (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2A47owWvs4U)


[ Dramatis personae ]

Gabrielle Marie Twylith (http://www.althanas.com/world/showthread.php?t=7411)
Zachary Cade Booth (http://www.althanas.com/world/showthread.php?t=20270)
Caduceus Ezekiel Grimaldi (http://www.althanas.com/world/showthread.php?t=14388)
Lillian Marici Sesthal (http://www.althanas.com/world/showthread.php?t=16278)
Taylor Zumdahl
René Magritte

***

“Nothing fixes a thing so intensely in the memory as the wish to forget it.”




Michel de Montaigne

[Ataraxis]

The way to Camus was longer than Lillian had first realized. In terms of duration, she had hit dead on the nail: there were only two more days and seventeen hours to go… in terms of sheer grief, however, the poor teenager had been devastatingly off mark. The voyage had been harsh, but not because of the beating sun or the ruthless terrain of these uncharted lands. Not to her, at least. The traveling librarian had never considered herself an especially robust person, what with her frail constitution and utter disdain for physical exertion, but the months she had spent on her own had accustomed her to long treks across inhospitable territories.

Her latest charges, however, clearly found the whole practice preposterous. Brielle, the red-haired girl, her senior of only one year, had moaned and groaned merely hours into the first day of their march. Her complaints had been many, later on: a pebble in her shoes, a cramp in her left calf, then the right, even a persistent itch on her ankles. For all of these, they stopped for her to rest and recover, and every time Lillian corrected her calculations with a frown.

Zachary, their elder by half a dozen years at the very least, was more vigorously built, and Lillian had hoped he would endure the trip better than his distaff comrade. That hope had been short-lived; being a man, he could tolerate pain and fatigue to preserve his masculinity, but he would also sulk in the fresh shadows of a tree every two pit-stops, panting in silence while fiddling with sticks of tobacco he had called cigarettes. He would always play with them nervously for a few minutes, before cursing and putting them away in his pocket. He showed much resolve, but for each cloud of smoke he refused himself, his mood would foul twofold.

Taylor, the young boy who had become attached to Zachary, was the only one who never complained. Mostly because he had nothing to complain about: the child was an endless source of energy, so much that they wondered if he was somehow draining them all dry of theirs. She had heard flocks of seagulls with more vocal restraint than the ten-year-old, and a few days into their trek, the girl was seriously pondering if exposition to gangrene would be an easier affliction to endure… but every time he laughed and gave her his big, wide, boyish grin, she would again and again find the answer with a sigh and a smile.

This was a motley group with which she now traveled, and thinking back on their first meeting, she realized how much of an understatement that was. Brielle and Zachary were not from this world: they came from Earth, a name of which she had found many traces throughout Althanas. Both sought to return to their homes, or at the very least, that had been their primary goal. Now, however, she did not know: save for conversations about entertainment media and popular culture she was only slowly learning to recognize, they had become very reclusive about their home. Yet, Lillian never asked. She had promised to help them find a way back; once she did, they were free to take it or refuse it.

The sun had begun its slow descent, vanishing behind the shadows of a great valley as the stars began to settle, lighting up like pale candles in the vast darkness. From experience, she knew Brielle and Zachary would request to make camp: within minutes, she was proven right. They found circles of stone not far off from the wayside, near a thin line of evergreens – there were many across the countryside, prepared by past travelers for those who would come after. There would usually be tinder and dry wood stashed away under a moving stone, left by the previous adventurers to have rested there. It was not a kindness she often saw in Althanas, and the strange human connection was enough to warm her heart.

That is, until she discovered something else left behind. “Oh, gods no!” Lillian rushed to the center of the campsite, kneeling hurriedly next to the mewling old man left for dead on the scorched brambles and cinders of an old campfire. Much to her surprise, he was still alive, and within moments she had done everything to help, uncapping a flask of water with one hand while resting his frail head on her backpack. He lapped at the water like a famished toddler, the weakness in his eyes reflecting with such alarm the helplessness of an abandoned child. He gasped, coughed on the water, but Lillian resumed his hydration once he could breathe again.

The girl removed hardtack from her knapsack, breaking it into pieces before soaking the crumbles with a mist of water. The old man opened his mouth, gasping with such envy at the sight of sustenance, and she let the soggy crumbs drop. With heart-breaking gratitude, he swallowed the food, sighing in relief.

“What happened to you?” Lillian asked gently, once she felt the codger had recovered some colors. “Did someone do this to you? Bandits?”

“Nay,” was his only answer, wan and hoary. His throat had already dried, and she furnished him with more water. “I… cannot remember.” Lillian quirked her brows at that; the answer had seemed… amused.

“What can you remember?”

“Ah…” he began, pondering the question. The emptiness of his pleading eyes was filling with something new, now. It was unusual. Out of place, even. Yet, she could not put her thumb on what it was. “I remember… that I never do. Not this.” Her look grew even more quizzical, and her companions seemed equally bewildered. “It is never worth remembering.”

Looking back at the others for advice, she only received shrugs in answer. Sighing, she turned back to the old man, setting a comforting hand on the tattered rags over his shoulder. “Is your home nearby? Perhaps we could help you get back?”

[Twylith]

"Yes, I'd very much like that," the stranger said. His coarse voice was like gravel in Brielle's ears. Lillian fumbled with getting him another drink.

Brielle knew tiredness was the only reason Zachary hadn't jumped forward to take over. He sat back, arms crossed at his chest, and Brielle knew he was going over in his head all the things Lillian was doing wrong. Zachary had a huge thirst to prove himself, and it was displayed best when treating someone. He'd fussed over her every blister the last few days, digging through his medical bag and offering up remedies.

Zach and Brielle had been cocky at the beginning of this five day trek, both assuming they were fit and lean and could take a little walking. Twelve hours a day, however, had taken a lot out of them.

Brielle had started to fail first, and she knew it. The first day in she was whining. She'd fully expected Zachary to hold out longer, but his male stubbornness was both admirable and infuriating. He hardly said a word about his feet or back hurting. He never complained about the heat. He was never the first to ask for a rest. It was always Brielle. She was happy to note, however, that his already lean frame was seeming a bit frailer, and whenever she asked Lillian for a break, Zachary sat down just as gratefully as she. Taylor, on the other hand, was just as robust as Lillian.

When Lillian went to help the man up, Zachary hopped forward to help. He hooked one of the mans arms in his own, and helped Lillian pull him to his feet. The stranger smiled wearily at them all. He was short, balding, and had the look of a portly man who's just lost a bit of weight. His arm looked dwarfed in Zachary's elegantly muscled one, and his skin was pale, peppered with liver-spots.

"It's just over this way," said the old man. He gestured into the copse of trees, and they started off, following the mans vague directions. Zachary half carried the man, with Lillian at his back. Both of the girl's small hands were up should the man fall, and Brielle had to hold back a snicker. "As if she'd be able to catch him," she thought to herself. "She's all of 90lbs, if that. If he falls, they'll just go down together." Brielle made a point to walk next to Lillian, should such a case erupt. Taylor followed closely behind Brielle. Closer than she thought necessary. She wondered silently if the perverted little boy was staring at her butt. Taylor seemed to have an unhealthy fascination with anything female related. In the last week she'd had to fend off his multiple attempts to see her naked while bathing, or "accidentally" touch her.

The walk was relatively silent. The man had little to say, and the quartet was road-worn and a little cautious of the old man. Even Taylor kept his endless questions in check. The man didn't look like he could hurt a fly, but then again neither did Lillian, and Brielle was pretty sure the lithe little teenager could take her and Zachary out without much effort.

[Chucklecut]

Zachary shambled along with only a slight interest in the stinky old man he was helping walk. He had subconsciously adopted the assisted movement stance, which would allow him to direct the man's collapse, should he fall. It was one of the earliest things he had learned in his EMT courses back on Earth. The smell wafting about the man suggested he had urinated on himself at some point, though that in itself was helpful only in a vague way. Alone, it could have been a symptom for a multitude of conditions. But paired with his seeming disorientation and apparent lack of memory, Zachary could only assume some kind of head trauma had occurred.

"So, can you remember how you got here?" He asked.

"No. Funny enough." The old man croaked. He reminded Zachary of an older Liam Neeson.

"Well, join our club." Zachary muttered quietly, though apparently not quietly enough.

"Eh?" The old man asked, turning his head toward the paramedic. He exhaled, and the smell that filled Zachary's nose was the tortured, slow death of food stuck between receding gums for weeks at a time. He resisted the urge to vomit, throw the man away from him, force a cigarette into his mouth, or all of the above. Instead, he smiled reassuringly. Poker face? Check. Medical Bag? Check. Half-hearted interest in this guy's health? Check. Super-medic is ready to save old gomers everywhere! Now what did I do with my cape?

"Nothing, sir. Brielle and I have the same problem you do. We woke up near here about a week ago, with no memories of how we got here. Maybe there's something in the water." Zachary smiled.

"What? Yes, of course there is. The waters of this region are abundant with fish." He lifted an eyebrow at Zachary, and the paramedic remembered with a pang of irritation that his jokes and references were useless here. He could, however, hear Brielle stifling a laugh behind him. "But if you get me back to my home, I can help with your memories."

Zachary turned a questioning eye toward Lillian.

[Ataraxis]

The answer had confounded her as well, and it was Lillian’s turn to shrug at Zachary’s puzzled look. “I’m sorry but… what do you mean by that?” she asked, squeaking as the man missed a step and almost tripped. She kept her hands on his back, but Zachary had taken the brunt of the old man’s weight on his shoulder, guiding it to press along his body. Thanks to him, the codger recovered with much more ease, and the teenager sighed in relief.

“Memories,” he repeated simply after righting himself, his tone one of equal surprise and confusion. It held an air of passive chiding, as if offended by their lack of common knowledge. “I can help with them.”

“Can you really?” Lillian seemed unconvinced, and she had every reason to be: if he could not even remember how he ended up a dehydrated husk in the middle of a communal campsite, then she very much doubted he could help her companions recall events of much greater complexity. “I don’t mean to offend, but it seems unlikely… are you perhaps an apothecary?” It was a plausible hypothesis: a learned man of this intricate trade would know how to brew concoctions that aid memory, while a proclivity toward tasting his own experiments could likely induce his forgetfulness and strange behavior.

“Hah, nothing so crass!” he exclaimed with a laugh from the belly, something he quickly came to regret. The hacking and coughing was physically repulsive, what with the spittle and bits of rotting food that flecked the grass like fat raindrops. Lillian felt her stomach turn just a bit, when the foulness of his breath finally reached her. “Come, come. I will show you.”

The path they had followed across the relatively small copse of trees had begun to rise, until it broke out into a vast field of lazily swaying grass. Lillian had not noticed the presence of the endless plains during these last days of their trek, yet she guessed that tree lines and steep slopes had hidden the region from her eyes, which she knew had been all too focused on the road ahead.

An impressive log cabin sat atop a rise of darker stones and thicker grass, more a flat, broken hilltop than a small cliff. The construction was old, reinforced with chiseled rocks at the foundation, and decorative vines had infested the roof and eastern wall. Oddly enough, Lillian noticed that there was no stack of lumber lining the front, as well as the absence of any exhaust or stone chimney. Perhaps winters were mild in these western regions of Kebiras, and there would be no need for such heating. Still, she kept note of it.

“What joy!” the old man said at once, out of the blue. His withered index was pointing at the cabin, and she thought she saw a shadow move from the tumulus of unused building stones that were left out front. A lithe shape had slumped there, perhaps having succumbed to slumber as it waited. “An auspicious day… very, very auspicious,” he mumbled on to himself. “Five visitors at once… such fun!”

[Zook Murnig]

With a sigh of mixed boredom and resignation, the robed figure rose to his feet, brushing out the folds in his vestments. A handful of long, lazy steps carried him to the cabin, for what seemed as if it were the hundredth time, to bang a closed fist weakly against the ancient plank of a door. After several long moments, he rested his forehead against the wood with a dull thud.

"Where is he?" Caduceus muttered as he turned to slump against the frame. The magician had travelled far to speak to René Magritte. Rumors had reached him in Ettermire of a man who dealt in pasts -- remembering, forgetting, and drawing power from them. These tales led him across the ocean to Kebiras, and the small town of Camus, where the locals referred to him only as the Memory Man. From there, it was only a couple of days' walk to what they had told the young mage was René's cottage, overlooking a vast field of tall grass.

Finally, the magician pushed himself away from the structure, and looked up at a surprising sight. Five figures climbed the hill, among them a slight young girl whom Caduceus recognized, smiling perplexedly. "Lillian," he called out to her as he approached, arms wide. "Lillian, what are you doing all the way out here? When last we met, you were busying yourself with House matters." He glanced about at her traveling companions, particularly the man and young lady in their strange attire. "And who might these...intriguing folks be?"

[Twylith]

"Intriguing? I've never been called that before," Brielle thought. She was still standing partially behind Zachary, so she sidestepped to get a better view of the newcomer. Looking up, she saw a pair of the most intense blue-grey eyes she'd ever seen. She gave the man a small smile, and a wave.

"Gabrielle Twylith," she said. "Most people call me Brielle, though." At that, Zachary turned a quizzical look towards Brielle.

"I didn't know your real name was Gabrielle," he said. Brielle scoffed.

"And where did you think "Brielle" came from?" she asked. Zachary shrugged, but the gesture was somewhat muted as he was still holding onto the old man. Brielle shook her head, and turned back to the man.

"Anyway, I'm Brielle, this is Taylor," Brielle gestured behind her to the little boy. "And the quizzical one is Z-"

"Clark Kent! Nice to meet you," Zachary said, holding his free hand out to the man. Brielle shot him a scolding look which was mirrored by Lillian. Taylor and the stranger just looked confused.

"His name is Zachary," Brielle began. "He's trying to be funny, while completely forgetting that no one here has any idea who the hell Clark Kent is," she added.

[Chucklecut]

"Damn. I keep forgetting that. Without my humor, I'm nothing but a tall, sexy, life-saving paramedic." Zachary made a rather convincing sad face, though he quickly sobered. As antagonistic as ever to his bitchy librarian companion, Zachary pushed all of the old gomer's weight onto her and leaned forward. By this time, they were face to face with the newcomer. Impatient and tired of diplomatic protocol, but anxious to meet someone new from this world, Zachary grabbed the man's hand before he could lift it and gave it a vigorous, wild shake that set both of the men to wobbling.

"I am Zachary Cade Booth, from the humble Kingdom of Murphysboro, in the great land of Tennessee." Zachary ignored the scathing look from Brielle, and bowed low with an exaggerated entertainer's flourish. Zachary glanced at Lillian. "So you know our delicate flower of poisonous pollen, eh? Let me guess, she strung you up to the ceiling with spiderwebs and beat you with a shoe? No, don't tell me. It's no fun if I don't guess it on my own. Did she cover you with bees?"

Zachary continued ignoring Brielle's aghast expression, though he could feel Lillian's eyes burning holes in his back.

[Ataraxis]

While it had vexed her to no end, Lillian was not surprised that Zachary would ruin her chance encounter with an old friend. Ever since their first meeting, she and the paramedic had been butting heads day in and day out, and their reasons for that lay beyond mere clashing personalities. The girl had truly despised him at first, and for the things she knew he had done, she thought him the lowest of men. Her stubbornness and judgmental attitude had conditioned him to treat her with utter contempt and disrespect, sometimes bordering even on abuse; yet, while his disdain of her went on unabated, she had learned to let hers fade.

Nothing was forgotten, nor was anything forgiven. Still, with what she knew today of him, she had chosen to give him the courtesy of closing her eyes and ears. He was not a perfect man, perhaps not even that much of a respectable one, but the mistakes he had made… he understood they could not be cleansed. He shouldered the responsibilities that came with his crimes, and never sought some selfish redemption out of doing so.

He was a man with heavy regrets, but not a monster; thus, she would not treat him as such.

She shouldered the old man’s weight as best she could, serving as his crutch as they approached the old beech doorway. “I must say I’m just as surprised to meet you here, Cad. As for the House of Sora… I’ve delegated. I very much enjoy work in a laboratory, but the lure of field discoveries have a hold on me I can never seem to ignore.” Lillian gave him a shy smile, the same that most friends she had not seen in months were wont to recognize.

“Though, might I ask what brings you here?” the girl went on, changing the subject. As ecstatic as she was to see a familiar face, she was not so air-headed as to think this was pure coincidence. The magician was never known for traveling without purpose, and these were far too distant realms from the known lands of Althanas for her to think otherwise. “Perhaps you have business here?”

“Enough!” the old man cried in exasperation, thrashing his wrinkled arms every which way as he stomped like an impatient child. “My home, my home! You keep me from my home with your interminable prattle of hellos and how-are-yous and how-have-you-been-doings! No one denies René Magritte his specially made rocking chair!”

Lillian blinked thrice as the old man picked himself up and trampled off as hale and hearty as a sprinter in his prime. He rushed toward the door, but did not extend his hand toward the brass knob; he drew his neck back, then brought down his forehead on the wooden panel with a mad roar. It burst open under his headbutt, and he trudged inside with a comforted sigh.

From the open doorway, they heard him call. “What manner of animals are you? There are chairs and tables in here for you to continue sharing banal pleasantries! Gods!” A clatter of wood and pottery came from within, and it seemed to be the fearful sound of utensils being set.

None spoke, and Lillian only stared at the threshold in silent disbelief. It seemed logical to follow the man inside, yet… wholly irrational as well. Without turning to the others, she made a small note out loud. “Mystery… solved?”

[Zook Murnig]

"Quite..." agreed the magician, staring in disbelief at the wholly unusual event that had just unfolded. He shook his head gently for a moment before turning back to his old friend and her companions. "That marvelously manic gentleman is...René Magritte? That can't be right. He was supposed to be a mystic visionary, a man of great mind and greater spirit. And, in fact, quite sane!"

He ran a hand thoughtfully over the rough stubble of his jaw, pulling at his lower lip in bewilderment as he trod back up the hillside to join the wild man in his home. Caduceus heard the crunch of footfalls behind him as the others followed him into the tiny cabin. The stacked logs described a miniscule living space, and once everyone was inside, quarters were cramped and most of the party was forced to seat themselves or else crowd the others out. A dinner-strewn table filled the majority of the space, with the elderly gentleman seated alongside it, rocking in his heavily-cushioned chair, as promised, with the strangest and most distant grin on his face.

This crazed codger could never have done the things Caduceus had heard described. His mind just wasn't there. Still, there was nothing to say that the mad man was not who he claimed, and the magician had to be sure. He pulled out the chair beside René, sitting down clearly in his view. "My name is Caduceus Grimaldi," he said, speaking as softly and calmly as he was able. "I must know, are you who you say? Are you truly René Magritte? Are you the one called the Memory Man?"

[Twylith]

The old man laughed so loudly that Brielle jumped in her seat a little. She was crammed into the tiny couch between Zachary and Lillian. It was like having fire on one side, and ice on the other. Lillian was giving her usual “I’m-bored-and-I-don’t-believe-a-word-you-say” expression, and Zachary was just looking uncomfortable. Every time he tried to adjust to get comfortable, he’d accidentally elbow Brielle, they’d both blush, and he’d scrunch his arms back in front of him. Finally, he settled for resting his arm on the back of the couch, just behind Brielle’s shoulders. She tried not to notice.

“Why yes, I am the Memory Man. How many times do I have to say it?” The man was gesticulating wildly. He had a sharpness about him that made Brielle cringe. “Others do call me Rene, but I like Memory Man better. I think it has a kind of ring to it. Do you agree?” Rene looked right at Brielle, and she nodded awkwardly.

“W-what does a “Memory man” do, exactly?” Brielle asked. The man smiled, and the gesture was less than comforting.

“Many things, many things. I deal with memories, quite obviously. I look, I collect, I find those that are lost..” the man trailed off dramatically, as he could see Brielle perk up at his last words. “Ahh, you’ve lost some, have you?” he asked.

Brielle looked cautiously at Zachary, and then Lillian. They both nodded encouragingly, and she turned back to Rene.

“I don’t know how I got here,” she started. “I mean I don’t think I’ll ever really know, but what I mean to say is, Zachary and I,” she gestured to the man sitting beside her. “Zachary and I were talking the other day. The last thing I remember is Easter, a holiday where I’m from, and Zachary says that I’m missing a day, at least. I remember it being cold and rainy just before I got sent here, the same as Zachary. But before that it’s just blank. Blackness in my head..” Brielle trailed off, eyeing both Rene, and Lillian’s friend. She felt a little awkward for her rambling speech, and wished she could explain it better. They probably thought her to be mad.

Rene just nodded in a sagely manor, and said, “I could help you with that. I could help you recover what you’ve lost. That’s not all I do, however.” Brielle gave him a quizzical look, and Rene smiled.

“I can take your memory from you, if you so wish,” He began. “Conceal it in an item. A representation of itself. If you wish to never remember it again, it can be tossed away. If it’s something you’d rather keep, every time you touch the thing it’ll be as if you’re feeling that memory again for the first time. The item it turns out to be, you and I cannot choose. It’s random. Always something to do with the memory, however.” Renee finished his speech, and leaned back further in his chair. He rocked it slowly, the floorboards underneath him creaking with each roll. “Would that be something you’d all be interested in?” he asked.

[Ataraxis]

Lillian wondered how this situation had come to be; only minutes ago, her only concern was to bring a feeble old man back safely to his shack in the woods. Now, she sat close to an old friend who had come seeking the aid of this same old man for reasons she could not fathom… not until René Magritte told them of his gift without obfuscation, without cryptic riddles or deliberate ambiguity. To delve into memories, to extract them from the conceptual and infuse them into the material, to toy with the building blocks of identity: such was his alleged gift, and one whose lure she understood all too well.

For a girl who could forget nothing, for a girl whose accursed memory could dispose of neither the good nor the bad, such an auspicious encounter seemed almost fated. There were so many things she wished to forget, so many pictures and episodes she wished would at least blur and fade under the erosion of time. Every day was a struggle to hide their battering effect behind the masks of laughter and a smile, from strangers and friends alike. The sight of her dead eyes and numbed countenance was something she would never let people such as Zachary see: too many times before had her sorrows been belittled by those who thought her too naïve, too innocent to have ever truly suffered.

Lillian shook her head, feeling a thousand pangs of pain from the memories that ever ran their course in the recesses of her mind – that was all she could do to avoid madness, and even now she felt that twisted wave encroach her mind. Taking a moment to regain her composure, her hands wrung the stuffing from the withered old couch where she and her charges from Earth had been seated. “I’m sorry if this sounds rude, but… if what you say is true,” she began tentatively, yet her eyes were fixed upon his, wide and unmoving, almost eerie in their deconstructing gaze. “How does dabbling in the past of others benefit a Memory Man? Simply put… what’s in it for you?”

Plastered on his face was that same distant grin, that knowing smile of impending mischief. He swung like an excited child with every rock of his chair, the dirty ceramic cup in his hand spilling murky waters all over the tattered rags of his clothes. He did not seem to care. “Whatever you choose to do with your memories, to store them or discard them, it doesn’t matter to me. What you show me, I will duplicate and keep for myself. Your pains and pleasures, what disgusts you and what tugs at your heart… anything that can bend of break the will of man and beyond… that is my entertainment. That is my sustenance… and that is all I desire, all I require.”

Lillian said no more, and it was obvious from her expressions that she was pondering his answer. She rubbed the back of her left hand, scratching an itch that did not exist as she mulled her decision over and over. She looked to Caduceus, who sat at the very front of the old man. “This must be what you came for, Cad. You came here first; it’s only fitting that you have the choice to go first.”

René clapped his withered hands together, his rounded paunch jigging with the motion. “Excellent, excellent! Oh, what fun we’ll have – you’ll see!” He took to his feet, surprisingly sprightly for a man of his advanced age. His shuffling footsteps brought him to the only other dusty old door in the cramped cabin, and he opened it with an earsplitting wail.

In clear counterpoint to the lounge, the inner chamber was a wonder of immaculateness. The walls were no longer piled stacks of shaved trunks, but rows of flat, polished boards that made Lillian question whether or not this room belonged to the same ramshackle cabin. It was so much more spacious, even with the columns of shelves that radiated from the walls and the thousands of crystal globes and mirrors and gems that lined them, each labeled by little yellowed slips of paper scribbled on with spidery scripts. Their reflections had an off quality to them, as if the play of moonlight from the high windows hid so much more underneath. And finally, in the center of the room, was a reclining chair that clashed with everything she had seen up to this moment.

It was a machine of stone and steel, and its dark and melding sheen made it difficult to guess which was which. The design was sleek, uncharacteristic of any style she had ever encountered, and excrescences from the head rest arched about like three sets of symmetrical horns.

“Come, come and sit!” René goaded the magician on, driving bony palms into his broad back. “Don’t be afraid: it’s deceivingly comfortable.”

[Zook Murnig]

The addlepated elder's sharp-boned hands spurred Caduceus forward even as he received encouragement from both old friend and new. Yes, this was why he was here, he supposed. He had come in search of René, in search of his power of memory. For a year he had been haunted by the fleeting visions of the Qlippoth, and the three simple words of which he could find no origin, Edin nau tsu. Today, he would remember every moment of that evening. Forever.

The magician looked to his companions, the young and brilliant Lily, the sarcastic Zachary, and his quiet lady-friend, Brielle, as he stood before the device. Trepidation entered his mind, and worries of what he might find inside his head. Lillian nodded to him, urging him to take the leap into the unknown, and with a deep breath and swallowed bitter fear and bile he climbed into the oddly crafted throne.

True to his word, the old man's chair was incredibly comfortable, and Caduceus already felt as though it were becoming a part of him, his flesh sinking into and melding with the dark stone. From this new vantage point, he recognized the general shape of the ceiling as a dome, formed of the same strange rock as the machine. Before he could move any further on that line of thought, he nearly jumped out of the chair as Magritte's twisted grin suddenly hovered over him, even more unsettling upside-down.

"Well, boy, wotcha say there? You got one in mind, or did you want me to go fishin' around in that pretty head of yours?" The Memory Man seemed to draw far too much pleasure from making him uncomfortable, and the idea of his hand shoved up to the elbow in Caduceus' ear, wriggling around as it tried to grasp the fish of a thought, did just that. With another breath to calm himself and force down the bile's second coming, the young mage closed his eyes, to think as much as to escape René's own weird gaze.

"I have one in mind, but..." he began, licking his lips. "It is not complete. If I call to mind what I can, will you be able to find the rest?" He prayed to the light of God that this would not involve this "fishing" that the man took such pride in.

The elder giggled sickly, and even with his eyes shut tight, Caduceus knew beyond doubt that his macabre grin had broadened. "Remember what you can, m'boy, and you will see what I can do..." With that, he felt a gnarled bone spur that could only be the...mnemonipath's...fingertip pressed against his forehead, and the magician reached to the depths of his mind, pulling out the ends of snapped threads of remembrance, their worn and ragged edges suddenly and almost painfully being tugged upon.

He let out a groan at the wholly unfamiliar feeling of another mind grasping around within his own, pulling thought forms together into something whole and cohesive. Then, abruptly, the strange sensation retreated with the bony finger from the confines of his head, and he felt the rush of knowledge gained in reverse, a lesson the wrong way round.

When again he opened his eyes, the eldritch visage of the mnemonipath was gone, and instead he was looking once more at the dark dome above. From the twisting horns that framed Caduceus' head, whose tips were at the top edge of his vision, a glow began to grow and radiate onto the ceiling above, and a scene played out upon what he now realized was a viewing screen.

And of what he saw, he would never remember on his own again.

[Zook Murnig]

It was as if he were looking in a mirror. The man before him looked, in every way, to be him. The russet vestments, the clean-shaven jaw, the long, light brown hair drawn back at the base of his skull. Every detail matched. Every detail, but the eyes.

Where the magician's were blue-grey and filled with a piercing, studious gaze, this...mockery...sported almost demonic orbs. Dark crimson balls broken only by the sickly yellow iris and the pinpricks of pupils, and the lids lazy and languorous. This was not Caduceus Ezekiel Grimaldi.

"What are you, beast?" demanded the magician. "Who are you that you may take my form and parade it before me?"

It laughed, throwing its head back and clutching its belly. Even the voice carried the same forceful chords, though the voice was distorted almost beyond recognition. "I am thou, Caduceus Grimaldi. I am the Qlippoth, the shadow of thyself. I am that which lurks within, that which thou hast refused. I am thine true thoughts, thine most dear desires of flesh and power.

"Thou claimest the title of 'magician,'" the Qlippoth continued, "though thou dost know not what it means. The true magician walkest the path between, the Middle Pillar. He accepteth dark as he accepteth light. He bearest the load of responsibility even whilst he casteth it away. Yet thou claimest the title of 'magician,' and see thyself in light only. I am thine darkness, thine lust, thine greed and pride! I am thine gluttony and wrath, thine envy and sloth! I am thou! And thou art I!"

As the creature spoke those last words, his visage changed from simple boredom to rage beyond imagination. It lashed out with dark, hungry flame toward Caduceus, snarling in his anger. "I will destroy thee, Caduceus Grimaldi, and take thy flesh for mine! Thou art not worth thine title!"

In the eery were-light of the black fire, the young mage dove aside, calling upon the wet sands beneath his feet for protection, crying out "Adonai ha-Aretz!" A wave of earth met the spell and became consumed by the ravenous flames in his stead. As Caduceus held the wall in place over where he lay, the beast screeched and threw its arms up, then abruptly clawed down with them. Blades of wind rained down on the earthen cover, breaking through in several places and slicing into the magician's clothing and the magician himself, though the sand shield took the true power from the attack.

Another guttural cry from the Qlippoth brought the protective barrier down on its protected, smashing into its master painfully. It then beckoned to him with a hand and a whispered call, and the blood that had already begun to flow from the young man's wounds now ran thicker and faster, oozing as well from the membranes of his mouth, nose, and eyes. No longer could he find the strength to even cry out his pain, nor could he find the breath to do so.

Finally, the beast descended upon him bodily, laying both palms against either side of Caduceus' skull. "I am thou, and thou art I," it repeated, almost religiously. "Thou shalt be naught more than a vessel for myself, and thine spirit destroyed." Its crimson orbs locked gazes with the magician's own bloodshot and half-conscious eyes.

I am going to die, he thought, barely capable of forming the words in his mind.

Suddenly, an energy began to flow through the magician, one familiar, and yet one that he had never felt before. Words formed unbidden on his lips, "Edin nau tsu." They came out as a gurgling whisper at first, and then again with greater strength. "Edin nau tsu," he shouted at last, launching his fingers into the Qlippoth's face, digging into its devilish eyes, and pouring this new power into his foe. "Edin nau tsu," he proclaimed. "Back to the desert with you!"

The demon shrieked in mixed pain, surprise, and frustration as the unknown force took hold. It howled curse after profane curse as radiant energies began to tear it apart. Within seconds, the Qlippoth had been completely consumed and banished, though the boy's newfound strength, too, had given out, and he lay there for a long time, just breathing and spitting blood.

The darkness within was gone, but not forgotten. And not forever.


---===---

When again he awoke, he was assailed by the musings of the Memory Man, proclaiming his memory to be "brilliant," and "pure entertainment." Never had Caduceus met such a strange person as René Magritte. Especially considering...

"René, there was no memory. Over what are you marveling?" he asked sincerely, confusion coloring his words.

"Nevermind that, boy. Hop off," René replied. "So much more to see, so little time!" The old man began prodding Caduceus off the machine, and after a moment he complied, albeit reluctantly. From there, the mnemonipath set about fiddling with several switches and levers on the side of the chair, its work apparently not done. A rattling echoed around within the dark stone and eventually revealed itself as a small crystalline orb, much like the ones lining the shelves on either side of the room.

Magritte grabbed this gleefully and giggled away as he put it aside and scribbled a note for it on a small piece of paper. "Caduceus Grimaldi," he wrote aloud. "Demonic possession." At this, Caduceus gave the elderly man a strange look, and went back to the other three, who were staring just as unusually at him in turn.

Just as he was about to ask his companions what had transpired, he heard more noises coming from the device, and turned to find the horns were splaying like the legs of some insect. Lights converged from them into the seat of the chair, where some sort of object was materializing. When at last the pyrotechnics were over, Caduceus approached, and there lay in the chair a pair of dark crimson-lensed spectacles.

"Go on, go on! Take them!" urged the Memory Man. "But don't put them on, unless you want to remember..."

As the magician picked them up, he placed them over his eyes for a second, then jerked them off with a haunted expression, and looked over at his friends sheepishly.

[Chucklecut]

Zachary sat as he often did, his back against the house, his ass in the dirt. His legs were stretched out ahead of him, his elbows propped up by his knees. A cloud of smoke had gathered around him, lingering in the calm air. The skies had darkened since they had entered the mad man's home; the darkness of a coming storm rather than night. The fingertips of his left hand were tingling; his posture had pinched a nerve somewhere along his arm. He made no attempt to change it, only stared at his fingers as he stretched them out. Thoughts buzzed incessantly through his mind, memories like shadows in daylight.

His hand lifted, the cigarette meeting his lips as a noise met his ears. Shuffling steps brought Lillian into view, and Zachary felt a small sigh of relief escape his lips as he released the smoke. He could handle her right now. He could deal with her antagonism. Her disgust. What he couldn't deal with was Brielle's quiet support, or Taylor's innocence. Hate was a beautiful thing sometimes; free of care, remorseless, self-sustaining. Love, on the other hand, was like a needy pet. You had to watch after it, keep it safe and happy, protect it from harm. This was so much easier. A verbal spar that would change nothing. Accusations would be flung, scowls directed at each other. And then it would end, and his mind would be free to carry on.

"What're you doing out here?" Lillian asked, just barely failing to conceal the suspicion. Zachary smiled. He'd guessed right.

"Thinking. I promise, I'm not killing anyone or strapping bombs to the old man's favorite dog. You can go back inside now." He replied.

He could see her stiffen, shift away from him. She took a few steps back toward the house, then slowed to a stop. She turned, and something in her posture had changed. She seemed even more guarded now. "What... what are you thinking about?"

Zachary opened his mouth to toss out a casual, flippant reply, but thought better of it. He didn't care what she thought, so why hide the truth? What did it matter?

"I'm thinking about this man. And wondering about the nature of evil." He took another drag from his cigarette.

Lillian said nothing, only tilted her head to the side. Zachary glanced back up at her, then elaborated.

"This... this is the road to damnation. I know what all of you will do, because I am tempted to do it myself. I want nothing more than to go in there and have that crazy old bastard rip these fucked up memories right out of my head. I want them gone. I want to be free again. Innocent. I want to stop hating myself!" The words came out stronger than he intended them to, and he fell silent. Shaking his head in a short, choppy movement, he took a deep breath and released it in a sigh.

Lillian looked at him for several seconds before speaking, evaluating. Her voice was empty when she replied. "So go do it."

Zachary smiled; a dark, sickly smile that was more a grimace than anything else. "No. I won't damn myself further. I won't hide from what I've done."

She nodded, though her face was unreadable. "Well, Rene is ready for someone else now."

Zachary nodded, then forced a smile for Lillian's sake. "I'll be in shortly."

---

The walk to the chair felt somewhat like a funeral procession. His choice had been easy, but living with the consequences would be hard. His world was about to become a much darker place. But really, it was no less than he deserved. He had earned this for himself.

He sat in the chair, his mind and senses elsewhere. He heard nothing when Rene spoke; felt nothing at the questioning glances from Brielle. The only emotion he felt came from looking at Lillian. In her cold eyes, he watched himself killing Taylor's mother. He knew that this was the right choice. For every action, an equal and opposite reaction.

The world faded away.

A knock sounded at the door, and Zachary looked up from his computer. A smile had already twisted his lips. This early in the morning, that could be only one person. Mom was already at work, and Chad wouldn't wake up for hours yet.

"Come in." He called toward the door.

The knob twisted, but the door didn't open. His smile grew larger as the handle shook, then the door finally cracked. A small girl pushed her way past it. Her hair was golden blonde, her eyes a beautiful blue. She looked just like Zachary's brother. Her sleepy eyes were frowning at his smile.

"What?" She asked, indignant.

"Nothing. What's up Girly?" Zach asked.

"Daddy won't wake up, and I'm hungry." She complained, her sentence breaking off into a yawn.

"Well, let's do something about that." Zach replied. He stood and walked away from his desk, leaning down to pick her up along the way. She lifted her arms, then wrapped them around his neck as he balanced her on his hip. The first stop along the way was right next door. With his foot, he pushed his brother's door open and peeked in. Chad was snoring deeply, his already balding head reflecting the light from the open window. Zach shook his head, smiled, and continued down the hallway. As he entered the living room, he stopped and lowered his niece to the couch. She let go reluctantly. His hands brushed the red fabric of the cushions as he released her. Turning, he walked toward the television.

"Uncle Zachy, will you put-" She was asking.

"Already on it, Girlypants." He replied, kneeling down in front of the cabinet. His fingers punched buttons on the face of the player as the girl giggled behind him. The show came on the television, and he quickly pushed the next button. She hated the first scene. And after all, why shouldn't she? It was scary, and no one really wanted to see the momma fish and all of the eggs get eaten. He was already on his way back to the kitchen.

As per usual, the dishes needed to make breakfast had to be washed. By the time he had finished drying them, he could hear Ellen Degeneres's voice on the television. He started cooking as quickly as he could, knowing that she was only getting more hungry. As he worked, he felt a small hand tugging at his pant leg and looked down. She was looking up at him, smiling. As the morning had worn on, her grumpy mood had faded away. She was always grumpy in the morning.

"What's up?" He asked.

"Can I have a candy?" She whispered. She knew she wasn't supposed to eat sweets in the morning. She also knew that Uncle Zachy would never tell her no.

Zachary smiled, and opened the cabinet near his head. A bag sat near the front, torn open at the corner. He jostled it until three Hershey's Kisses rolled out, then handed them down to her. She squealed happily, then hugged his legs and ran from the room. The smile on his face was full of love and kindness.

And then the memory faded away like smoke, and he was sitting in Rene's chair, tears rolling down his cheeks even as he wondered what he'd just been remembering. The absence was potent, and felt like a separated appendage. He knew something was gone, but he wasn't sure what. Rene walked into his field of vision, and casually tossed something silvery to him. It landed in his lap; a dagger with an exceedingly long blade. The sight of it disgusted him, until he picked it up and her beautiful face swam in his vision.

It'd been six years now. Six years since he had held her, hugged her, made her breakfast. He wanted nothing more than to hold her and tell her how much he loved her. It would never happen now.

He stood from the chair, swatting irritably at the tears trailing down his cheeks. He left the room without a word, and as he passed through the living room, he slowed long enough to thump Lillian's bare hand with the hilt of the dagger. By the spark of shock in her eyes, he knew she was seeing his memory now; reliving it as he had so often. He broke the contact only a second later, and shouldered the cabin's door open. I'm not a complete monster.

A cigarette was lit before he even sat, the silver dagger clutched in his white knuckles.

[Twylith]

Brielle watched as Zachary walked out of the cabin. Taylor was struggling to squeeze past Lillian to follow, but the woman put a hand on his shoulder, keeping him back.

"I think he needs to be alone right now," Lillian whispered. Taylorlooked up at her quizzically, but stopped his struggling and settled down. Lillian met Brielle's gaze, and nodded toward the chair. The red-head sighed. She'd been fearing this.

Looking at the chair, Brielle could only feel fear. Fear of what she might uncover when she sat in the contraption. Her memories from the night she'd been sent here were sparse and dull. She could only see fragments of them in her head. Zachary had already had a discussion with her about Post Traumatic Stress, and how it could be the cause of her memory loss. She feared greatly what terror her mind was keeping from her. Brielle also wondered if it was wise to open that door. Some things were better left buried.

Still, the girl walked toward the chair, albeit slowly. She Sat on the stone seat, still warm from Zachary's presence. Like a dentist chair to a small child, the thing was terrifying, and it took a few minutes for her to lean back onto it. Then the Memory Man's head slid into her vision, his smile unsettling.

"I don't remember the memory I want to use. Can you find it?" she asked. Rene's smile widened, and he nodded.

"Yes, yes I can," he said.

A door appeared in front of her. The door to her home. She was pushing it open with one hand, a load of books held in the other. Her hair was soaked. The rain had started while she was at the library, and didn't waste any time in picking up its pace. Rain water gurgled in the gutters, filled the streets and drowned the small town in its thunderous sounds.

Brielle walked into the small house she shared with her mother and step father, Jack. Her mother always described Jack as
"particular". Brielle thought this was a grand understatement. Jack liked everything his way. The house clean, dinner on the table at 6PM, and his women silent. Her mother had never been a quiet woman. During the day, while Jack was at work, she spent the hours dancing with the radio turned up loud.

Brielle relished those few candid hours with her mother. Both of them laughing and singing along to the classic rock station. They'd do everything Jack hated while he was at work. It made it easier to deal with when he was home. She'd told her mother a million times that if she divorced Jack, they could sing, dance, and play all day.

Her mother just gave her that you're-too-young-to-understand look, and explained that Jack had a good job and it did wonderful things like put food on the table and a roof over their heads. Brielle often thought that a box in the street would be better than a home with Jack.

As she walked through the small house, her footprints left little puddles on the wooden floor. She kicked her shoes off on the mat, and made a mental note to clean up the puddles before Jack came home. Walking in her stocking feet, she poked her head into the living room. It was empty, the lights turned off. Brielle frowned, and continued her investigation.

Walking back to the bedroom her mother shared with Jack, she poked her head in. Only when her stepfather was gone, was she even allowed in the room. The light here was off, too, but she could see a sliver of light coming from the bathroom. She pushed the bedroom door open, and walked to the master bath. The door was open a crack, and she could hear running water coming from the bath.

Tapping lightly on the door, she called, "Mom?" The door creaked open another two inches, and Brielle dropped her books on the carpet. The thud of them hitting the floor seemed far away. Water covered the bathroom floor. Looking down, she realized it had been soaking the carpet. Due to her already soaked nature, she hadn't noticed. Brielle pushed the door open, and it banged against
the wall.

The mind can pick up an incredible amount of detail in a small time. Brielle saw her mother's pale body floating in the tub. The rosy tint to the water, and the gashes on her wrists. The beautiful face she'd kissed every day before school, even after it became uncool to do so, was pale. Her features were fixed in a serene smile, and Brielle found that happiness on her mother's face perverse. The gold, heart-shaped necklace Brielle had bought for her 40th birthday still hung around her neck.

Gasping, Brielle ran across the bathroom to the tub. She slipped and slided on the watery tile, finally crashing to her knees beside the tub. Reaching over the rim, she placed two fingers under her mother's neck, and felt for a pulse. Her body bobbed in the tub, sending an even greater cascade of water over the rim. There was no pulse.

She told herself she'd always been terrible at it. That every time she tried to feel her own pulse she'd have to stand stock still and feel around for awhile to find it. She reasoned that the water hadn't spread that far, so her mother couldn't have been in the water that long. She stood, and ran back out to the bedroom, slipping and smacking her shoulder on the door frame.

The phone seemed terribly far away. It was only three steps from the bathroom door to the phone, but Brielle thought herself running very slow. When she finally reached it, she fumbled with the receiver, shaking hands dialing those three little numbers she'd been taught as soon as she could hold a phone.

Brielle's eyes flicked open, and she jumped out of the stone chair immediately. She wasn't sure why she was in such a hurry, or why her heart was thudding so hard. The memory had faded from her instantly. Reaching up, she brushed tears from her face, and spun around to face the memory man. In his fist was a delicate gold chain, with a heart pendant hanging from it. Just like her mother's. Brielle slid her hand under the pendant, and Rene draped the chain over the side of her hand. The cold metal touched her palm, and sobs racked her body as she remembered.

The paramedics had been amazing, but there was nothing they could do. Her mother had lost too much blood. Zachary had been there, she remembered now. She watched the delicate way in which he placed her mother on the stretcher, covering her naked body with a cotton blanket. Brielle had hung back, letting them do their job. She was too busy sobbing to be of any help.

Zachary's partner had been the one to break the news to her, while Zach himself had been busy still trying. Trying to save a dead woman. He didn't give up until the other man made him by grabbing his shoulders and pulling him away.

The suicide note had been short. An apology to Brielle, and only Brielle. She'd blamed Jack, but not in any direct words. Brielle had executed her own form of justice the very next night. While Jack was at work, she'd taken the pistol he stored in the nightstand. Later that night, oblivious to his pistol missing, Jack laid out drunk and on the sofa, yelling about having to make dinner himself. Brielle took the life that took her mother's life.

Was it right? Probably not. But it had felt good. It felt like release. Release from five years of suffering. She'd packed her bag and ran from the house. She was only a block away from home when she ran out in front of the ambulance. She hadn't been looking, and the ambulance swerved, the lightning hit.. And now she was here.

Gripping the necklace firmly in her hand, Brielle walked outside. She sat on the ground next to Zachary. Reaching over, she plucked the cigarettes and matches from his pocket. Ignoring his startled look, she lit one, and leaned back against the small cabin. The smoke burned her throat, but it felt good. Brielle rested her arm on Zachary's thigh, and opened her hand to show him the necklace. He cocked his head to the side, then nodded.

"It's beautiful," he said. Zach reached down and wrapped his hand around Brielle's wrist, careful to avoid touching the necklace.

"I bought it," Brielle said quietly. She closed her hand again, and Zachary slid his hand up, wrapping it around hers.

[Ataraxis]

A mixed silence reigned within the lodge’s inner chamber. Zach and Brielle had left the room of memories, to find a few moments of quietude in the cool, evening air. Caduceus had watched the events of their lives unfold on the dome of dark stone above, and had found himself unable to speak, much like Lillian. Taylor did not make a peep, for he had been left to play in the lounge – they feared that viewing excerpts of their pasts might traumatize the child. They had been right: in her mind, Lillian could still hear the roar of gunfire as Brielle shot the man that had driven her mother to suicide.

René, however, seemed oblivious to both the absence of two of his guests and the funerary stillness that had fallen over the remaining two, more concerned on the proper labeling of his newest crystal orbs. With a despicably giddy tone, the Memory Man recited the titles as he scribbled on the tags. One read ‘Zachary Booth: Uncle & Niece – Peaceful Morning’. The other: ‘Gabrielle Twylith: Mother’s Suicide & Step-Father’s Murder’.

Lillian could still feel it vividly. When Zach had brushed the dagger that housed his memory, she had lived it as he did, something that the moving pictures projected on the dome could never reproduce. She knew it had been deliberate, and that he wanted her to see him as more than the sum of his mistakes. In truth, she had already realized this long ago: it had been days since her judgmental attitude toward him had been replaced by tacit distance. It was all she could do, for the girl had been unable to show him any of the kindness or amiability she knew he deserved. Perhaps it was out of fear of hypocrisy for too sudden a change of heart. Perhaps it was because she had realized the true reason why she had shown so much disdain for the man.

In Zachary and his crime, she had seen a portion of herself. Whenever she saw him, whenever she spoke to him or heard him speak, she would think ‘monster’ – not because he was one, but because he reminded her, all too painfully, that she was.

“Are you ready?” René asked in a voice like treacle, so sickeningly sweet that it trawled her out of her brooding with a shiver. “Shall I go fish, or do you have an offering in mind?”

Lillian said nothing. She gave one final look at the magician, and she saw him stagger somewhat at the deeply apologetic look in her eyes. The girl looked shameful, and her every feature was charged with self-loathing… it seemed as if she were sorry for succumbing to the weakness of her heart.

She took her seat on the chair of stone and steel. The world melted away, siphoned by the growing darkness.


Lillian could not remember when she had fallen asleep. All she could recall was a single pulse, the same that had roused her from her comatose state. Her sight was still blurred, slow to recover even as she forcefully blinked. Her sense of touch, however, had been strangely honed. The ground underneath her was irregular, yet somehow smooth. Her palms skimmed the surface, feeling bulbs and furrows that were slick to the touch, but also strangely warm. It was then that something coursed by, and she gasped: a pulse. She could make it out now, the floor beneath her… broad fibres like corded muscles, running under an endless network of veins. Lumps of flesh were growing from the landscape, seeping foul fluids and gases, their rise and fall like the breathing of sleeping newborns.

Towers rose from the viscera, their walls crawling like clusters of twisting worms. Nerves had infested them like cobwebs and climbing vines, spastic as if in the throes of an unseen anguish, and the more she stared, the more she realized that something… many things were staring back. The eyes that squirmed within the flesh were an infectious red, unnerving as they trained their gaze upon her, unblinking. And all the while, it had never stopped: the living pulse sustaining this endless organ, the pulse that told of a beating heart.

She saw it, then… saw her. The woman knelt atop a low, flat mound that rose from the flesh, a pedestal around which blood and bile pooled in a moat. The stranger was crouched over, silent and immobile: the position reminded her of prayer in supplication. The moment Lillian approached her, the woman pulled away from the ground, her body unwinding as she rose to an unhurried stand. She threw her head back, hair as dark as pitch cascading over her pale shoulders.

Remains lay at her feet, a male body severed at the hip. His intestines spilled over the beating ground, and his darkening blood continued to ooze from the pedestal. His right arm was absent, torn off at the shoulder, while the left was gnawed beyond the bone and to the marrow. There was a dripping crack in his chest, as if an ax had broken through his ribcage, yet his heart had been scooped out delicately: it lay in the woman’s hand, dribbling coolly on her skin. Saying nothing, Lillian watched as she brought it to her lips, taking in its perfume with sealed eyes and a longing sigh. With such delicacy, such frailty, she bit into the heart, savoring its spilled juices as if it were the sweetest of apples.

In silence, Lillian drew a hand to her chest. She felt its beat, learned its rhythm… and then she knew. It kept time – the beating of her own heart kept time with the pulse of this nightmare. The older woman turned towards the girl, and as they looked upon one another, they sighed as one. They were, after all, one and the same. The naked stupor bathed in blood and entrails, the dark hair like endless inkfall, the comforting smile that hid none of the sadness in their glacial eyes… they both looked down, that dreadful understanding now clear upon their faces. This was her world, this was her soul.

This… was her future.

[Ataraxis]

The woman took a step forward, her blood-clad figure swaying under the motion as she watched the younger girl with those forbidden eyes, like lavender opiates. Her arms spread wide, as if to invite Lillian into a comforting embrace, and the gentle gleam in her eyes seemed to show understanding at just how terrified the teenager was. She gave in, inching closer with tentative steps, and the smell of blood and entrails seemed but a vague presence around the older woman. They held one another, and it was such a familiar sensation; it reminded her of how she would hold herself tightly when the weight of the world seemed unbearable.

Her heart jumped as she felt the woman breathe in the scent of her neck, taking it in with nearly lascivious intent. Then, a mist of warmth as she sought the girl’s skin with her lips.

Lillian screamed as she pulled back, pushing the woman away with all her force, but it was too late. Teeth like knives sank into her shoulder, and her flesh was torn to ribbons. She stumbled back, disoriented, her brain swimming in white-hot pain as she clamped a hand over the terrible gashes. Still, her mind could focus on a single thought: to run.

The woman walked unhurriedly behind the fleeing girl, smiling sadly, knowing eyes of lilac set in a wistful gaze. The ground shifted beneath Lillian as one of the fleshy lumps burst like a festering blister, releasing hundreds of vein-like tendrils. They hooked about her ankle, tripping her with a squelch as she fell in a crying heap. Another swarm caught her hand, tugging dryly to turn her on her back. The flesh beneath parted again, but a jag of bone speared up instead, impaling her through the shoulder. She screamed in agony, again and again as her left thigh and right knee suffered the same fate.

She came into view, that perfect reflection of herself, smiling sadly while sheathed with Lillian’s own blood. The world shifted again, rising beneath her into a plinth of flesh. The woman straddled the girl’s supine form upon the table, leaning closer to her ear. Lillian whimpered, knowing what would come. “This… this isn’t real. This never happened. This isn’t mine…” she repeated to herself like a mantra, almost as if to ward the terror away.

And the woman answered in a deep whisper, her voice laced with despair. “No, it isn’t…” she began. “It isn’t yours.” She grazed the girl’s shoulder with her teeth, lapping at the spilling blood. “This… is my memory.” Her jaw opened wide. Lillian screamed. A chunk of her arm dripped lazily from the cannibal’s mouth. In tears, she kept screaming, screaming for her to stop.

“Why?” she would hear herself shout, looking at the crimson skies through tearful lenses. “Why are you doing this?”

The woman said nothing, but instead held Lillian by the neck. With a gentleness that belied what she had been doing, the cannibal pulled Lillian’s head up over her shoulder, offering a clear view of the world that stretched behind… of the endless graveyard that was this world.

Beyond them was a cliff, the edge of a vein-infested hilltop she had not noticed until now. She had thought the plains in the distance but a continuation of this organic world, but she was wrong. Yes, it was flesh, but not these formless masses over which they stood. Greater than any battlefield, the plains were an endless bed of exhumed corpses. Millions upon millions, humans, elves, dwarves, countless other species she could not make out, or had never once encountered. So many misshapen, lacking legs and arms, so many rotting colossi among the mounds of decaying gnats, bleeding ink, bleeding slime… but all of them bleeding from a hole in the chest like never-ending fountains. Then she cringed, recognizing what seemed to be divine beings in theses dead trenches.

“This is what we are,” the woman spoke at last. “Past or future, dead or living, mortal or divine… we devour all.”

With that, she pressed her incisors against Lillian’s throat, allowing the sharp sensation linger in a moment of dread before letting them sink, tearing off her vocal chords. She could not scream. Even as her body was consumed, bit by bit, she could no longer scream.

Soon the darkness fell, as she had lost her eyes. Shortly after, she found herself unable to hear. Time had blurred with ever cry and every mouthful. It could have been mere seconds, just as it could have been days, but the pain seemed a numb memory now. In the end, she could not even think. There was no wondering what was left of her. No wondering how soon before she finally died. Not anymore.

But then, suddenly, she could see. She could hear. She could think again. Even so, what assailed her first was not the sullen crimson of the forsaken skies, or the spurts and hisses of the visceral world around her. What first came to her… was the sense of warm dampness. Her whole body felt slick. Then, she grew aware of a sharp sensation beneath her.

She looked down… and saw a bloody skeleton. Its dark sockets looked up at her, pleading as they pooled with stale blood. She had been straddling it.

And then, Lillian understood.

She looked up to the cloudless skies, to the crimson veil that enshrouded this world. There was a wistful gleam in her lavender eyes. A sad smile played upon her blood-spattered lips.

It was the first time she ever felt at home.


When she rose from the chair, Lillian was in a daze. Part of her mind still felt trapped inside a world that had once existed in her memories, and she wondered if it would ever return. A piece of her identity seemed to have been ripped out from the roots of her soul, but now her heart felt lighter – for the first time in months, she was at peace. Like the lifting of a curse, she thought to herself. Her eyes sought that of her friend with mild curiosity, hoping to find some measure of understanding at what memory she had given up. She felt a pang of worry when her seeking gaze was met only with a livid stare. Shying away, she turned to René, hoping to hear him speak the title of his newest label out loud, only to find that he had not even touched the crystalline gem that had fallen from a slot in the machine.

The horns of the chair spread out, their tips aglow with a sinister light. Lillian slipped down from the device, watching as the rays converged into a sphere of strangely scarlet shadows. The outline of a blade drew itself in midair, until she recognized the distinct shape of a basket-hilted sword… but the resemblance stopped there.

It clanged on the steel and stone, the broad blade gleaming like a glossy slab of crystallized blood. The basket-hilt was not a weaving of metal cords, but a brush of tendrils that had been knit into the shape of a broken bell. It seemed too sleek to be flesh, but too organic to be an alloy. Along its flat, she could read in the cursive script of Fallien the etchings of a single, gleaming word: ‘Preta’.

By its sight alone, she knew better than to touch it directly. Her hand stretched out, and countless threads shot out to wrap around the blade and hilt, curling in the air as they picked it up. With one last thought, she slipped the blade into the leather knapsack she carried with her, and despite its size, it oddly managed to sheathe the sword’s whole blade. Even without touching it, however, she continued to feel the oppressive atmosphere it seemed to exude.

“Should I ask... what you saw?” the girl mustered at last, a frightened quaver to her query.

The Memory Man chose not to answer; instead, he began to scrawl a few words on the label in his hand. The Birth of a Monster, he had thought at first. Devourer of Worlds. Wendigo… but none of them felt like they were enough. Then, he smiled; he had finally settled for three simple words, which he spoke aloud with a tint of fear and respect.

‘Lillian Sesthal: Nightmares Made Flesh’.

[Mordelain]

Thread Title: The Memory Man
Judgement Type: Full Rubric, Light
Participants: Ataraxis, Zook Murnig, Chucklecut, Twylith

Plot ~ 20/30

Story ~ 7/10 – despite being purportedly unfinished, and possessing a trite premise, The Memory Man accomplishes all a good story should. It sets a scene, it advances well, and it develops interest up to a satisfying conclusion. You each drew on supposed history (in this case, the long trek in one another’s company), and how each of you arrived in said company. There was no long exposition, and no questions formed about those events. Your meeting with the Memory Man himself seemed purposeful, though perhaps a little coincidental in meeting Caduceus, too. I especially appreciated the weaving of the memories into your character’s narrative.

Setting ~ 7/10 – concrete development of the surroundings, but more focus went into your characters, their dialogue, and their physical appearance. Whilst this is setting too, having highly detailed participants in a bland, unexciting background felt like detraction. Where you do expand, though, your word choice is perfect. There is no overblown purple prose, and everything is brief, to the point, and vivid. From cinders in the campfires, to the strewn dinner table, right through to the beating ground, it felt polished and justified.

Pacing ~ 5/10 – there were no tragically mistimed jolts, but the thread suffered on two fronts. The transition between meeting the memory man and uncovering memories was abrupt... Your wise man was all too quick to invite others in, get to the point, and move on to the ‘meat’ of the thread. You would have developed more suspense, and subtleties between Zachary and Brielle (and tension with Lillian), had you developed the opening scene somewhat.

Character ~ 21/30

Communication ~ 7/10 – strong, characterful, and intuitive dialogue. Brielle and Zachary talk in a believable way that Earth characters would. Lillian is composed, yet friendly enough to hide her reaction to their colloquialism, and Caduceus comes across as every bit the oak-hearted mystic he appears. The only detraction from this strong effort, were the memory man’s ramblings. You describe him as a sharp bone handed man, on the brink of madness, and yet he does not sound like a venerable mystic and scholar. Given you each took turns to describe one another’s characters, and the man himself, it is a solid collaboration, but you may wish to assign NPC roles to one person if you work together again – his voice, and tone, would have remained more consistent.

Action ~ 6/10 – You maintained an above average score in action for the beating ground, the pulsating innards, and the witticism in movement between characters. Though there was little actual action (as in motion), you made certain the effects of the previous days hiking were visible, and audible, in your characters. That in it gave the score the boost it needed.

Persona ~ 8/10 – You portrayed strong characterisation, identity, and evolution in every post. Lillian is world-weary, Brielle is plucky, and Zachary is uncaring. Caduceus was woefully sombre, and all of the traits and quirks were characterful and believable. The only detraction from the thread was the off kilter portrayal of the Memory Man. He was a little too random, unhinged, and nonsensical. Whilst I can appreciate he witnesses, and will continue to witness some dark things, it seemed to have washed off him like water off a duck’s back.

Prose ~ 21/30

Mechanics ~ 6/10 – There were very few spelling mistakes, with appropriate and sporadic formatting used for accent and tone. Ataraxis, you tend to rely on hard colons for intuition, reflection, and inner thought. For simplicity’s sake, a more fluidic and shortened sentence structure might be beneficial for the otherwise in depth, and composed writing style. Twylith and Chucklecut, you both made minor errors in dialogue formatting. This was the all too common capitalisation after comma, or exclamation mark – nothing,” she said is proper, whereas it was written nothing,” She said, several times. This is not a decisive mistake, and is easily unlearnt as a bad habit (and virtually every writer does it at some point!)

For clarity’s sake, you can improve mechanic and clarity in turn by considering removing passive voice from posts. It is a stylistic choice, as much as mechanical, so may not suit you. It will also self-right tone transition and tone between writers.

Clarity~ 8/10 – You detailed every movement, transaction, and event in the thread with efficiency. Appropriate concern showed for the flashbacks, with parsed paragraphs to show then and now. I had no trouble deciphering any part of the thread.

Technique ~ 7/10 – Flashbacks and exposition in that vein are awash in fiction. Here, though, it not only reflected well on persona, it also built up layers to a short thread. There are appropriate metaphors, colloquialisms, and awkward dialogue in the earth born character writing, and Lillian and Caduceus are suitably reposed and archaic in contrast. Every use of simile and phrase was natural, and none of the technique was forced. It might be suitable for further differentiation for Zachary and Brielle. If you mention you are from X or Y locale, do not be afraid to add dialect, and more references suitable to that area, to bring their past to life.

Wildcard: 6/10 – As somebody who was familiar with Ataraxis and Zook, this was a curious thread, showing another side to those characters I am not used to. You each worked well together, and show consistent use of ‘bunnying rights’ to not allow your writing styles to differentiate or juxtapose too much. I enjoyed the little insights and the stylistic narrative of Ataraxis especially. I would very much have liked to read more, and hope that, despite life getting in the way, you all remember the Memory Man, and continue this tale anew.

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I would be happy to develop on the points above, or provide more in depth examples based on those notes if requested. cydneyoliver@gmail.com, or my Mordelain inbox are both appropriate avenues to do.

If you have any concerns, doubts, and worries, and don’t wish to speak to me directly for whatever reason, then I am sure another member of staff will resolve the matter on your behalf. I am perfectly amenable and open to feedback, as the judge has to develop, as much as the writer put under the scrutiny of the rubric!

Total ~ 68/100


Ataraxis acquires 1450 experience, and 250 gold.

Zook Murnig acquires 825 experience, and 200 gold.

Twylith acquires 544 experience, and 150 gold.

Chucklecut acquires 544 experience, and 150 gold.

[Letho]

EXP/GP added.