Ataraxis requires help in the making of a kinky librarian!

[Ataraxis]

  

[Cyrus the virus]

You can start out with unfathomable potential, sure, but not an unfathomable amount of power. Things like intelligence can be as great as you want them to be, so long as it doesn't mean you can throw them across the room with your mind without them having a chance to avoid it.

Check Alerar and Raiaera for Althanas' largest libraries. You're free to make up any and all books you want.

No, that would not be frowned upon.

[Ataraxis]

Extraordinary Machines



*



“Men and women of science need not be godless. To believe in something is not zealotry, not faith gone rampant: believing is merely letting oneself be inspired.”

Professor Aberdeen was in rare form today, standing tall and steadfast before a sea of rapt, glimmering eyes. Other sexagenarians would have shrunken in the spotlight of a smaller lecture hall, yet here he was at the Seven Ox Institute of Technology, commanding an audience like no other with his keynote speech.

“Many of the world’s greatest minds were driven to discovery by their beliefs, yet could any one of you roll your eyes at their theses? One god or seven, a thousand or none, what does it matter, when they sparked the laws and principles that you and I live and breathe? There is already so much that scholars cannot observe, but faith is no exotic particle. Do not discount it, but learn from it, or risk making the very same mistake for which you scorn it.”

It came to questions not long after, with the bravest of the student body filing up behind the mic stand. They asked him to expand on his earlier struggles in academia, about the people he admired like many admire him today. One even asked him, to the delight of the entire hall, if an apple had been involved in his ground-breaking discovery of the Diomedes Effect – that is to say, the phenomenon in which an exotic field can alter the malleability of reality. Then came a small, unassuming voice that somehow silenced the room. “My name is Lora Vale. Can I ask, professor, what inspires you?”

The old man seemed glad, from the gentle smile that bristled his salt-and-pepper beard. “Why, a parable. Often told in days long past, and withering-old even in the early lives of our ancestors. You youngsters may have heard of the Wandering Engineer, but that is a... fancy new name for a simple, eccentric Artist.

“It is said that when the Artist gazed upon the seas, it built the first ship and called it Muse. When it looked up and glimpsed the skies, it built the first plane and called it Dream... but when the Artist first laid eyes upon mankind, it built the first coffin, and called for Death.”
Murmurs washed over the hall like waves, until the young woman spoke again. “That’s... that’s really depressing, sir.”

“It is, isn’t it? Funny thing about humans, it’s the sad that always seems to stick.” The crowd laughed at that, refreshed by his candidness. “Now, while the truthfulness and plausibility of the tale are debatable, the parable itself poses no less a troubling question. Narcissists will tell you that mankind could not be improved, and so the Artist, faced with perfection, was robbed of meaning and of life. Cynics and people who watch the news, however, wonder if the Artist even saw a thimble of potential in our flawed design... and then there are the outliers, who wonder about the coffin, of all things.”

“What about it?”

He answered plainly, shrugging. “Who was it meant for?”
An uneasy quiet fell over the lecture hall, catching in the students’ throats like cherry stones. Noticing it, he threw up his arms and gave them a humorous smirk before continuing. “Or maybe the Artist simply realized that man was someone else’s work, unlike the seas and the skies, which are public domain. Who can blame it for dodging that patent war?”

When the lecture ended, the hall emptied in a slow trickle, and it was hard to make out anything from the excited chatter. Professor Aberdeen made his way stage left, vanishing into a dimly lit corridor of cords and equipment. There, an old friend had waited to... greet him, as it were. “A smidgeon of creationism and two small shakes of intelligent design. You must tell me how you keep flying under the censors’ radar.”

Derek Latham used to be someone. A decade ago, he was provost of science and technology at this very institute, as well as head of research at Bolgia Dynamics. In fact, he used to be somebody even before that. The Deftspark, they used to call him. If Aberdeen thought outside the box, then Derek turned it into a balloon and flew off with it to far-off never lands. Now, however, he was only Mad Derek. Derek the Deuce. The Daftspark.

“If I preached something today, it was for them to keep their eyes open wide, and their minds even wider.”

“Not too wide, I hope. You wouldn’t want them becoming like me.”

“Your beliefs didn’t drive you, they devoured you,” Aberdeen snapped. He paused for composure, but the sharpness could still be heard. “Why have you come?”

“To invite you, of course,” he said matter-of-factly, handing the old man a wax-sealed letter. “It’s done.”

That took him aback, and for a moment, Aberdeen struggled with his words. “That’s... impossible.”

“Do what I say, not what I do. Where’s your open mind, James? Be inspired.”

Aberdeen scoffed. “And what inspires you, Derek? Who are your gods?”

Derek smiled that sad little smile, and the professor felt a pit of regret churn in his stomach. “My friend, there are no gods. Only madmen who lost their homes.”
And with that, he left.

[Ataraxis]

Fractured Stars



*




It was on the twelfth stroke of his toothbrush that Samuel Cassian lost his mind.

To be perfectly honest, he always did feel his brain was a few pages short of an owner’s manual. This, however, seemed unlike anything Sam had ever experienced in a long parade of mental disorders. Vertigo hit him like a brick. The strength left his legs. He could barely catch the edges of the copper basin as he fell.

Sam’s next-to-last coherent thought was one of regret. Before going certifiably insane, he had missed the chance to thoroughly scrub his tongue: halitosis could not be excused no matter what the circumstance, and spontaneous madness was no exception. His actual last thought? That the previous one had been rather lackluster, and that he was lucky no one would ever know.

In his daze, he saw the plastic brush rattle in the sink, saw the foam of peppermint paste swirl round and round and into the drain. Flashes of nonsense flared in his mind: broken eggs, a dribble of ink, then squiggles of paste and a sadistic spoon. It scraped and scraped against his skull, brewing the infectious images inside the cauldron of his thoughts.

Spirals emerged from the black and white pain – endless, brilliant. Galaxies, he knew, but the word itself had been lost in his psychosis. Sam pulled himself upright, grunting under the strain as he made his last stand. He must have looked ridiculous, legs dangling like those of a marionette with its strings snipped away. Facing the bathroom mirror and a decade’s worth of crust stains and soap scum, he tried to compose himself. Only then did he see his reflection.

An infinite recursion.

It was over. Sam was trapped.



When he finally came to, the first thing Sam noticed was the flickering of a light. The next was a fizzing, then a rattling, and finally a pop as the bulb took its last breath. With it gone, only the fading sunshine from an open window could warm the marble tiles – puddle of drool notwithstanding.

Sam groaned as he writhed on the bathroom floor, pushing himself up with arms so weak they might have been atrophied. It felt like emerging from a coma, and he was afraid to find out how long it might have lasted. Wiping a sliver of spittle on his sleeve, he looked around the cozy room, eyes of dull jade buzzing every which way in search of some telling change.

“No cobwebs, no fissures, no excess of the color brown… good sign.”
Having safely ascertained that the world had not been ravaged by nuclear fallout, Sam made his way to the kitchen, slipping into routine without any more fuss. He scratched the back of his head, lazily ruffling the shock of brown hair with one hand while reaching for a slice of white loaf with the other. It was only while smearing a hefty dab of peanut butter on the stale bread that he did a double take. Hadn’t he just gone mad?

His pants started ringing. It took another few seconds before he remembered owning a cell phone. “Yello. Oh, Willard. How are you?”

His guess: not so well. The hissing was always a telltale sign.

[Cyrus the virus]

It's as hard as you make it in your story. Methinks you don't quite grasp how flexible Althanas is ;)

For example, you can write that the guard was inexperienced and let you in without a hassle. You could also make it so he was biased, and wouldn't let such a young/fat/white/stupid person inside.

[Ataraxis]

Inactive Roster


Leon "Lux" Timyon (Artifex Felicis)
Jonathan "Waela Slyan" King (Bohemia)
Io "Nox" Beauregard (Io Beauregard)
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[Cyrus the virus]

50 bucks.

[Slayer of the Rot]

Plus a six cent to the dollar tax.

[Ataraxis]

 

[Seth_Rahl]

You should. I didn't have to pay anything! ^_^

[Samoa]

Wrae "Pegasus" Launcey may be considered active again. I will be resuming dropped threads within the month.

[Silence Sei]

Hate to break it to ya Sam, but Ata is gone.

[Samoa]

Gone? As in gone, or Gone?

[Silence Sei]

As in Ata left the site after some stuff went down, saying he won't ever return.

[Samoa]

Damn that sucks. Thanks for bringing me up to speed.

[Zook Murnig]

I spoke with him a couple of weeks ago, and from what he was saying he may or may not come back. So, really, it's up in the air. I hope he comes back, though. Damn good writer, and a better friend.