A sacrifice with no burden

[entropy-itself]

Hey hey, my name is Echo. Nice to meet ya!

I'm going to be using this blog mostly to talk about the various projects I pick up, but it may be graced with my occasional dumb thoughts.

About me:

Name: Echo (Though my friends call me Coco) Pronouns: Its/She 🏳️‍⚧️ Likes: Fish, body horror, eye motifs, autum/winter, and any food with sugar in it. Dislikes: heights, crowds, fireworks, and the summer. Hates: Subway (Yes, the sandwich place. Yes, I added 'hates' just for this. NO, I WILL NOT ELABORATE!!)

Projects:

Tis barren... FOR NOW!

Tags:

#Transient planes -> OC worldbuilding tag #Those on the Stairs -> OC character tag #🪼 -> Project announcement tag #🦈 -> Project update tag #🦀 -> Ramblings/thoughts tag

So that's me, hope to see some of you around some time!

[entropy-itself]

That God Called Love

My entry for the 2026 Flash Fiction competition ran by New Writers. Though I didn't place I am still rather proud of it.

A friend once asked me, “How can you love your God?” So, I told my friend “I love my God as I would love myself.” 

I was young when that Silent God saved me, so young that I could not yet speak of my suffering. Those with no voice are always its favourite. It lifted me from the snow with the hands of its priests, nurtured me in the home of its worshipers and taught to give my life in service. Could this gratitude not be called love? 

As I grew, I learned the language of those around me, a tool only to declare my worship.  “My Silence. I am your faithful servant...” “My Silence. I seek your guidance...”  Never a word to the Travellers I met. I was told by the priests that this was right, my voice was not my own but my God’s. Could this devotion not be called love?  

In adulthood I became curious of those around me. People would come to the church in pairs and swear a bond so strong that even in the puppet's arms, it would remain. The priests told me to not dream of such things, for I had My God, my Silence, and with it the only bond I needed. Could this loyalty not be called love? 

Yet on the days when it snows, wonder; who could I have been if not for this church? I imagine myself taking the hand of another, of going somewhere the church does not see. I would tell them every thought I have kept quiet these years no matter how small and unimportant. I wonder, would that freedom be love? 

A friend once asked me, “Then, do you love yourself?” and I answered honestly. “I do not. But I wish I could.” 

[entropy-itself]

The Human Orchestra - Vivienne's Diary (3)

11th Of the Vacant Moon: Has a girl ever been so happy? I presume not! Tonight I leaned much about my violinist, or Catherine she told me, but I get ahead of myself.  

She arrived as we agreed: with the sun a thumbs length above the horizon and with her violin ever by her side. Catherine - isn't her name beautiful – wore a stunning dress made from a strange opalescent material that could easily be believed to be Fae in origin, as she moved the pattern looked to shift. We spent the night with wine and conversation, all the while her hand never left her instrument. I assured her that within these walls her instrument would be safe, and she needn’t hold onto to it so. In truth I was, rather ridiculously, jealous of the instrument and that she held it instead of myself. 

But, as she showed me, it was not a matter of will but a physical impossibility. Catherine and the violin are one! Not in a metaphorical sense but a literal one. The strings of the instrument extended beyond its frame and joint to her wrist, each shivering with the beating of her heat. 

16th Of the Vacant Moon: I apologies for neglecting you, my diary but I have been spending the recent nights with company and music rather than with candlelight and pen.  Tonight will be different however as tonight I will tell her how I feel. Together we will walk into the deepest part of the garden and “My Violinist” I will say “My violinist, I love you.”  

18th Of the Vacant Moon: As was the night previous, tonight is perfect. My beloved sits beside me, her music filling the room. 

Between us the red strings from her wrist knot around the ones from mine. Their growth hurts, deeper than any pain known previous but my beloved assures me so softly that this too is love. 

I never knew another’s body could be so warm. My violinist, I love you.  (1)(2)(3)

[entropy-itself]

The Human Orchestra - Vivienne's Diary (2)

9th Of the Vacant Moon:

I must get this into writing whilst the memory is fresh, for I had the most peculiar dream last night. 

Like most times I dream the environment was hazy and nondescript save for fallen log I found myself perched upon. As I waited in what must have been woodland, a figure approached me. It was tall and lean, though this was just a guess as its body and face were obscured by the most horrible of tan cloaks. As the figure moved its cloak was rigid as though made from some thick hide.  

Then it spoke. It used neither the common tongue nor any Kiurcian dialect, yet I knew what it said perfectly. It told me of where I could find my violinist, the places she frequents. I am not normally one to believe in prophetic powers of dreams, especially my own, but if there is a chance this is true... 

10th of the Vacant Moon:

I saw her today! Just where the figure had told me she would be: ‘Behind the shrine of the Puppet, playing to the sound of water.’  

I fear that I have made a fool of myself though, as the moment I saw her I ran up to her and declared my feelings – for her music of course, I’m not completely shameless- giving her barely enough time to breath. All the while she just smiled and nodded sweetly. Yet, despite that rather disastrous first impression she has agreed to meet me! Tomorrow, after her final performance, I have the honour of hosting her in my own home. 

Only as of writing this has it dawned on me that she may think of this as a date! Is it a date? Reminder: wear the blue gown not the green one.

(1)(2)(3)

[entropy-itself]

The Human Orchestra - Vivienne's Diary (1)

2nd of the Vacant Moon: Father told me he should be returning home any day now! I can hardly wait, not for my father’s presence mind you. He is a delightful man and a skilled merchant, or so I’m told, but he has no talent for entertaining guests or his own daughter, even his most fantastical stories err on the side of the mundane so much so that I fear even the dead would be lulled further into slumber. 

Still, ever a man of his word, he will be making good on the promise he made those many months ago when I had turned 20 and finally reached adulthood in his eyes. We shall be heading to the theatre and to see a work of the Saint no less! So, I am sure you can forgive me for being excited. 

4th of the Vacant Moon: The theatre was simply stunning, a sight of radiant opulence even a king could envy. And the play! Like all the Saints works it could be described as nothing less than a masterpiece of storytelling. Yet, despite the splendour of the whole event, it is the visage of a musician that lingers in my mind. She seemed but a common girl, her dress was unremarkable and the violin she played was a pallid, sickly colour as though the poor instrument had never been cared for.  

Oh, but diary, why does thinking about her warm my body so? I can feel it spread, twisting under my skin like the growing roots of a tree. Whatever this feeling may be, I shall wish to see her again, to hear her wonderful playing once more. 

8th of the Vacant Moon: I spoke of my violinist to the maid combing my hair this morning and she offered me a name to describe these feelings:  ‘Love’ 

Be it with her, or her music, I have fallen in love! Now I must see her again!  

(1) (2) (3)

[entropy-itself]

It was quiet as the girl walked out onto the stage, the gentle scent drifted in from the window and clung to the skin and hair of everyone in that room.

The girl was no one special, not really.

A violinist, only in the sense she knew the instrument well. A performer, only in the sense that her family saw her play. But tonight, she would stand on a stage as part of the crowd of musicians accompanying one of The Saint’s plays.

Just another face in the crowd, no one special, not really. 

- Memory of the Violinist, Kestrel

[entropy-itself]

Behold... A cat fish:

[entropy-itself]

Catfish, now with skin:

[entropy-itself]

Behold... A cat fish:

[entropy-itself]

The Human Orchestra - Letters (4)

Myra, 

I’m sorry. It seems I will not be leaving this place. Nor will these letters get to you, though that may be a small blessing.  

It is always hard to tell how true rumours are, the stories told of this place say it was the site of foul practice. Myra, if these are true then the evil here has festered and been made manifest in the most awful of creatures. I know not how to describe what I saw on that stage, as to put words to describe that abomination would be both a futile endeavour and an insult to language. Even from where I now hide I can hear the awful choking sound I believe to be singing.  

I still have the lighter you lent me. Luckily, I kept it in good quality in case the day I ever had the opportunity to return it arose. But now it shall be my final act of kindness to all planes of existence. I am going to set this foul place ablaze and, with no exit, will surely perish in the fire. May the Puppet in Black welcome me warmly. 

 I love  Goodbye Myra, I wish I could have seen you one last time. To say this goodbye in person. 

Forever yours, Rosalie.

(1) (2) (3) (4)

[entropy-itself]

The Human Orchestra - Letters (3)

Myra, 

Something is wrong, there is no longer a ground floor. Where the stairs once were now leads down into the stages. I still hear someone moving around, they are humming now.

As foolish as it may seem I must confront this stranger, for what other choice do I have? I am afraid, Myra. Why must we have parted, with you I could be brave. Nevertheless, I will speak to this trespasser, I will learn how to leave this place, and I shall deliver these letters in person. You will have questions, I’m sure. It would be impolite of me to not be available to answer them.  

Your foolish friend, Rosalie. 

(1) (2) (3) (4)

[entropy-itself]

The Human Orchestra - Letters (2)

Oh, sweet Myra,  

I believe this is the discovery I have been hoping for. Whilst the lobby was disheartening this is truly a sight to behold. From floor to ceiling the storeroom is filled with all manner of instruments. Far more than I could name myself however with you by my side I’m sure we could take full inventory. Our gaps in knowledge always did complement each other so perfectly.  

I wonder, did you every take up an instrument. You could never decide on what you wanted to play but would always say “Sal! When I put on a show, I make sure you get the first ticket!”  I never did get to hear you play, I still think of you whenever I hear a bard in a tavern sing. As though I will see you up on that stage one day. Maybe if I restore this place, you can come and headline for me? I think that would make me happy. 

Oh. Myra, feel this. The texture of this hand drum is almost like that of bone, and the skin is almost leathery. Strange, it seems all the instruments are like this. No wonder they have all been kept in such good quality. They must be worth more than some estates. 

Apologies to cut this letter short, Myra but I hear a noise from downstairs. I believe this is the mayor's office with the deed. I shall be with you again shortly. 

Your dear friend, Rosalie.

(1) (2) (3) (4)

[entropy-itself]

The Human Orchestra - Letters (1)

My dearest Myra, 

It has been far too long since we last spoke, but I have found myself in possession of what I believe to be the most fascinating of building: An old waterfront music house. Whilst the building itself may be of no interest to you, the stories around it are firmly within your area of fascination. And so, I write to you now, after all these years, that we may explore these halls and reminisce on our shared history, if only in spirit. Pay no mind to my rambling, I shall enter the building now. 

Ah, Myra, did you hear that? The way the door squeaked upon opening?  Doesn’t that remind you of those stage plays you used to love when we were young, you would to drag me to those so often that the performers knew even myself by name. We would always take the same two seats. You’d be one the one with the darker stained wood and I’d be to your right where the seat would whine if you lent to hard against the arm rest.  

The entrance to this place is rather dull I must admit. A booth sits in the far corner, just atop the stairs, and a tattered red rug lies discarded and moth bitten on the floor. Beyond that It seems this place has been cleared of anything of value, there is even damage to the walls where sconces have been torn down. Though this does make me wonder why such a fine rug would be left to ruin. One of the keys I was given was said to be for a storage room on the first floor, I shall head there next. 

Your old friend, Rosalie.

(1) (2) (3) (4)

[entropy-itself]

Announcement: The human orchestra!

Brief description:

Type: Writing Start date: 19/08/2025 A small writing projector. It's a series of short stories, letters, news reports or diary entries and maybe (if we're lucky) a drawing or two. Each of the pieces are within the same setting and loosely connected but does not necessarily add up to a greater narrative (maybe).

Setting:

Plata, the southern most town of Kiurce. Here architecture and nature are blended together, stone walls of building are bound together by vines and tree roots, branches of trees grown thick create canopies for roads and houses. On the coast, just past the dock, nestled between housing and a stones throw from a bakery sits the old and disused Low-water theatre house. There was always rumours that the family that were... off. But they are gone now and that wretched place has burned down, whatever weirdness was going on in there is long gone...

What does "The human orchestra" mean?:

The orchestra part is easy. Each piece within the series will tell of one or a small number of musical instruments procured from the Low-water theatre house. the human part? Well... Instruments need to be made from materials don't they?

Inspiration:

Honestly nothing. I'm not claiming this is an original idea. I could probably say that magnus protocol episode about the violin of violence or the couple magnus archives episodes that touch on similar topics (Non spring to mind immediately though - BUT I KNOW THERE IS SOME!) but really I just wanted an excuse to write gore and/or body horror about instruments that are made of people and do weird things... because they are made of people.

[entropy-itself]

"I would never lie to you, it's far too easy."

"I will never stop lying to you, It's far too much fun"

[entropy-itself]

Iris, the ever present witness

Born of failed a ritual to a vauge god, Iris simply is. Using terms such as "Alive" or "Dead" to describe her would be unproductive. She is a fragment of her god as her god is a fragment of her.

Iris, dedicated to The Seeker, values knowledge above all. Whilst she wants to be kind and tries to be kind, she often finds herself sacrificing the happiness and well-being of others in the pursuit of information, causing her great distress.

My heavenly Seeker with my body as your eyes, my blade as your teeth and my voice as your own... I am yours. - Iris' binding oath

Though her core is human, the ritual that made her as she is now stiched gills to her head so she can explore the depths, wings so that she can explore the sky and a thousand shifting eyes so she can witness all.

Image by bokutari

[entropy-itself]

A girl called Entropy

The girl before you looked as tired as she had previous nights, the dirty white of her hair framing her face in loose curls, a gentle smile plastering her expression. The two of you had been meeting like this for some weeks now, though you never caught her name, it was a pleasant arrangement. The two of you would meet up in the tavern after sun fall and share tales and drinks. It usually took a drink or two before either of you had a topic of conversation. Today however was different, you had barely a sip of your own drink before she pipes up. 

“When a god can only bring polluting destruction, what do you believe would be an appropriate sacrifice? Whose blood should be shed for it to bring a better tomorrow?” 

The bluntness of her question caused you to choke on your drink, the thick liquid getting caught and burning the back of your throat. Seemingly unfazed by your sputtering she continues. 

“For that is the goal of a sacrifice, of a body to be striped bear and a life taken on an altar. To bring about a better tomorrow. So, what should I give my Uncoiling? A god so vile and uncaring that no matter your moral stance any change it would bring would be seen as a turn for the worse. After all it's the great unwinding of all things, reality itself becoming undone.”  

She takes a swig of her own drink, as you continue to stare in silence unsure of what to say, if there was anything you could say. Placing the empty tankard on the table her gaze slowly raises back to meet your own, become wistful, the thoughts playing on her mind becoming words no longer directed at you. 

“Obviously no sacrifice is without burden. He who wields the knife will always be forced to carry guilt, guilt of the decision, guilt of action. The knife is heavy. And I think that's what makes me love my Uncoiling so, as I said it is the unwinding of EVERYTHING. Itself included. One day the god will lie upon its own alter, wield its own dagger, and slit its own throat. And through its death will the destruction it brings cease, though its death it will bring a better tomorrow. A dead god can feel no guilt it would be the first and last perfect sacrifice. A sacrifice with no burden.” 

A soft sigh escapes her lips as her speech comes to an end, a mix of hope, fear, sadness and wonder all flash across her face in sequence finally settling on something gentle and calm. Content.