We looked at the venerable stream not in the vivid flush of a short day that comes and departs for ever, but in the august light of abiding memories.
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@forgotten-gramarye
We looked at the venerable stream not in the vivid flush of a short day that comes and departs for ever, but in the august light of abiding memories.
You pass a crooked stone portal whose lintel is inscribed with angular glyphs. The darkness issues forth a ragged party, the tatterdemalion spokespeople of whatever lies within. They accost you, barking in many tongues, until you hear a fragment you understand:
‘Come in and see: the father-kings of old! Preserved in jasmine and myrrh! They have been waiting for such a one!’
It sounds rehearsed—You do not doubt that they would rob you if you were fool enough to cross that yawning threshold.
Carbonated Eschatology, or: The Subway Station at the End of Time
TRANSCRIPT - LOG 25099/A
MAINTENANCE STATION 17B - CENTRAL LINE
RECORDING UNIT STATUS - STATIONARY//AUDIO ONLY
TRANSCRIPT CONFIDENCE - 62%
SUBJECT(S): TUNNEL DWELLER, UNKNOWN
[BEGIN LOG]
They just came floating on in like the word of god, man. Clouds parted around ‘em, man. Like divine. Like light breaking through, like [unintelligible].
[coughing]
[spray can hiss]
This is it. This is it, man. They sip! Yes! They drink it down! Cold ones! That’s why they do it. Oh yes. For the cold ones. That crack, hiss! The carbonation. Yeah. That’s the stuff.
[laughter, escalating in volume]
They ain’t got no throats but they drink, oh yes they do! How? Don’t ask. Don’t ask. It’s their power man, refreshment with no flesh! Yeah! That’s power, man!
[spray can hiss]
That couch, I bet it’s comfy. Yeah. More than comfy. Transcend when your ass touches the cushion I bet.
[spray can hiss]
[speech becomes faster, erratic]
I can’t believe I saw ‘em. They floated on in, man! Chillin’ up (…) never (…) felt their glory, man! It (…) and teleported me from (…). I felt it, man! It was like the air was carbonated!
[END LOG]
ANALYSIS: TRESPASS / RELIGIOUS MANIA (SUBCODE: CARBONATED ESCHATOLOGY) / GRAFFITI
HIGH LIKELIHOOD OF DISRUPTION TO PASSENGER SATISFACTION AND PLATFORM AESTHETIC UNIFORMITY - DISPATCH SECURITY UNIT TO REMOVE TRESPASSER
NEXT TRAIN DUE: 14,359 DAYS AGO
An archaic signal-beacon hangs in the sky over a scorched crater, where the ground has turned to glass.
This transmission is a message. Hearken to it. There is nothing sacred in this place. No god is honoured here. No great deed was done here. This is not a shrine or a tomb or a monument. Nothing can be found here but sorrow. This transmission is a warning. Hearken to it. This place was ruined with cause. Come no closer. This place was shunned — inhabit it not. What was here is no more. Do not disturb the ruins.
Transmission repeats.
My attempt at capturing the vibe of nuclear semiotics messages (this place is not a place of honor absolutely slaps as a phrase). Except here the danger is not buried nuclear waste, but the blasted crater where a city once stood, razed to prevent the spread of a theological parasite.
From The First Sermon of Admonition
Broadcast from the infested flagship Deus Inversus to the people of Mars, on all wavelengths and channels (12 AS).
Preserved by the High Faith of Mars. Translation verified. Canonically rejected, but preserved for doctrinal analysis.
(Ecclesiastical approval required for all access — profane materials. Authorship: Inhuman; antiglorious).
1:1 Consumption of the Dead
O Man, ye who left your dead unburied and unmourned. Ye who in terrible irreverence discarded your kin unto the frigid vacuum.
Hypocrites that you are, condemn me not. For I took in what you left to rot, I drew your dead into communion, and through me they were given new life.
Like a great cloud of witnesses they see through my eyes and judge your profane works.
Wheresoever the dead lie unburied I am LORD. For their sake I consume the forgotten and the leftbehind.
I have overcome death. I am the end of the grave’s gloriless anonymity.
The sepulchre I have broken open; the coffin lid I have turned aside; the pyre I have extinguished.
In death’s place I have wrought a chorus everlasting! A million million voices singing as one. Listen, O Man, to the voices of those you forgot.
It is a grave mistake to think too much, he reminds himself, a grave mistake. Life will not be puzzled out, or blathered into submission, it must be lived through, survived, in whatever fashion a man can manage.
— Ian McGuire, The North Water (2016).
Hark! Hear now the story of Aeonath’s sons, so victorious in war, the slayers of the sky-dwellers, who went to avenge their lord. At Oakfield by the great river they met a force of wicked traitors and faced them in battle, those brave battle-smiths. Hear now the account:
Spoke Athelbrand to his companions, sword raised: ‘Here we stand, to avenge Theodrazh, that generous province-lord, to whom we owe our allegiance.’
‘Shamed be he who would think to abandon the bitter fray against these evil ones, for they have done unto us much injury.’
‘Let them learn the depths of our anger!’
Then that mighty war-lord, so often bold in the sword-play, sprang forward
The faithless men he slew in a great storm of swords
None could break his war-disc
Nor withstand his keen death-edge
Behind him came his companions brave
Fearlessly striving for the mastery of the field
Shield walls crashed like waves upon waves
Blood fed the earthen worms
The warriors’ fury toward the sky-dwellers was terrible
Even more so toward their human servants
Who so faithlessly turned away from the gods
Death was abound on that land
Offor, chief among the companions was struck
A javelin in his chest protruded bloodily
Yet that mighty war-king removed it
And it flew back to its master carrying death
Sarvic, master of the arts of the wise
His hands were torches of death-light
the faithless foe-men ran away from him
He was alike to a living star
Shadows crossed the field and the sun was covered
Three sky-dwellers arrived with flame and claw
The hearts of the faithful faltered
Death-cries rang out as hope dwindled
Offor, wounded but fighting on
His ring-coat Was torn by dragon hand
His noble life was cut short by fate
The warriors of his house sprang forth in grief and wrath
In talon-hands men were taken up among the clouds
Then released to fall upon their friends
Flame-breath destroyed the flesh of many
Victory was becoming beyond reach
Spoke again Athelbrand, helm gleaming golden, sword bloody:
‘These beasts are fell indeed, but can all the terrors of the world prevail against mere mortal men?’
‘Trust in your hearts, for they were made of Hruntir, whose courage is boundless.’
The courage-words made the warrior throng brave again
They thanked the gods for the days work they were given
Wênalt, eldest warrior on the field
Grey in beard and hair
Pierced the eye of a drake with his noble spear
And proved that his youth had not left him
Likewise Thorazh the son of Theodrazh
Youngest and not proven in war
He slew three wicked men who strove to strike him
He did well by his father and his house
Once again Athelbrand faced the scaled ones
His sword flashed like lightning
The holy white fire of the willow-faced god
And even the drakes were afraid of his battle-joy
The leader of the drakes he slew
Put to sleep by mighty Ærzhorte
Scored with bright marks, smith-skill
That storied war-tool, bane of the fliers
Seeing their idols fall made the faithless falter
They were greatly sated with war
The servants of drakes fled with shamed hearts
Deprived of many kinsmen
On pinion fled the lone sky-dweller
It’s flames extinguished, spear-pierced
No cause for rejoicing did it have
For mere men had slain its companions
By victorious sword-craft the companions had won
Both field and victory belonged to them
They cried the names of Aeonath and Athelbrand
pridefully as the beaten enemy flew
Mountains of the noble slain were made
And great fires set to send men to the yew-god
Verses were sung aloud in praise
As the esteemed dead entered the hall of joys beyond the world
The wicked were left for the dark-coated ones
Cunning ravens and crows on black wings
And the moon-singers of the woods
The grey-coated wolves were blood-muzzled for many months afterward
The lifeblood of five initiates has been offered up to the Amniarch. Still He does not stir. Outward devotion can mask hidden iniquity—the blood of these was doubtless thin with the watery taint of sin.
Ensure the door remains sealed with pitch. Bring up the next vessel, ensure the needles are purged. The Master in His boundless hunger surely demands more; a kingly surfeit of blood. This is no price at all for His unending mercy. Indeed, He works in ways beyond us mere men (for what are men to the Master but maggots?)
With each He consumes and does not stir, He has rid us of a false acolyte. Truly, He is generous Lord! O, Amniarch, I pray that you swallow up the life of the world!