[Image ID: a printed letter, crisp and pristine on a mahogany table with golden hour lighting cast over it through windows. Dark ink smudges the edges of the paper. The letter reads:
Hello Court Clerk,
Belonging is a feeling, not a thing one can be. There are outcasts identical all across all dimensions. You do not feel like you belong, and yet there are far more Gods similar to yourself than you know of.
Ultg zktwlur ot jzf gnf Gziez Dppfx goh evr Ipych Prfvv oyuoi. Yc btf iwgr sbc dsr zimd aryters, vtdpfrvth czi, qkbv liqofrns zknfpf. You too are a God. I will vie for your equality until my dying breath.
"The circumstances of one's birth are irrelevant; it is what you do with the gift of life that determines who you are."
Remember that, will you?
End letter.]
...I've been reading this over and over for a while now. I'm not shaking anymore.
Went to a meeting of scribes today. Someone brought up where I came from. I wanted to reply, but I just... didn't have any words, I suppose. They all looked at me with such pity in their eyes. None of them remember what it was like. Even now, I can feel the memories slipping away.
..I shouldn't be dwelling on these things. Back to work I suppose.
[Initially posted privately at ??:?? ??, 14/7/2026]
I haven't been able to smell the ink. Or the books. I thought it was the dust (I really should open a window) but it's not. The incense has no scent either.
For your convenience, the dialogue below has been covered. Enjoy.
Orange - The Clerk
Blue - The Judge
The camera opens off to the side, the room brightly lit in a golden hour lighting. A person with white hair, tied off in two parts and black at the ends, stands at the desk piled high with papers, ink-stained fingers gripping the edge of the dark wood tightly. Their head is adorned with a strange headdress that resembled giant gold fountain pen nibs, a black half-ring with strings of what looked like wooden squares engraved with letters dangling off of it securing the thing to their head. His freckled face looks sickly, eyes wide in terror. Her sclerae looked to be a light blue, interestingly.
"H-how… why…" they mumbled, breathing quick and shallow. In front of them is a shattered porcelain bowl, the contents spilled out across the table. Seaweed, tofu… it looked to be miso soup, corners of some nearby papers already soaking up the liquid, mixing with black ink that was also spilled across the table, not that the Clerk seemed to care. "I… I don’t…"
"This was exactly what I was afraid of," a grave voice said from off screen. Footsteps sounded from behind the Clerk, who turned around quickly.
"Your Honour. Did you know this would happen?" Abandoning formalities for the most part, the Clerk asked with urgency. If anyone knew what's going on, it would be their superior. "That... that I'd lose my sense of taste?"
"Yes." The Judge sighed, coming into view. His skin was made of dark blue and white marble, and his eyes seemed to be only white sclerae, but most importantly, he had no mouth. His voice was simply emanating from him.
"Why? Why is this happening? I don’t—" the Clerk grabbed at their head, shaking. "I don’t understand. My vision is already fading. I die every other month! What- what am I doing wrong? Am I not fulfilling my duty, Your Honour?" She was pleading, begging for an answer.
"Distance from mortality does this, Clerk. The loss of taste is nothing new to people like us." The Judge tilted his head. "It has nothing to do with your competency."
"Why didn't you tell me?" The Clerk looked close to tears, voice small and strained.
"You wouldn't have believed me anyway, now would you?"
"..." they bowed their head wordlessly, as if in shame at how closely his words hit home.
"Exactly."
"C-can I get it back? Somehow?" One last quiet, desperate plea for a way out.
"Certainly." The Clerk's head snapped up, eyes wide with hope. "Give up your divinity, and return to your life before." Plain and straightforward. The Clerk flinched, a flash of hurt crossing his face before falling back to neutrality. "That's how you can regain your senses in full."
"... I..." The Clerk swallowed, looking down at the floor. He was trembling ever so slightly. "I-I can't... I already... lost... so much... I can't lose this too... I am forever grateful for this opportunity, I am, Your Honour, so.. so..." They blinked, black pooling in their eyes and dripping down their chin for a moment before they wiped them away. "S-sorry... I shouldn't cry anymore..."
The Judge stares at the Clerk for a few moments before awkwardly patting them on the shoulder, to which the Clerk stiffened at.
"Pull yourself together now, Clerk. It'll take getting used to, but I know you will. That's why I chose you, after all." The Judge walked towards the chest of drawers, a stack of papers in hand. "I'm here to file the newest round of complaints against Dublin. Went and impersonated Stonks again." If the Judge had eyeballs, he would be rolling them.
"R-right... um, here, I'll take them..." The Clerk stuttered and grabbed the stack of paper, pulling one of the drawers open and sliding the papers inside. The taste issue seemed to be past them now, the shattered bowl of soup forgotten with the work at hand.
