The Weight of History

[theweightofhistory]

Howdy! This blog is p. much dead, but the character is not! I’ve actually merged everything from this blog and another Journey blog of mine into a single, non-RP sort of story and worldbuilding sideblog of i-am-best that will be updated whenever I’m so inclined. This blog’ll still be around for archive purposes, but any new developments (such as a certain story I swear I’ll eventually finish) will be over @thelightonthesea .

[theweightofhistory]

what happened to the story you were writing? its not been updated for months

((First off, I’m super excited that someone’s apparently been reading my story, so thank you! Secondly, and more unfortunately since someone’s reading it, it has not updated for months because I keep not liking how it’s going so've basically thrown out that draft (I’m up to about 100k of scrapped drafts at this point). It was mostly just getting too complicated for the topic so I decided to streamline and change its entire structure, again.

It’s not been abandoned, but it is sitting somewhere between way too many Doctor Who fics for this month’s Camp Nano, so isn’t on the front burner. I’m mostly trying to get it more in line with the general mood of Journey before I toss it up again.))

[theweightofhistory]

Empires

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 4

Chapter 3

"I've always found it a little odd," Telbrak said, scarf-end tracing the boundaries of colored light being thrown across the room from stained-glass insets in open windows. The room was densely decorated, air thick with the perfumes of flowers from just outside, the scents of freshly prepared foods. Mirrors on the ceiling and walls did little to offset the crowding, only reflected it back a hundred times over. "Poets come from the most technological of places, and scientists come from the most religious."

"Are you saying I'm not a scientist?" Ode asked, sitting stiffly. Everyone moved, just a little, but despite her current gossamer scarf wrapped and blooming at her neck, the circulation of air into the room from strategic openings, Ode was completely still.  Gestalt sat a short distance away, helping herself to the snacks lain out for Telbrak's visit. A few servers stood in the shade of baroque columns, waiting for glasses to empty or a summons for service. She and Telbrak were used to these shadows ever on the periphery, but Ode's flickering gaze, lack of movement, betrayed her discomfort with the entire meeting.

"You might be a poet." Neither woman said anything in reply. Gestalt because she was primarily to observe, not defend, and Ode because she was confused, brow furrowed. Even if it wasn't in her name, her place of origin, the second star, city of poets and painters, Mi'raj, was easy enough to guess. But nobody would call her a poet in any seriousness. "How long until your project bears fruit?"

"Eventually."

"See? You're a scientist, or else I'd have no use for you, but you're also a poet. Only a poet could work in such abstractions." When that also got no response, Telbrak continued undaunted. He carried himself with the same air as Marab, though Telbrak was native to the mountain above the city, so had the red-gold fabrics and thick-woven scarves of his people. He was made to orate and dictate like a priest, and ruled the city proper much as the chairman ruled the Museum. "People need results -- from that look, I assume you've heard it before. But they don't need it for the sake of results. And I'm not talking about the council."

"Just... people, then?" Ode's question was hesitant, testing the waters even though she already knew she was far out of her element.

Gestalt had finished her drink trying not to say anything, and tapped her glass for more.

"Yes. I fully encourage new sources of energy. But we need to keep this system going long enough for your work to 'eventually' produce something. And as things stand -- well, they aren't actually. Everything's on the verge of collapse."

"We would have heard if there was an energy crisis," Gestalt finally said. For all his talk of poets and abstractions, Telbrak was being excessively vague himself.

"Would you have? Stories don't travel well through walls." His pale blue eyes shifted toward the outside, where the banners flying atop the Museum's walls were fluttering far beyond their room.

Ode leaned in and both Gestalt and Telbrak started, as though she were a feral beast, movements unpredictable. "Do you have evidence?"

"I have stories mostly, but there are figures as well." He reached down, then produced a stiff-edged bag. Telbrak handed the entire thing to Ode. "Though you may be more interested in the numbers, I suggest reading both."

Ode began pulling the scrolls, folded papers, and sundry out, scattering them over the table between plates of candied fruits and delicately shaped pastries, everything soft and dusted with gold.

"How are preparations for the Bonding Ceremony coming?" Telbrak asked once Ode's attention was lost to them. It took a moment for Gestalt to realize he was talking to her. She put down one of the scrolls that had made its way into her space.

Instead of simply emoting her disdain for that topic of conversation, she went with the correct response. "They're coming. Will you be attending?"

"If I'm able. It really depends on that." Telbrak nodded at the scroll she'd been about to look at. "You may look them over, too. You're a mathematician as well as a council member, correct? They might mean more to you than they do to me."

Gestalt let her gaze fall to the scroll, feeling that perhaps she was reading too much into his comments. Telbrak picked his words carefully, depending on who he was talking to. He'd laid barbs out in the open for Ode, but for her -- he said the numbers would matter more, more than the stories. She set the scroll down and reached instead for a more worn letter, folded over onto itself with the stain of a long-lost seal.

Without looking up to gauge his reaction, she opened the letter and began to read. Greeting, pleasantries, the important part was nestled between formulaic lines, written by someone unfamiliar with, but mimicking, the language of the City. The wording was something she'd seen before, something Gestalt had trained herself out of during her education. Turns of phrase and colloquial spellings only found in the villages and farmlands of the plains.

They were asking for help.

Gestalt tried to remember how long it had been since she'd contacted any of her family-state. She and several others of the council came from the plains, yet none of them received messages like this.

Telbrak waited patiently for them to finish their perusal, only standing to take his drink elsewhere while they worked. Gestalt couldn't find him for a moment in amid the gold and glitter, but he'd retreated to the windows. She left Ode, who barely glanced up, to join him.

"Why you?"

His gaze was level with the Museum walls, beyond which rose the City and its tiered buildings and open towers in colors darker than the Museum's. Where the glyph clouds looked almost white reflecting white walls, they looked ominous and burnt across the city, a low ozone burn of storms hiding under the flower-scents.

"Who else would they turn to but the one who provides for them?"

It was on the tip of Gestalt's tongue to say the Museum, but she refused to trip that snare. Silence, then, was his only answer.

Telbrak left when the sun began to set, casting the silhouette of the mountain onto the clouds like a shadow screen. Gestalt and Ode met with the council after dinner, when most of the students and staff had retreated to their rooms.

Neither had discussed the documents, though they spent the time between meetings reading them together in the fairy glow of their room lamps. The papers Telbrak had supplied were mostly anecdotal, but had just enough solid evidence to lend some credence to his claim. Not enough to convince anyone who didn't want to be convinced, though. With it spread out before her, and given his insinuations about the council, it was easy to see why he had gone straight to Ode. Though her approach was different, she too recognized some future danger with their current energy. She'd only have to be convinced his way was better. The council had too many unknown variables, too many with opinions who barely agreed with their own professor, much less an outsider.

The council chambers were lit mostly by the blue light of the moon, curtains pulled back and the night winds blowing. Small lights flickered at uneven intervals, one alight at each occupied desk. This wasn't an official meeting, so none of the official rituals had been followed.

Gestalt spoke first, and presented most of their findings. She left the papers on the lectern in the center of the room for council members to peruse at leisure.

When she was done, Gestalt waved Ode forward.

"I'm still not going."

"Even with this new evidence presented?" One of the council members said.

Before Ode could reply, Chairman Marab spoke up. "We have already voted, council, and our stipulations have been met. There's nothing more we can ask for."

"If it truly worries you," Ode said, ignoring the obvious end of discussion, gaze locked with the council member who had spoken. "You can give me more support in my efforts to find a new source."

When nobody replied, Marab looked over the room. "Council?" he prompted. There were some murmurs, but nobody said anything outright. Marab raised his scarf. "As it seems we have done all we can, either way, you are all free to go or stay."

Ode went, and Gestalt followed soon after so she wouldn't be tempted to say anything she would later regret. Likely the rest would remain and discuss Telbrak's portent, off the records where it was safe to truly talk.

[theweightofhistory]

Empires

Chapter 1 | Chapter 3

Chapter 2

They paused in the foyer of the chamber tower, rainy gusts following them through open windows and spattering the whorled stone tiles with glimmering puddles. Ode pulled Gestalt's umbrella down from the wall and opened it as Gestalt pushed the metalwork door open. It slid easily into its recess and she waved Ode through.

"Did you think I had agreed to that? That I wouldn't tell you?" Gestalt asked as they walked down the rain-slicked stairs to the Museum lawn, the rain tattooing on the oiled fabric of her umbrella lending a softer backdrop to the accusation.

It took the entire time for them to reach the lawn where students huddled under pavillions and eaves, trying to enjoy their free day but also to stay dry, for Ode to reply.

"I had."

Gestalt caught her scarf with her own braids and directed Ode down a narrow path around the boundary of the Museum, almost brushing the white walls that barricaded it in.

"I had assumed Telbrak wouldn’t cut corners, would have done it properly."

"He hadn't," Gestalt assured her. "Which will work in our favor, I believe. The council's very... traditional."     

"To put it politely."     

The subdued glow and murmur of bees ebbed into their conversation as Gestalt steered them toward the hives.

Ode shifted the umbrella to keep from knocking the low-hanging tree branches that worked as a border for the beehives. "Why are we here?"

"They don't trust you," Gestalt said as she crouched down to where a valient worker was fighting off the rain to get pollen. When it toppled off the flower in a shower of pollen glow and raindrops, she caught it and put it back on.        

"I've been here for almost fifty years. I was in the same classes as several members."      

She glanced around at the sodden area. Most of the buzzing was coming from inside the hives scattered around the small clearing. The bees seemed content to wait out the rain. Gestalt waved her over so she could hold the umbrella over the bee, and Ode leaned in to watch its tiny cloth banners lead pollen up into the spinning center before it set off back to the hive.    

"You don't want what the council wants."    

"Is this about the council seat?" They followed the bee back to its hive, one near the center of the collective.

"Probably. It's a very prestigious position, to not take it.... it seems suspicious."

"I have no need for prestige."      

Gestalt sighed as the bee disappeared inside, then turned around and began circling the hives, checking them for damage or infestations. When Ode had turned down the council position, and the accompanying head of department title, Gestalt had thought her mad. So much of value came with the role, everyone who could be a council member wanted to be. Except for Ode, who met every criteria except desire.      

Now, that madness seemed more like genius. Ode had nothing to focus on except her work, and no expectations beyond it. Certainly no pointless minutia and well-trod debates or slights.

But at the same time, it made her more vulnerable to the Council's whims. With only one expectation, if she couldn't meet it... "What will you do if they vote for you to leave?"  

"I leave, I suppose."

"That's it?"    

Ode shrugged, shifting the umbrella uncomfortably from one shoulder to the other. "What else can I do?"    

Gestalt let the question lie as they left the beehives and returned to the Museum lawn proper. Finally, Ode said as they walked along bordered paths, "I should get back to my lab."  

"No, no." Gestalt walked ahead then sat at a bench covered by overhanging leaves large as platters, waving for Ode to join her. "Let's just wait."  

After a moment's hesitation, Ode sat beside Gestalt. "Wasn't the council just complaining about my lack of results?"  

"They'll complain if it suits them, regardless of what you actually have -- you do have results though, right?"  

"Yes." Gestalt waited. Ode rarely bothered keeping anyone updated on her work, even Gestalt. Their lives were a cycle of their individual work in the day and lulls of quiet in the night, where they silently agreed to not bring their work into the home. "Nothing they want. Just small things -- new growths, new data, new questions." Ode's scarf curled and uncurled idly, as though trying to form all those tiny victories into one grand enough for the council's approval. "That should be enough."    

They sat in silence, rain bending the boughs and dappling their fabrics with dark spots and a slight chill. She was used to these lapses with Ode lost in her own thoughts. Gestalt listened to the rain and thought about nothing.    

--------      

Gestalt was startled from her nap by someone chiming for their attention, then the sudden shift of Ode beside her. She rubbed at her eyes with a braid, not sure how much time had passed. The rain had let up while they waited, leaving everything soaked but clean feeling in the golden afternoon sunlight struggling through glyph-fume clouds. Even a shower couldn't remove those, and more clogged the atmosphere each day, belched from the depths of factories.

Ode and Gestalt trailed behind their guide, retracing their steps and looking down at the sun-cooked fog rising from the pavers and grass below. The humidity chased more people inside than the rain had done, and it hung in the council chambers like low, close breathing. When the evening winds came down off the mountain, the heavy air would be picked up out of valley and tower and whisked away through tall metal grates to the plains outside of the city. But for now it clung to their threads like weights as they were waved inside to hear the vote.

Instead of returning to her desk, Gestalt stayed beside Ode. The council members shifted and settled. Chairman Marab stood and silence fell.

"Professors Ode, Gestalt," he said with a polite nod in either direction. "With a vote of 17 to 18, we've decided that you will remain here, Ode. As you've noticed, it was a very close decision," he continued. "Several council members voted in your favor on one condition:  you meet with Telbrak and hear him out. Then you may revise your decision as needed."

Ode was quiet, neither seeming happy nor upset at the results, her star-blue gaze locked somewhere on the ground. "I will," she said finally.

"Gestalt?"

"If Ode's alright with your choice, so am I. But not alone. I feel a council member should be present to represent the Museum's interest."

"Council? Ode?" His gaze moved over the room, searching out nods or shakes of the head. "Acceptable," Marab said. "And I suppose you recommend yourself, Gestalt?"

"I do," Gestalt said, loud enough for the minute taker to hear clearly.

"Council?" he asked again. A general murmur. "Since there are no objections, you may accompany Professor Ode.

"Unless there are any other issues you would like to bring to our attention, you're dismissed, professor. Please keep us informed as to your plans."

"Yes, Chairman," Ode muttered with a small inclination of her head. When she wasn't emotional, she shrank in on herself, a small black line in the pink-gold room. Gestalt released her scarf, and she slunk away back to her lab.

"If you would like to return to your seat," Chairman Marab suggested to Gestalt. With a sigh, she slipped between the desks and sat again as they returned to the order of the day: planning a party. She'd resist the urge to read through the minutes of the earlier debate. There was no need to dig up enemies from disagreement.

[theweightofhistory]

((As peeps are talking about birds on the dash, I revamped mine to better match the story since their design plays some part in it. They’re far more muted and ocean-y now and even have a part to eat and store fish. Didn’t bother with embroidery.

The bees (those are possibly bees in the second one) don’t particularly matter in the story, but I wanted to draw cloth bees, because birds are to Ode as bees are to Gestalt.))

[theweightofhistory]

Empires

The world has history woven in the tapestries of ancient spirits, carved into walls, and patrolling the dark depths. There are remnants of lost paradises, of hell, of folly and failure spun out in golden threads. It exists solely as a parable for all who find it to learn, and avoid the pitfalls of the past. But there is one person for whom this past isn't just a cautionary tale, isn't something from ages ago. It's her present, hidden deep in the ruins of a civilization she once knew.

Chapter 2

Chapter 1

The air buzzed with quiet conversation, every member of the Museum's council discussing tasks and tallies. Scarves waved wildly and drinks sloshed as most spoke heatedly about the upcoming Bonding Ceremony set to take place months from then. Everyone had opinions as to how it should be run, and none agreed with the others, so the chamber had fallen to clusters of debate, words a haze of muffled chimes and glyphs. The world outside drizzled into the council chambers on rainy gusts and flicks of damp-hemmed curtains, casting a sleepy grey pall over the proceedings.

Gestalt stirred her fruit drink with one thin braid while the others idly flicked through papers she'd yet to grade, and she let her mind wander to her bees instead of the problems they faced. Everything was a problem, from food to entertainment to seating, and like any good politico, Gestalt had learned to daydream while pretending to pay attention until she was left alone.

She felt for her bees. Trapped by the rain, the obligations, producing honeyed minds for factories and laboratories. They lived in a hive built on honeycomb hexagons and perfect ratios, white walls built high, protecting it from the disorder of the City the Museum fed. Perhaps thinking about bees wasn't the best way to daydream away the meeting. The tedium of council-ship seeped into everything.

"What are you doing?" a council member asked, breaking Gestalt from her reverie. She realized she'd been grimacing in Mihdi Marab's general direction. The chairman was completely unremarkable, yet easy to find even among the myriad others clustering around him.

"Thinking about bees."

The councilman, Alhaza, slid uninvited into the unoccupied seat next to Gestalt. He was a thin, small man with a simple two-ended scarf and pale gold coloring -- the Master Poet of the Museum, renowned across the lands. Ode was fond of him, so Gestalt tried to be. She had no patience for his poetry, though.

“It doesn't look like the garden's yield will be enough for the ceremony,” he said delicately. She stared at him, silent and unresponsive, until he shifted uncomfortably and spoke again. “Is there any way to have your bees pollinate more thoroughly?”

"Would you like me to stop the sun in the sky while I'm at it?" she replied just as delicately, then took a sip of her drink, brows raised pointedly in Alhaza's direction.

Alhaza scowled at her, bright eyes narrowed.

When he refused to go away, Gestalt sighed and straightened. "Plants simply don't grow here. The sky is too dark, or too light. The seasons don't pass."

"We used to be able to feed the entire hall with our harvest, even packed to the brim," he said, gossamer scarf waving wide to show just how much food there was once, but wasn't now. This was the first time hosting the Bonding Ceremony for the majority of the current council, but all present had been students here, too, and been audience to previous ceremonies.

"Things change," Gestalt offered with a shrug, the gold bangles that followed the curve of her burgundy shoulder clinking lightly. She thought carefully on her next words, then said, "The City's changed. You can ask Ager if you don't believe me, but we can't up the yield. If you want an actual solution, we should send some emissaries to the fields and --"

"The Museum's supposed to provide," the head of the life studies department interrupted, leaning over from another conversation. "It's a metaphor." Alhaza nodded energetically in agreement.

"Then perhaps we should be more literal, and actually provide, no matter what. What good's a party if there's no food?" she asked, then dropped her gaze to her paperwork again.

Summarily dismissed, the two shifted back to their own seats to discuss her suggestion, or not discuss it. Gestalt didn't really care, now; she had said her piece. And she had more important matters, like grading papers that had been turned in over a month ago.

When Ode stormed in, Gestalt let out a relieved sigh and pushed them away before her pen even scratched the first page. The papers could wait a day or two more. Ode stopped in the center of the room, icy glare casting itself over the semicircle of tiered desks. Unlike most of the council members, who came from the plains or the mountains and were short or broad as their city-families dictated, Ode was a black whip with razor-blade scarves, blown into the Museum on ocean gales. Though she disliked the attention her cut attracted most days, when she wanted it, she knew how to get it.

"What the hell is this?" Ode asked, voice sharp enough to kill the sundry conversations. She had a paper crushed in the curl of one scarf-end and gestured wide with it. Ode was rarely angry -- she was rarely any emotion anyone understood, really, trapped in a fantasy haze of foreign places that clung to her like a robe. That alone easily drew the attention of all thirty-six council members.

"You don't have an appointment, professor," Chairman Marab said calmly.

Ode walked right up to Marab's desk and slammed the paper down. Gestalt leaned forward like she could make out the writing from half-way across the room. It must have arrived after Gestalt and Ode had parted for their respective responsibilities that morning. Ode had certainly not been in this much of a fervor when Gestalt had woken.

Marab stroked the paper flat, white eyes flicking as they skimmed the text, admonishment forgotten for the moment. "I hadn't heard of this," he said. Though nothing suggested he had more to say, everyone waited for him to continue. "I believe it would benefit the Museum if you accepted the position, though."

"No," Ode snapped almost before he could finish.

"Accept what position?" Gestalt asked, drawing their attention. Ode's blue eyes flicked to her, then back to Chairman Marab before Gestalt could figure out what she was thinking.

"Telbrak has graciously offered to make me head engineer at the factory in the First Order," she said to Gestalt without breaking eye-contact with their leader.

Her words, sarcastic as they had been, stirred up discussion anew. Chairman Marab clapped his scarves until he had quieted everyone.

Everyone except for Gestalt. "You want her to leave?" she asked the chairman.

He held his scarf up before everyone could begin arguing again. "Telbrak is a major benefactor of the Museum. To turn him down would be to risk his support."

"Support is supposed to be given without strings, Chairman. This is implicit in our codes," someone said, the head of life studies again, to several chimes of agreement. "Give an inch, or one professor, and he'll clear out our entire engineering department."

"But he owns half the City," another council member said, uncowed by the glower Gestalt sent his way. "Refusing him could severely damage not only our reputation, but our own connections throughout the City. With half our departments --" here, he glanced at the cluster of art department heads, "With half in waning demand, we need all the help we can get."

"What does he even want her for?" Gestalt asked before anyone else could. They were arguing semantics, when Ode had already made her choice. The subject of said arguing had slipped off to the side once her trouble had been stirred, neither interested in nor willing to engage in pointless debate. So Gestalt would do it for her. Unlike Ode, she knew how to talk to the council. "It's suspicious, is it not?"

"The letter simply says he wants to put her to use designing more efficient guardians, which is not only a reasonable request, but necessary," Chairman Marab said, passing the paper down the desks to Gestalt. She glanced it over before handing it off to another council member to look at then pass on. He hadn't mentioned that Telbrak had requested to meet with Ode personally to discuss it in further detail. It wasn't important to him.

"It's a lot of pretty words, which means he's probably lying. Making the guardians more efficient would be a waste of resources, especially when Ode is already working on a much more important project."

"The guardians work now. We have no idea when, or if, Professor Ode's work come to fruition," Ager said from across the room.

"It will," Ode said, interest regained now that they were talking about her work. "I just need time --"

"And materials, bought by Telbrak's donation." Ager said. Keeping the factories was of particular importance to him, as they supplied the harvesting equipment throughout the region, and he was always pressing the need for better tools.

"Yes. And he will get a new energy source in return. Not just rehashed old designs to do exactly what they're currently doing."

As Ode defended her project, Gestalt let her argue it alone -- even though she herself often helped with the theoretics and the mathematics of it, the project was very much beyond the majority of the council's ken, including Gestalt. The others cared more for the results, of which there had not been many yet, than the process that Ode was currently laying out. Gestalt needed a few moments to think, and Ode was offering her that.

It was known that Ode's experiments weren't meant for one person if they succeeded, but for everyone. But guardian designs could be kept under lock and key, only for whoever owned them. Gestalt had little reason to interact with Telbrak, as her field was far too abstract, but from what Ode and others described, she had gathered that he held his city only second to his wealth. That was too much conjecture for her to voice aloud, however.

"I don't believe we should so easily kowtow," Gestalt said instead, turning attention onto herself once more. "We worry about our reputation, but what does it say about us if we immediately bend to a benefactor's whim? Simply giving him what he wants sends the wrong message, moreso than telling him no, or at the least waiting to reply. Besides," she continued, not bothering to look up from the papers she was folding into a fan. It was always key to not be too impassioned, and Gestalt had mastered lackadaisical, so long as she could keep her emotive braids busy. "There are too many unanswered questions: Why now? Why Ode? What, exactly, does he hope to gain? And, perhaps most importantly, why did he not come to us, first? There are protocols to follow, channels to take, and Telbrak has skipped all that -- does he believe himself above the council?"

Chairman Marab sighed with a low, long chime. Nobody else spoke up. "We'll put it to a vote, then. Given your personal involvement, Gestalt, yours will be the one not counted. But I can assume you vote against?"

"If Ode doesn't wish to go, I don't believe we should make her," Gestalt said peaceably with a nod. She was willing to leave with grace now that her point had been made. With thirty-six members, one was often excluded to avoid a tie, so it was no surprise that she was chosen. Her vote, they worried, would be based off of personal feelings rather than what was best for the Museum. She stood and pulled Ode out of the room with her. Deliberations would take a very long time, but at least they'd moved on from talk of the Bonding Ceremony.

[theweightofhistory]

((7, 26 and 47 :D))

((wut is this, three month old meme ask I forgot about, repeatedly? here u go:

7. What is your OC’s most valued material object?

Her neck scarf. She used to have other things, but as she's forgotten what's what and from where, the more practical stuff came to the forefront. It's part hands, part gas mask, part tool box.

26. Does your OC tend to hoard junk? Yes. All the junk. She's developed this tendancy from the war/post-war when everything was scarce, and it hasn't changed to date because she never knows when she'll need to MacGyver some whatchamacallit or whatsit or another. But she tries to be very tidy about her hoard. Everything has its place and if it doesn't, there's more than enough room to make a place. 47. What is your OC’s greatest accomplishment, to date?

Probably her work on the Great Guardian. She hasn't done much after that except survive, which isn't so much an accomplishment as stubbornness. But the GG was unique in design, function, and how it was repurposed compared to all the other guardians. So she's still p. cool with that, regardless of how it turned out, which was poorly to say the least.))

[rainsong777]

Answer them all like this is a tag, or ask your followers to send you some numbers :) Whatever floats your boat! Either way, I hope this helps you develop your OC’s more :D

What’s the first thing your OC thinks about when they wake up in the morning?

Does your OC believe...

[theweightofhistory]

The Museum

This place was new. This place was strange. Large and sprawling, this was to be their homes for the next six or more years. Right now it trembled on the edge of possibilities. The sheer potentiality vibrated in the air between groups of new students.

While others clustered together like leaves in a whirlwind, shaking and chiming, she moved alone across the courtyard, into the main building of the Museum. Nobody tried to engage her.

She just wanted food and sleep, in that order. Classes would begin in a week, which left barely any time to map out all the good hidden niches and silent places. There were so many people her age, or a little younger or older -- everyone looking for which group they fit in, for who would become their siblings and friends in the coming years.

She hadn't been stitched together to fit into groups, hadn't worked hard to be here to make friends -- she hadn't done those things not to make friends, though, either. She hadn't really done them for any purpose, in as such she had a choice in the former. The thought caught her in her steps and she stood half-way up the stairs into the atrium, confused.

Then she shook it off. Friendship was not a career path she wished to entertain, and once everyone else got familiar with the tiled ground beneath their feet, they would swarm the welcome committee and she'd never get a head start on her goals.

People who she assumed were older students milled in a much more loose, easy fashion in the deeper shadow of the atrium.

She picked the closest. He seemed happy to assist, as she just needed directions to the dormitories and the dining hall. She'd learn the rest on her own.

It took far less time for her to settle into the new patterns at the Museum than many of her other peers. In the time before classes, she found the library and the research labs, both currently silent and devoid of most people. Coming from a cage of a city where nobody could escape and everyone was everywhere, it was odd finding the quiet places so easily.

Time moved quickly once the routines were established, and vanished under the misty glow of diffused sunlight and moonlight. The haze here that scattered light was different from the one on Mi'raj, which itself was light that drown out most others. This was heavy, somewhat maudlin, as though trying to hide the fact that the Museum existed in the center of a modern city with modern problems, the likes of which students weren't supposed to bother themselves with.

As her quiet places filled with students, she went higher, saw out into the city beyond the Museum walls.

She could see the smoky glitter of the factories, plumes rising and joining the cloud cover. This was the largest of their cities, and bore the most burden for production. Guardians and transits of a more formal design than those used on the plains, machinery to sustain the ever-growing populations.

Mi'raj had had very little to contribute to the outside world materially, and what it did create it did at leisure, sending out into the world great artists, great writers and singers and artisans just often enough to remind the world it was there. It was tightly contained, unable to grow beyond its tightly controlled population, any new construction closely monitored and measured. This city wasn't at all the same. It sprawled outwards, heedless of older structures, the only evidence of the mountain at its edge the slight undulation of the skyline.

As a student, she was discouraged to go out into the city crowded with people who lived on top of one another not because they had to, but because they chose to. Her loyalties were to lie with the Museum first, especially as her general education ended and, when most scattered to the cities that dotted the world, she stayed on to work in the labs and use its resources.

The day someone who didn't have to talk to her talked to her, she'd been so out practice socially that she just stared, not sure how to respond.

[picturesbybest]

Palette 8! It’s the underside of Mi’raj, my Journey OC theweightofhistory's home city of shiny shit and ballast cloth. I don't know if that's the moon or the sun or what in the bg.

[theweightofhistory]

((Needs moar fishies and shinies.))

[theweightofhistory]

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[wayfarer-vanem]

With the being’s light suddenly going dark, the only light that Vanem had was the ambient glow of his scarf symbols, which did not do much more than illuminate the back of his cloak, and poorly at that. Yet he was able to see more than he thought he ought to be, even with his eyes adjusted to the dark.

He glanced to the side and discovered that there was some additional light, though only enough to make itself known rather than be useful for anything. There was a corridor which went back the way he assumed this being had come. He sensed energy in that direction and wondered if the light came from the power source he thought he had detected earlier.

At the moment it was little more than a curiosity. He had witnessed at least the last half of Ode’s actions, and he risked stepping out from behind the being to see her more clearly. Vanem wanted Ode to complete her crossing, but that she did not meant she believed the being to be dangerous as well.

So why was it suddenly quiet and still? Or perhaps it reacted only to his cloak and scarf and thus didn’t know what to make of Ode?

Vanem tended to try to find purpose in everything, and this being was no exception. Having an idea of that purpose would give him a better idea as to what to do. Until that point in time, he had to improvise.

He stepped out more fully from behind the being so he had a iine of sight with Ode. “There is light up ahead from here,” Vanem called out. “Perhaps there is where a power source lay.”

He spoke these words both to inform and to see if it garnered any sort of reaction from the being. If it did, he hoped it would at least turn in his direction and give Ode a chance to cross over. Having seen that the being was ponderous in its movements meant he could keep one step ahead of it for as much scarf charge as he had left.

[theweightofhistory]

Her gaze shifted between the creature and Vanem, but it seemed disinclined to do anything now. She reached into her bag, dropped her notebook to the ground, unable to use both scarves with one connecting her to the lamp, and wrote by the weak light. Then, checking to make sure the creature still wasn't moving, she threw her book at Vanem. He'd have to figure out a strong enough light to read it by.

"I can't cross," was the first of only a few short lines written. She'd neglected to include it was due to her own stupidity, since he likely hadn't seen her cross without any sort of preparation nor consideration for the consequences. In the short term, she had accomplished her goal of halting the attack, but she doubted Vanem was the sort to take advantage of the situation. He seemed more disinclined to violence than she was, and if it snapped out of whatever trance had taken hold, it would go after him before her.

"Go investigate further. I'll deal with this." She had no clue how she would advance, and didn't want to be left with the creature  -- perhaps more disturbing now with its lack of movement, like a black paper cutout, rather than a  living being -- but whatever she resorted to, it probably wouldn't be pretty. So as to avoid any moral discussions after the fact or pointless endangerment during, she'd rather he be gone. She was already feeling around in her bag for anything she could use, though the results were disheartening.

[theweightofhistory]

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[wayfarer-vanem]

<Keep your distance, Vanem>

Vanem’s initial instinct had been to ignore his Ancestor’s advice. After all, Kvailas remained suspicious of Ode all this time. Yet in this case, he was willing to concede. Unlike Ode, he had no idea of the nature of this being. This was unknown territory, and some discretion was called for.

Thus he abandoned his original plan to step closer to the being and instead remained still. It would make him seem less threatening. He could make out the being now, and saw some similarities to Ode, save for the posture.

He noticed the energy at once. He could feel it as a sort of tingling where his cloak touched his body, as if it were trying to funnel it into him as it did with all ambient energy it found, but could not quite convert it into something he could use. That immediately made him wary.

He saw the limbs emerge and tensed, and he turned his head to point his good ear at the being as it — or perhaps they — spoke. The cadence did not sound right. Like …

<The greeting is simply being echoed back to you!>

The being had begun its charge in the middle of Kvailas’ warning, but the fact that the warning had begun at all already had Vanem on a hair trigger.

He had learned a simple rule in his explorations in dealing with onrushing danger: If it is coming from above, the attacker can fly, so go sharply left or right; if it is coming head-on, the attacker likely cannot fly, so go up.

He flapped his cloak twice, leaning forward on the second one to give him some momentum in hopefully jumping over his attacker. As sudden as the attack was, he was guessing that there had not been significant planning behind it, and that it would be slower to react to his sudden dodge.

While he was in the air, he glanced over and saw Ode was moving. He also looked for prospects in helping him get back to the other side in case Ode could not reach him to assist. His prospects were not very good.

To conserve energy, he would let himself land hard before turning around. There was a working power source nearby, and he felt he was closer to it now, so he would regain his scarf charge a little faster. He hoped that would at least buy him some time in dealing with this being.

[theweightofhistory]

It slowed like a boulder coming to a stop, ponderously and with a dangerous momentum behind it, its hands grasping air, as though confused. With movements somewhat like a caterpillar inching along, it began to turn. It was about as long as a cloth dolphin, cumbersome with too many limbs hiding under the rustle of fabric. Despite the forward speed the creature displayed, it seemed to need time to recover.

Since Vanem had taken flight, momentarily visible in the black, Ode considered her assumption supported. Whatever was with him had attacked. As she searched for her own passage across, the light that he'd jumped after blinked out from her perspective. She stepped backwards, it was back. There was something between them. She flicked a bit of rubble out into the open air, it was followed almost immediately be a metallic clang.

She went against every instinct that said wait, test the distance, take her time, and powered up her glyph to glide, push up. For a short moment, she flew straight out into open air, then dropped. The plunge was so sharp, but brief, that she hadn't even realized she'd hit the chain, and her stone components had latched on. It swung, and she felt she left her innards somewhere in the bottom of the pool below.

Another chain, with a few crumbling pieces of stone still attached. She cut power, felt herself lift off, hit the stone. Her lantern, which she hadn't even had time to drop, caught on the edge of the chain, and one scarf end curled tightly around it, using it like a shoddy hook. She hadn't made it completely on, and had a brief moment to curse her rash stupidity as she slipped more. The glyph screeched under the unknown noises, louder closer to the far side of the gap. If the stone scarf didn't drag her down, her neck scarf would strangle her trying to keep her up.

With her other scarf-end, she cut the hood free of the glyph, let gravity pull it off entirely. There was a heavy, loud splash. She pulled herself up. The entire ordeal had only taken scant moments, though it had felt much longer, more drawn out.

Experimentally she knelt to power on the glyph to light the lantern. It glowed, so she hadn't damaged any circuitry that she hadn't cut. As well, she could see the edge of the gap, and the creature facing Vanem again.

Even in the weak light, or because its hazy glow only barely reached them, the creature set off warnings. Its quiet movements, the shadowy limbs. No face she could discern. It didn't scare her, precious little did, but it unsettled her. This close, she couldn't bring herself to make the final jump, even assuming she could, and she was loathe to throw her lantern, lest she find herself out a wayfarer and left in the dark with the creature. At most she offered the faint light and some momentary distraction as it froze, partially turned toward her, its own light suddenly extinguishing.

She waited for it to charge, or do anything, but even the cloth covering it seemed to have stopped moving.

[theweightofhistory]

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[wayfarer-vanem]

Vanem tried to take in as much of his surroundings as possible. The feeling was growing inside him that he was going to have to take some sort of action to assist in this endeavor. He was eager to help, but not eager to plummet into some location where he could not lift himself out. If he became trapped with no way out, he would be doomed to a slow, lingering death as his energy gave out.

He began making out some of the same shapes that Ode had, and now he had something by which to navigate. It also aided in determining perspective in the low light, and the gap was just wide enough to be out of reach of a single glide. Yet if he could use the bits of those other platforms as a stepping stone, he could make it. Then he could see about finding a way for Ode to cross.

He had no idea how sturdy any of those remnants were. He could be very light on his feet when he needed to, but that was when he had a full scarf and copious ambient energy. Then again, there was the machinery on the other side of the gap. It had to be powered somehow.

He saw the light approach the edge on the opposite side the gap, and he was almost sure it was a person. He saw Ode about to make the attempt to cross the gap, or so he had assumed. He saw her hesitate and did not blame her. He would have hesitated as well. In fact, he did hesitate, but in the end he realized it was not in his spirit of exploration to turn away from this chance.

He stepped beside Ode and lifted the lantern, about to turn it back on, but realized it would weigh him down. He would need to remain as light as possible and simply hope whomever he found on the other side would be gracious enough to share their light with him, at least until he could discover another he could use. He set the lantern down and turned towards the gap.

He spotted the platform he was going to use. It needed to hold for only a few seconds. He took a deep breath and leaped.

Sparks trailed in the darkness from the end of his scarf as it expended energy. He landed on the platform, which wobbled as chains rattled and stone fractured. He leaped from it as stone splashed hard in the water below, and he almost came up short. He would have indeed plummeted had he not expended more precious scarf energy to lift him to a more secure footing.

He glanced behind him. His scarf was recharging slowly, but faster than it had. There was indeed a power source somewhere nearby.

He turned towards the light he had seen from the distance. It did not move towards him. Was the figure too stunned to see a Wayfarer suddenly land in its midst? Had it even seen a Wayfarer before?

He tucked his arms into his cloak, his culture’s sign of non-aggression, and called out, “Hello? Is anyone there?” When he realized that he may be speaking with someone like Ode, he called upon what little knowledge he had of the pronunciation of the ancient tongue to call out a simple greeting.

[theweightofhistory]

She glanced down at the sound of Vanem setting his lantern on the ground. What was he doing --

The rush of air and burst of energy as he leapt startled her, and she instinctively stepped away, scarf rising as though warding off sparks.

It took her a moment to find him again in the darkness, already bounding away toward the light. Her eyes narrowed as he landed safely. She was beginning to reassess her initial presumption that he'd survived to his age on intelligence rather than luck. But his luck had held out well in this regard.

She began to pace along the edge for a less dangerous route, unable to hear Vanem under the noises and barely able to see him. Losing him wouldn't work out too poorly for her, but she'd not stray far lest he return with information or another person.

Beyond what she could hear, but still audible close up, the patter of several pairs of feet came from where the light was as it shifted backwards, then stopped. Its glow rested at about chest-height on a figure thin and tall, upright unlike Ode and entirely swathed in cloth. Also unlike her, the figure gave off some small energy much like a wayfarer.

His landing had indeed startled them, and it took a few seconds to react. Dark hands, distinct hands and not the scarves Ode used as them, rose up, long and slender. Two, three, five reached for him as it mimicked the greeting in slurred, overlapping tones.

Then the creature charged at him, eerily silent but for footsteps and the swish of cloth, the noises giving away its true length as hidden by the light. Its hands poked out from gaps in the cloth and scrabbled for not Vanem himself, but his scarf and cloak.

The sudden movements of the light, rushing toward where Vanem was, caused her to pause. That was too fast to be casually approaching -- perhaps Vanem's luck had run out.

[theweightofhistory]

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[wayfarer-vanem]

Vanem followed closely behind Ode, unaware that the thought processes in her head had not necessarily fully adopted that name for herself in the present. To him, she was and always will be Ode, and simply needed to find a purpose again. Certainly he hoped that purpose could be steered away from experimenting on other Wayfarers, of course, but plenty of time to worry about that later.

He was growing more fascinated the further they traversed the darkness. He occasionally fell behind, more interested in the patterns of construction than Ode seemed. He had never witnessed such structures older than even the last of the Ancestors.

He peered at the comment Ode had made about the possibilities of others surviving, and he supposed she had a point. If living this long in the underground with the weight of not just the architecture but of history itself upon one’s shoulders, it was a wonder that Ode had stayed as sane as she had.

When Ode had stopped, his instincts had already told him what she had found. He stepped up to the very edge of the gap and peered down, then across the gap. He turned his good ear towards the sounds. “I wish I knew what the absolute volume of that sound is. I could better judge whether I could make it on what scarf I have.”

He had been making very sparse use of it since coming down here, and what little he had used was glacially slow to recharge, as there was little ambient energy from which to draw on. That might change if there was working machinery. It had to be powered from somewhere.

<You would have had more scarf to work with if you had not pretended you were 20 years younger earlier,> Kvailas snapped.

<Oh, hush,> Vanem replied in irritation.

He peered again across the gap and narrowed his eyes. Was there a light? Or was it just a reflection? He lifted his own lantern and swayed it from side to side. The other light did not move.

He had turned to Ode and was about to bring this to her attention when she presented him with the written order. “Yes, I saw it too,” he said and dimmed his lantern at once.

His heart thumped in his chest. He was not sure whether it was for excitement or fear as to what — or who — may be on the other side of the gap.

"I can still see it," Vanem said in a soft voice. "I’m also starting to see vague shapes. There is definitely something over there."

[theweightofhistory]

As her eyes adjusted, more comfortable in the gloam of the factory after years to adapt, she likewise noticed shapes, and the light still present, small but seeming all the brighter for the lack of competition.

There were a few bits of floor hanging, still strung between chains or held up by columns. The haphazard, patchwork and prayer style of construction was far more apparent in these parts, with their structures laid bare and broken between floors. Parts hung closer to their side further along the edge from where they had stopped, though even seeing them it was hard to gauge if she could make it. Vanem, smaller than she and not burdened by stone, was far more likely to even here.

She looked elsewhere for other lights, something to signify power still ran through these parts. Nothing. Returning to the one across the water, she waited for it to do something. Their presence could have gone unnoticed, especially under the noise that seemed louder with sight weakened, but perhaps --

The light moved. Another person? Her mind immediately provided the answer, then cut itself off. No, she couldn't tell yet. It went down, down toward the water, its reflection sliding like a second, weaker light to meet it.

If it was going down, had the bearer not noticed them? The factory was labyrinthine, moreso since pieces had collapsed. If they disappeared into it, there was no guarantee their paths would ever cross again. And even if she could call out, every instinct told her not to. The darkness was not her friend, despite the centuries spent within it.

Hesitation was something she was unfamiliar with, even her slow movements were usually deliberate or reactionary. But she stepped toward the nearer platforms, then stopped, wavered between simply waiting as she often did, or actively following. Her light glowed and darkened weakly in response to the sudden agitation, the flutter of energy. What she said and what she thought were at odds when presented with the possibility of another like her actually here.

This wasn't what they were here for, but a living testament could help. Assuming they'd not forgotten like she had, and knew of her or their world. Even if they didn't --

She didn't know what to do, if anything could be done to reach the light.

[theweightofhistory]

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[wayfarer-vanem]

Whatever misgivings that Vanem had about this eerie place were tempered by the familiar rising excitement about what he might find around the next corner. To him, this was like exploring the underground all over again. Even those intent on finding the hidden passages and forbidden ways off the path of the Journey had never imagined places like this.

"What you said about the fail-safes is likely true, but I have found cases of machinery still running that was attempting to produce something," said Vanem as he remained in step with Ode. "Like the remaining  factories still attempting to create new war machines. Largely non-functional ones, of course, but the factories still operate."

Vanem had indeed thought of just such a thing when he had heard the noise, but it had quickly become apparent that these sounds were not quite like those. They did not follow the familiar rumble-clunk of machinery generating parts that continued down an assembly line to little end purpose.

He glance up at Ode. “Then again, I suppose it is possible someone was still maintaining some of the old machinery for awhile after the war. If you managed to survive into the present day, perhaps others had.”

He knew that was a long shot, that Ode could very well be the last of her kind. Yet he hated the idea of anyone being alone, so the thought that she might find others like her was comforting.

<And just how do you find comfort in the continued existence of the architects of the destruction of the Ancient civilization?> Kvailas suddenly sounded in the depths of Vanem’s mind.

<You mean like you?> Vanem snapped.

<That is hardly the same thing. I exist to further Atonement. You have no idea as to her intent.>

<Then maybe it behooves me to stick around and find out rather than assume the worst.>

"The sound is growing steadily louder," Vanem said, a quite unnecessary statement other than it helped drown out his Ancestor. "I cannot tell now if the irregular rhythms in it represents disrepair or something integral to its function."

[theweightofhistory]

He had a point. The machinery above was old, older than the war, and still active. There was an elegance to the older ones that the more modern (well, she supposed no longer modern) constructs she salvaged lacked. Those had been made to last, regardless of who fell in. She'd never questioned their functions before, only used them as foundations for her own designs. How they continued to run had never been top priority. Other things had occupied her mind, and the machinery had easily fallen into the background noise.

She would be mildly perturbed if the answers to her questions had been in such an obvious place these long centuries, and her own blindness had discounted it. But no, she wasn't to focus on that line of reasoning, and finally finding a suitable energy source would leave her as aimless as she was now, anyway.

She had stopped walking, having caught herself in a mire of existentialism. She hoped for Ode's sake she'd not always been like this, it could get tedious and helped nothing.

Refocusing her attention, she lifted her lantern a little higher, let its weak glow catch on rougher walls, mortared bricks instead of carved single pieces. Columns were replaced with chains disappearing higher, more frequent, with small holes in the floor exposing rebar and darkness. The sounds vibrated through the stones of her scarf.

She frowned behind her scarf at the idea of another of her kind having survived down here. Given how she turned out, anyone lower in these pits could be dangerous.

"Others survived the war, it would be cruel to hope they'd survived the passage of time as well," she wrote, ignoring the memory of her earlier excitement when Vanem had teased at that only to deliver spectres. The war itself left little impression, though she had known of its ravages. This factory, with its dark parts and tall vaults had been her life for as long as she knew. There had been people here at one point, but they'd faded away into the shadows as energy dwindled, lamps died out.

She slowed again, this time not in thought, but as the sounds of machinery grew louder, more echoing. She likewise couldn't tell from sound alone what to expect.

The floor ended, though her slow movements kept it from catching her off guard, and she held her lantern out over the emptiness. It was too weak to pick up much, only the glint of a few hanging chains, the faintest of reflections shivering farther below in dark water. She squinted out across the gap, where the machinery's echoing growls seemed to be emanating from. If she could see more than faint impressions several feet in front of her, she'd be more inclined to jump out there to investigate.

Instead, she pulled out the map to see how far they'd traveled before the ground gave out. Many labs used and unused, likely lay at the bottom of the pool below, if it stretched as far as the echoing suggested. The lower levels had been noted as dangerous for various reasons, so she felt no loss at the signs of flooding. She glanced up into the darkness, then down over the edge again. Then across the gap.

She wasn't sure if that was another reflection, or a different source of light, or simply her damaged eyes playing tricks.

"Dim your light," she wrote, before setting hers down to let its glow naturally seep away. Until the lights came back on, she was essentially voiceless.

[theweightofhistory]

E, N, P

G̵҉-̢̨͜͟s̴̨͘͢͝-̵̡͡҉-҉̛͞l̀͘͟͞ţ̸̧̛,

I've found the perfect time, though it's hard to know when it is without the sun and stars. It feels like nighttime, and though there's never an end to the work, right about now is the lull in the cycle. More leave for rest than come in for work. It gets quiet. Peaceful.

I watch them from the catwalks above the deep grooves and scaffolding. Sometimes I lay down, just feel the emptiness between me and them, only broken by the feel of a silent guardian's weight passing below. Though they make few noises, there's a certain growl I can feel in the stone and metal.

A wind blows through here around this time, taking away the heat and stink of energy that rise, replacing them with a cleanness like a storm has passed. It's almost like being outside, on a rooftop or above the ocean. This catwalk goes nowhere, so I'm left alone to pretend I am outside, or sleep or write unobserved.

If you're getting my letters, wherever you are, I'd like to meet you here sometime, when more workers leave than come, and nobody's watching or expecting anything from us.

You can talk about whatever you want, and I'll just lay here and listen.

[theweightofhistory]

A, Z

00-0-000

G̵҉-̢̨͜͟s̴̨͘͢͝-̵̡͡҉-҉̛͞l̀͘͟͞ţ̸̧̛,

The factory I’ve been stationed in is intimidating. I’m not allowed to give details, but the architecture is impressive, if only for its size. It’s more utilitarian than the Museum or any cities I’ve seen. Speed over substance, I suppose. There’s little in the way of story in its structure, especially the lower you go.

They’ve been building down and out from the guardian factories, blasting into cave systems and carving big, boxy chambers. I’m in one of the original areas, but can feel the demolition through the stone.

I went to see how it was done — one of the good things about this position is nobody questions why you’re anywhere. I’ve never seen people construct like this before, and wonder at the stability of it. It looks like they’re just throwing workers at the problem areas instead of fixing the infrastructure.

The supervisor didn’t seem happy about it either. I don’t think I’ve met a single person who is, but no organization here is beholden to another so I doubt anything could come of it.

I offered him some equipment and guardian models we don’t need, which should make it a little safer.

—-

00-0-000

G̵҉-̢̨͜͟s̴̨͘͢͝-̵̡͡҉-҉̛͞l̀͘͟͞ţ̸̧̛,

You’d find this very interesting. Or laugh at me. I’ve been entertaining ideas of a zero-loss energy source. It’s all very hypothetical still, and I don’t have any of the right equipment here (or at the Museum, even. When this is over and if we’re not all dead, I’ll have to build it all from scratch, it’s that hypothetical).

It’s not legitimately a perpetual design, but for all intents and purposes, and given our current trajectory, I think this energy source could outlast our entire civilization.

I’ve been thinking about those old stories, the ones from when the mountain’s light was visible, and stars fell from the sky.

My idea is based off of those. As nothing’s sacred anymore, I had been given some star fragments (from where, I do not know) to experiment with here. Strictly to improve guardians, of course.

There is definitely something reactive in it, like a solid chunk of glyph energy. I’ve accidentally blown up an entire lab already. Nobody was hurt, as I’d at least had the foresight to empty the place first. It actually cracked the walls, though seems entirely intact and unharmed.  I’ve already been forbidden to work more on the fragments.

Instead I’ve been working on the stone of that lab — the properties have shifted entirely, and it now holds a charge that has as yet not died nor weakened. I’m hesitant to even extrapolate how long it might last, but I think the higher-ups already want to repurpose the lab’s walls into guardian glyphs. They’ve not given the project to me, so I assume either they don’t trust me, or they have something else in mind, but I’ve heard people talking about it.

If I could just work with the star fragments safely, with better equipment —

I’m optimistic, though right now that’s not likely to happen, so I won’t dwell. But on the off chance, I’d like your assistance.