A shining saber slashes out from this whirling curtain, parting it to unveil a stumbling butler who is only half dressed. Trousers without shoes and an un-tucked tunic without jacket, his still has a red stain on its hem from a spill.
“Who… dares!?”
Twisted in his lunge, Falke, once lord of his manse, turns immediately to face Adris. Behind his spectacles, the old man’s blue eyes shine with pure malevolence inside. Only now does he choose to be dashing, to Adris’ total frustration.
“Again, you come for everything.” Falke whips his sword, then steps toward a future murder. Of Adris. “You… get… nothing more.”
(Fuck off!)
“Stop, you idiot.”
“He made you cry, Sapphira!”
“No, he didn’t… it was…”
From behind Sapphira slides in a tyrant’s shape.
A man of such secrets and authority could never be ambushed, and so Falke finds himself wide-eyed momentarily when faced with his blade at a ghost’s throat.
“… No, I will not hesitate again, fake.”
The blade set to stab retracts with Falke’s stance changing to his back foot as he hops up. Instead, he readies to cleave Dohle in half with an aim at her center where a core should be.
That his blade lowers…
“Where… is your core?”
Bleary-eyed as he is, Falke does finally awaken fully when he cannot find what to destroy.
“Dare you, Dummke?”
“Hmm!?” Falke’s cheeks flash red with the insult, but he then snarls.
“Dare… dare you call me—!?”
“Kneel, slave.”
A blade’s tip plunges into the ground when dropped.
Methodically and with great dignity, Falke settles onto both knees and then places his hands on them.
“… Wha—What…? Why are…?”
Deprived of his weapon and left staring at the scenery around himself, Falke suddenly realizes exactly how many people are staring back at his foolishness.
“I almost wish I was dead again. That foofy beard and mustache, how you’ve gone gray and gotten… old, but won’t stop trying to be pretty. Even now you assault my stomach.”
“Meaning what!?”
His bark causes Dohle to shield her face from his disgrace, the contempt pissing him off even more such that he bares his teeth.
“Not content to be merely the best human, you’ve obviously ascended to become the Divine of Pretentiousness.”
“… I…!? Who do you think you are to call me pretentious!?”
Slipping from her shoe, Dohle’s foot lifts up. Only a tight hose covers it. Falke’s spiritual fixation becomes what approaches.
“Your one, true god.”
“NNNGGGH!?”
And her full weight falls on his face with this push, cries that should be suffering coming from his obstructed mouth. Crushing Falke’s eagle nose. Though his are far from the cries of pain.
(… What is wrong with you people… Zennia is… so…!)
When she’s sure the impression will last, Dohle lets her foot slide free to land instead on his groin.
“STOP!”
“Ah, you are honest even now, Dummke.”
“No… no, it can’t… you!? No, this is… a mistake! All of the pseudoprósōpon should be near to being proteanic sludge by now!?”
Dohle steps away from him when he roars, huffing in annoyance at his incredulity. Even if he cannot budge from where he kneels, still Falke resists verbally with a rising voice.
“One of you… established a new governance engine, to fool me! Orloss!? This is your doing…!”
“An idea I’ve had, to be sure, Dearest Falke! But, no, not I!” A gloating uncle spares a quick chuckle. The Krakenclaimer’s shoulders are high, his mood limber as he gestures toward Fehr for a closer inspection as if she’s a prized calf. “Surely you, more than I, FEEL the implications of what you’ve finally achieved, Falke, you blindingly brilliant incompetent!?”
“THAT is a mistake! I’ll… purge everything, every last one I’ve made!” Still hungover, Falke goes insane when noticing Fehr and Fehl seated upon thrones.
“I WILL STAMP YOU OUT, ALL OF MY MISTAKES!” Only Sapphira will stay by him. “Why have you all come out to torment me!? I’ve only ever tried to save the Kestners, this is all I’ve wanted! But…!?”
Then Falke’s rage becomes a mask of frozen horror once looking beyond the thrones.
“… You… you killed our guardian…!? The Kestners’ heart, MURDERED BY YOU!?”
“Dummke has always been quite content to ignore reality, so you’ll have to forgive the slowness of his mind.”
“SILENCE, ERROR! KILLER! DESPOILER!?”
Dohle shrugs her shoulders after her insult doesn’t sink in, instead deciding to recline on the dais’ stairs. She crosses one leg over another so that he can stare up at her while her icy return gaze diminishes him further.
“Why does the pseudoprósōpon ignore my direct spiritual sympathy!?” Not even the former master of this manse can overcome a command or compel reinforcements.
(Only a being with true authority can enforce terms of obedience without a Talent, according to Neesiette’s magical teachings…! However, you won’t con him with just Dohle’s “ghost” and a little bending of rules, so what will you do, Fehr?)
Despite all the pageantry, rich music still filling the air, and the numerous others who have chomped on this bait…
“… Where did I first go wrong!?
WHAT WAS THE FIRST MISTAKE THAT SPAWNED THE DOOM INFESTING MY LIFE…!?”
Another sound is added to the environs, the long blaring of a horn.
In a musical procession, deep notes play out a song that shuts Falke up completely. It’s from behind the banners that the number plays for a bit before stopping.
“Hmmm, I never knew you were so fascinated with my instrument, Falke. You even fixed the crack in the bell.”
“No, no, it can’t…”
Something is set down, then a man in a white mourning robe, his stature truly expansive for middle age, passes under the banners and up from the ramp leading to the tree’s hollow. Like the owl clutching a horn that is the emblem of his burial robe, his wide head and clear eyes reflect the impression of wisdom. Unlike in the memory that Adris saw when blending with the darkness that forced him to witness Falke’s past, this gentlemanly figure isn’t scarred by gemstones studding his neck or sallowed by the stress of his position.
Quite alike Falke in structure of his features and their bird-tuft hair, but lacking the effortless beauty that being the offspring of a nymph grants, a long-lost father is a stone-carved idol when he lifts his hand to wave dismissively.
“Only inferior people discount possibilities, boy.”
“… Yes, sir…! Gah!?”
“Haha! Good, if that is your first response, then this may be profitable. After all, I will answer your question.”
Between the omnipresent twins, stopping momentarily to glare at them with suspicion, the former patriarch proceeds down from the dais to place his palm upon Falke’s forehead.
“The first mistake would’ve been mine, not yours… boy.”
Falke’s twitching resistance stops when that strong hand presses down. His weakening rage becomes a murmur of refusal.
“… You died, so long ago.”
“Indisputably. But, by investing so long ago in your craft, I find myself amusingly rejecting a fate I’d considered set.”
“My craft…?”
Of similar age, perhaps with Falke even the elder, a gathering of old people fades the patriarch’s smile when he notices Dohle.
“Falke, my… boy, do you recall your own answer when I asked: ‘what would you do if you were freed of all responsibility?’”
“That…! You cannot know wh—!”
“You wasted two minutes of my precious time, only to exclaim ‘Dohle will give me the time to figure that out, so I will make our family greater through her… and then I’ll know’.”
Falke’s face goes completely blank, all of the life draining white.
(If it meant enough, he can know, idiot. It clung on, never letting go.)
“It was my… heaviest regret to hear that rambling nonsense, knowing that I had failed to gift you what I’d never been gifted.” With only one question and the answer to it provided, the two men of similar intensities cease to reject each other. Falke only lowers his gaze to accept another pat.
“When I chose greed over love…? Yes, I felt… jealousy toward your potential freedom? Feeling only that human tripe, I… cursed you to join Dohle and the rest.”
“NO! I CHOSE TO SERVE!”
(The moment you respond like that… you’re fooled.)
Adris can only bask in the game that the twins play, feeling a bit of envy himself. Jealousy that’s cutting deep, right to where one of them reached to pull so much out.
“Falke, I should’ve made you a Maker only, to focus your sole talent, rather than let you scale a mountain which rejected you.” An innocuous criticism, Adris can feel the stirrings within himself that indicate its true impact elsewhere. Were it he doing this, he could choose no better way of phrasing it.
(They took this whole trip through his manse and… they’re utilizing every trick they’ve learned. They’re starting… hard, but slow…)
“Letting you ‘search’ for my successor on your own was a placating gesture designed for a boy of your age.”
“But I found Dohle! I found… the…!”
Falke’s body is finally freed of an order to kneel when Dohle clicks her tongue.
He rakes his fingers through the ground, pulling up the false earth and feeling its warmth in place of only lukewarm that Adris can also feel from his own collapsed position.
“Dohle was never the correct choice, either, no matter how enticing she was at first.”
“Says you, you old deaf bastard!”
At this Dohle leaps down to yank Falke up from the ground, pointing at Falke’s face.
“The only correct thing my Dummke did unprompted was… rescue me and make me realize I could change EVERYTHING!”
“You changed nothing.” The former Speaker ceases to lean, clapping his hands to remove any dirt from contact. “Cute Dohle, you burned brighter than every other light the Kestners could ever offer. And then our family…?
DOHLE!”
When both Dohle and Falke below this owl’s gaze flinch, he continues to roar like an earthquake!
“You would’ve done less damage if you’d TRIED to destroy us! They would’ve resisted obvious destruction, perhaps…!?” The old man’s clenched fists release reluctantly, clearly annoyed that Dohle only blinks in response. “Instead, you became the epitome of what a Kestner should want to be: immovable and unconquerable! My greatest miscalculation, haah!”
“How is that wrong, you senile old man!?”
He covers half his face with a huge hand at the idiot before him, an act which sends Dohle leaping up to strangle Falke’s father. Clenching her hands so tightly, they then shake impotently when the Speaker only frowns instead of choking.
“You chose WHO would fuck WHO until you made MY PARENTS! Then you made them make ME! All of them died horribly, their blood… rotten poison…!”
“Everything I did, I did for the sake of trying to make an uncursed Kestner.”
For once, Adris’ throat feels tight for this wild thing’s naked despair.
Usually he’d drink in such sights, but he instead partially turns away from this scene. A disappointment in such a manipulator, the bonds of “family”, his stomach is swirling at the implications.
“I am a demon, and that’s what the Speaker is.” The old man wrenches Dohle’s hands free, casting them aside. “A demon that communes with the earth, pretends its insipid cries are a great wisdom to share with the scared faithful. So I briefly taught you, yes? To live into your thirties before transforming into a gem was the only goal I told you to keep.” The old man plucks at Dohle’s dress of state, nodding approvingly at the impact of it even when she slaps his hand. “But, you, Dohle, revoltingly became a paragon. And when you did… no Kestner could ever replace you, especially not my son who worshiped you almost as much as he loved you. A cause to mourn and pine for forever is a death sentence to any organization.”
“… That… isn’t… my fault.”
But Dohle retreats then, slowly moving over to stand near Sapphira and smoothing her dress. All of her bursting rage was wasted, so Dohle finds herself staring at Falke with a look of angry impotence matching his own.
(“From its worst enemy to its greatest champion”, you gave up, Dohle, but still destroyed them. Bravo, I like you a bit more now!)
“Falke… boy, I accepted you as my assistant solely to protect you… and, yes, use you, I’m afraid. But had I known you had… no personal ambitions whatsoever, save for being a Kestner and proving that name, I would’ve sent you back to your mother then and there.”
Falke won’t argue back, even though the man’s idol is drowning him in dissatisfaction. A patriarch Adris has only witnessed in memory twice has now come to life with a crystal clarity that cannot be explained.
(Darkness is an absolute force… so long as there’s sufficient truth, they can do what I can do.)
“You should’ve run away with the harpy or even Dohle, if you hated yourself so terribly.” Huffing at the situation, the old man throws away any dignity and kneels to join Falke. “Instead, you spent your life trying to perfect others, hoping they’d discover your goal. ‘Perfection’ was always your aim, but if you cannot envision its final form yourself…?”
“Then I could never recognize it if I found it…”
Falke no longer shrugs off touches, succumbing to both Dohle’s hand upon his shoulder when she and Sapphira approach, and also the old man who is certainly his father grasping Falke to him, an urgent rush of sympathy splashing across his stony face.
“I’m sorry… son. Perfectionism became your greatest sin.”
With the hand he has free, Falke loosens the tie that he wears even with only his dress tunic beneath. Throwing it on before coming to save Sapphira, it is the proprieties and niceties Falke aspires to that have forever marred his pursuit of his craft in Adris’ perfectly objective determination, and drove him to seek possession of what was clearly beyond his worth.
(Right, he’s an evil sinner! Falke could never achieve a single thing as long as Neesiette was his goal, and I would end him if he stole her. Not that he ever could…)
“I wanted to be perfect for the… for you and the family.” Usually Falke’s tone is so prim… “But, I completely forgot what I’d originally wanted to be after leaving… my mother. After taking on responsibilities, I was so busy.” For now, it’s only calm and deadened.
(Would we have had a conversation like this if we’d… talked for real, Fatso? Serras?)
Stage drama has long fascinated Adris, but practical acting is far removed from it. To wager the setup of a con against the hearts and minds of others always resulted in satisfaction from merely fooling.
To gain, others lose.
When someone loses, the actor flees.
Yet, when others join on stage, everyone profits.
“Except, when others were happy, without knowing why… I knew I’d succeeded, then. But without discovering the secret to reproducing it, I, myself, could never be perfected by my results.”
Falke stands with his father’s help, gazing out at the assembled harpies who have watched his entire facade collapse. There is regret in the dollmaker’s stature, that the family and history he’s perpetuated may fail now that he’s been revealed as undeserving.
“I just wanted to make something useful, and beautiful… at the start. Seems… I was born wrong from the start, instead, that’s always been the truth? Such a mistake could never achieve perfection, right, father?” A self-deprecating grin vanishes all lingering complications. “So, I suppose I shall retire from trying to achieve it.”
“Not exactly my argument, Falke, but… good lad on the decision. It’s unexpected, that I’m blessed to be able to retire with you, too. Your grandfather died even younger than I did, so I’ve no idea how one does so! Haha!”
“… Yes, I saw the dates on his casket. Our family has never been blessed, has it?”
Father pats son, a grim smile added to Falke’s along with a hopeful remark.
“No, but perhaps you might have accidentally made what could bless it, even if they act like… stringless puppets.”
“The old bastard is only right about this, Dummke.” Dohle adds in her own thoughts, turning to look at Fehl and Fehr. “You wasted your youth on that bizarrely huge clock trying to cure me, but in only one night your contraptions made you a fool and it an obsolete tinker’s toy.”
Falke’s bemusement ends, a solemn blankness replacing as he stares at the two on their thrones, then sweeps the garden again to take in the grandeur of it.
Seeing all of his possessions put on for show, Adris notes that Falke genuinely might be wising up to some point of this performance.
He frees his hands to inspect the palms, a lack of callouses from constant dexterous work with tools and machines grinding down on them and Falke’s heart.
“… How is it I only succeeded by mistake, without comprehending why…?”
(Because you blinded yourself to what you could accomplish by only seeing past what you had just obtained.)
It’s an easy answer for Adris as an outsider.
It occurs to him then that he’s come upon a lot of easy answers in this manse by observing idiots like this man beclown themselves for him to fail to laugh at it, despite wishing for a reason to so hard yesterday.
(I absolutely hate this.)
“Hey, Adris, he has a soft smile… when not staring real mean.”
It’s then that Adris realizes he’s not the only witness. Beside, Ave remains mystified, which is only natural given her lack of knowledge about any of these people.
“He’s… kind of cute, a little? But, calling the doll ‘perfect’ makes him crazy…!” The grin she wears causes him to grind his teeth, though.
In contrast, Kol keeps silent, though she’s just as puzzled by what she sees. She crosses her arms with a hint of disappointment, her tail restlessly flicking.
(You look like you’re annoyed it’s not you everyone is looking at.)
Only Adris and maybe Still, the way the silent sneak has a bear hug on him, could possibly understand Falke’s sentiment.
(You don’t deserve my understanding! Not even an ounce of my peerless intellect should be devoted to this… farce!)
A seedy-looking, hungover, and destitute old man, one who has committed numerous crimes and only now faces own ruin for it, finally sighs and allows the weight of his smothering life to slide off for once.
“I chose Dohle, but I always wanted to be wrong, that maybe I was better, but—”
Falke’s diatribe is interrupted by Dohle lunging for him.
Missing each other for so long, the way that Falke melts into the mannish kiss that is forced on him by the elder lady he’s sworn to makes Adris’ heart ache.
It’s a sight too familiar, a relationship too oppositional for Adris to be aloof about…
(Serras…)
“You will never beat me.”
“… Probably.”
“Obviously! Now, come sit here, Sapphira, I feel like having a laugh. Dummke, clumsily rip off her sashes and lick where it makes her sc—”
“Cease your perverted delusions, Dohle!”
(And you lose.)
“Please stop, Mistress…”
Sapphira ticks over, despite being entirely red-faced with embarrassment at how Dohle orders her around in front of her girls.
“That I should outlive you, our country you helped found, and my family is quite the… ominous fate, old friend.”
Despite also being present, the former Speaker that appeared last merely rounds the thrones to whisper with a quiet regret toward the husk of the great orange tree.
Those put on the stage to dance their number finish the show…
“WHAT IS THIS!?” Finally, one of the audience adds their review to this theater performance. One of the larger harpies bursts from her spot amongst the valued possessions of Falke to land before the thrones and coat their occupants with seaspray that then vanishes.
“How can we… survive if everyone gives up!?” Esandra is the name of this harpy, or so Adris recalls from his time as Fehl’s unseen conspirator. The harpy that led the revolt against Sapphira, she is also the eldest and strongest.
But at the moment, she’s more furious than even Dohle was when facing the man that caused her parents to die.
“We still have so many enemies, especially now the Pillars again!? If not Mistress Dohle!?” Esandra casts herself to look at Dohle, but receives only a refusal from the stately lady with closed eyes and a twisting of the head. So, the harpy throws herself at Fehr. “WE CHOSE YOU! WE WILL FOLLOW YOU! Please, don’t abandon us to mother!?”
“Lead?” Astonishment crosses Fehr’s face momentarily.
Adris thinks the plot is finished, but his thoughts grow darker when Fehl and Fehr stand up. Another twist will hit after pacifying Falke.
“In what manner should those chosen to aid—?” At the question, Fehr then lifts her hand to laugh into it after saying her part.
“—in succession and serve the owners, lead instead?” Fehl finishes by approaching Esandra and wrapping his arms around her waist.
“What!? F-Fehl…!?”
The overly dressed man twists Esandra around to face Dohle.
“Dohle, Falke, Sapphira, all—”
“—equally discarded from consideration.”
Fehr joins Fehl in clinging onto Esandra. Both twins leer at Dohle.
“Who is—?”
“—left then?”
The prickly older lady frowns at this attention, rolling her eyes at them, then scoffs finally once they refuse to relent.
“Yes, yes, I suppose… it’s time to let the pets return to the wild.” Dohle faces the audience then, all of them looking expectantly to her.
“Dohle…? Wait, NO, DOHLE!?”
Sapphira lunges at Dohle, but then succumbs to Dohle grabbing the matron by the ear.
“NO! If you do it, they’ll all…!?”
“Even if I couldn’t have kids with Falke, I know that a parent must let go, Phira.”
“I DON’T WANT MY CHILDREN TO HURT EACH OTHER!?”
(Oh… this was what you were going for all along…)
Dohle steels herself, lifting up one hand and screaming.
“[I denounce Sapphira as your empress, for I hold bondage over Falke Kestner! As the sole entity to whom all page harpies of the Kestners are sworn to, I release you from both bondage and debts!]”
“NOOOOOOOOO!”
Despite Sapphira’s cries, the howling air that rushes in toward seven harpies carries the brash percussion of war with it.
Adris’ skin crawls with the severity of the rising bloodlust. A curtain of thickening presence gathers to the murder.
“ADRIS!? THEY LOOK ANGRY!” Ave is the first to notice, her cowardly senses attuned to the displeasure of women. She coils swiftly around Still and Adris both, crushing Neesiette into his chest.
(That’s because they’re becoming empresses…! And…?)
The harpies that once flocked together as a singular murder swiftly break into a huge rebellious swarm in the air. They weave away from some, congregating toward larger versions of themselves. Black feathers are left filling the sky after they land upon distinct battle lines that number six fold in groups.
All stare with burning eyes, blue flecked with red, at their opposition. Every harpy has abandoned their face-covering caps to litter the grounds.
(Freed from bondage, they act like animals.)
The rest, the largest clique, swoop to land upon the unfurled banners marking Fehr and Fehl’s natures. They also land on the empty throne backs, overfilling the dais such that harpies shuffle against each other. None speak, only glaring contemptuously at former sisters and cousins.
At the center of these hordes, shivering harpies are swirled by growing torrents of ephemeral sea currents.
“HAAAAH…! Hooooh! I… I am…!”
The strongest is clearly the specimen who is flanked by Fehl and Fehr as they ignore the tide smashing into them. Adris makes out the rush of emotions playing on this revealed Esandra’s face, who is almost a perfect replica of Sapphira’s own save for the blue eyes instead of full red.
Fear, anger, and…
“A strong and vibrant successor—!”
“—who carries the true blood of a Kestner!”
“Kestner!? Ahhhh… I am… a… Kestner!?”
Esandra’s climactic cries end in waves bursting from her that Sapphira must crash against with her own to keep Falke protected. Avarice is the tinge of emotional tumult to it!
“Esandra! FIGHT IT!”
“SHUT UP, MOTHER! I… I AM…! WE ARE ALL KESTNERS!”
(The strongest contender… but there’s the rest of your siblings…)
“You will conquer—?”
“—any who deny you us—?”
“—turning on those out there who secretly—?”
“—might hold enmity in their hearts toward you?”
Fehr and Fehl whisper temptations into this harpy’s ears, enjoying how Esandra’s stature changes. Larger than the rest, Sapphira’s daughters when liberated of chains now also sparingly exceed her size such as in Esandra’s case.
(Just like bees, they’ll have to leave the hive and contest with each other for supremacy.)
“I…!? With…!? Haaaah!?”
Esandra faces her siblings, all of her smaller daughters and granddaughters stepping forward to shield their matron.
A page harpy empress is revealed to be quite the domineering type, the way Esandra’s wide, wild smile spreads. A thirst for conquest defines them.
“SHARE!? WITH THEM, THOSE SQUAWKING BUTT-INS!?
I WILL…!”
“Tell us, what—”
“—you desire, successor.”
Twins do not act, only goading on what transpires.
Though, Adris feels this is only a formality and refrains from whimpering like his errant snake elf defender.
“Nnnn, Kol, not feel like… anyone really wanna fight? Disappointing…!”
The most violent person present sighs and lowers her claws despite the torrential energies ripping at her fur. If Kol has no drive…?
(Right, they’ve had decades to decide.)
“Haaaaah… Pfft…! Mother, are you really that stupid, hooo…!?”
“WHAT!?”
The enlarged Esandra, despite feeling purely predatory and terrifying to potentially face with her advanced physiology, merely relaxes and folds her wings back up. Clinging energies smelling of violence get shaken off like loose feathers. When she does so, her daughters follow suit. Some even apologetically bow toward other harpies in the distance.
The building calls for battle, a war without end, retreat with saddened whispers.
“If… we’re really gonna inherit… then we’ll do it together. We’re a family.”
“Correct—”
“—answer.”
The reward for choosing the correct answer is for both to touch the sashes Esandra wears.
“Oh…?”
A newly crafted harpy empress spreads her wings and watches. Sagging, then swimming, old slave’s sashes wind upward to beautify as a shining, draping dress with an open back. In the same style as silk robes of Xin for the upper caste to relax after bathing, this airy dress that drapes over all the feminine parts whips freely with moving air that kisses dark skin. Esandra’s sisters share her mesmerized expression when their own transformed outfits allow them to move with the same grace as previously, yet prove far more respectful of their worth.
As though it was never in question, Fehl and Fehr return to their thrones to take in the flock’s ascension.
“If the emblem is insufficient—”
“—it may be altered.”
Embroidered to the breasts area is a black swan swooping low over a painted lake, with their dresses now a deep forest green lacking any purple.
“No, it’s beautiful… but, what are we inheriting…?”
Esandra’s question is the only valid one, for it’s not been said even once. A bit spooked by their silence at first, when the twins speak, all doubts clear up.
“Everything, everyone. All that—”
“—was the Kestners, if you protect it.”
(AHHHHHH! THAT’S THE CON! THAT’S THE LONG GAME!)
“Everything!? Then, that would mean…!?”
“Smart, loyal, and also ambitious, yes, you—”
“—will gain us, in addition to all that is contained here—”
“—offered now to the most loyal family members—”
“—who abandoned and suffered so much to… safeguard us—”
“—to you we offer even the distant past, revived as desired…”
A stunned silence entrances the harpies and Esandra all, for they shift in ecstasy at the…
“The past… we’ll have it all back?”
“Tut!” Fehl wags a finger. “Make anew your—”
“—honored memories, not old.”
(I hate it, but now I’m proud… “Safeguard us”? You two didn’t even exist before yesterday, but now you’re offering to “resurrect” the dead and including yourselves as the poison pill!)
“How… how incredible, we have too, too much to plan with those evil Pillars beside us.”
“Make your plans, but worry not about the Pillars, masters—”
“—for we have a solution, but please permit us to finish before enacting it.”
“Certainly, please… no, continue as you see fit.” Esandra’s polite tone turns more arrogant, a keen smile of superiority fitting for Sapphira’s face. “It’s been… eye-opening so far, therefore… you have our permission.”
The harpies quickly vacate the premises, flying back to perch once more with their kin. Esandra makes a quick search of the twins, who nod deferentially at her attempt to gain insight into their thoughts, and then the large harpy swoops off on a seaspray wake.
“… You all… aren’t going to fight…?”
“No, we all plan to beat you up later, stupid Mother.”
At the question and answer between mother and departing first daughter, numerous harpies roar out with tittering laughter. Only Sapphira is left stupefied, until Dohle nudges her.
“Your children have Falke’s blood, so of course they’d be smarter than you in finding a solution ahead of time.”
“HAAAAH!? Dohle, that’s too much!” Finally it is too much, for Sapphira starts heaving herself at her owner, slapping the modest Dohle with a harpy’s swinging bombshell bosom in between wing strikes. “I always hated how you constantly teased meeeeee!?”
“Dummke! Rescue your god from softness!”
(… This is such a sick joke…)
“Now, since punishments have been carried out—”
“—rewards shall be forthcoming for the loyal and true.”
Adris’ life might end if he’s forced to watch everything resolve like this, but then it grows even worse when the garden floor grows bubbles. Rising goop pops away to reveal familiar enemies.
“My word, were we not to remain… jailed…?”
A fop of extreme pervertedness rises from his meditation, surrounded by harpies wearing jewelry.
“Fehl!? You’re back!? FEHL!”
Toward the lovestruck harpy Kachua, Fehl raises a hand to wave but not call back. The revealed group startles when five more shapes rise beside them.
“Nerik, how!?”
“I cannot know my own beauty without my mirror, Kaskin.”
The one closest to Kaskin the peacockatrice sloughs away to reveal his duplicate, both garbed once more in the same eccentric style with silk waist suits that bear as many colors as the feathers on their long, flicking tails.
“You are… given back to me, so quickly? You’re hale…?”
“Shall we dance together to see?”
The lizard man rises to greet his other, lunging into a deep embrace that stuns the bladesman. His fortune is matched by the harpies rejoining their own opposites.
“Shiaaareeeee~! I missed annoying youuuuu~!”
“I sort of didn’t miss you!? Stop kissing meeeee~!”
One is chased by a clingy type, while another compares muscles.
“You’ve gotten soft, Restia, if you think I won’t take him too~.”
“Big Fehl is gonna be mine, so try it bitch if you think you can~.”
And the last cries instead while ticking around at a brisk run, trying to tackle her mirror…
“You’re the only one that shows up when I need them…!”
“Kachua… you’re… totally embarrassing me!”
When the dust settles and all of them turn to regard the last person near them, they hear Fehl and Fehr’s comments about this one that they all reveal naked dislike for.
“As promised, reunited, but more so—”
“—given a chance to excel, as heirs to the Maker—”
“—this gift to be refined shall serve as a test case—”
“—of ones’ skills in addition to your new positions as Maker apprentices.”
The test case is a reddish bitch that kneels. Her bushy tail is flat to the floor, along with her gaze. Baggy eyes, dry skin, and an overall sickly pallor make this former amazonian invader appear as if she has accepted a forthcoming death.
“Ylva, reporting… sort of… hoping I can be useful… please, masters…”
To Kaskin and Nerik the former birthing bitch places her head to the floor, letting her tangled mess of hair swoop over.
“… Oh, really?” Kaskin licks his lips, the one eye visible beneath his turban glittering with sadistic joy. “But, ‘apprentice Maker’ and… ‘service’ instructor for this one? I am a swordsman.”
“Who, like me, can never find a beauty worth serving in this world.” Nerik clasps Kaskin’s arm in a brotherly grasp. “Instead of searching for it when we are so stunning, why not… carve this world in our image with our own hands, instead?”
“Such strange ideas you have now, my other self?”
Kaskin’s suspicion grows, but his mood lifts at Nerik being proactive. The harpies that congregate around them only chatter about “opportunities to get nearer to him”, looking between Fehl and Falke. The old man mutely watching his world change blinks in consternation when the harem harpies and his own experiments swoon over him, before they turn and laugh as girls will do when caught.
(Everyone is getting suckered…)
“Mercenary—”
“—Lycia.”
“I’ll show myself out, it’s fine~.”
Still clinging to the shadow of a pillar, Lycia’s agitation peaks again. She motions for Adris to run toward the twins, while she indicates the door she intends to exit from, then collects what’s left of her gear…
(FUCK YOU, SIS!? YOU’RE NOT JUST GONNA ABANDON ME, RIGHT!?)
“IT’S NOT MY FAAUUUUUULT!?”
Lycia’s screams drown out the furor elsewhere when a huge shape rises from the muck right at her feet. Despite being equipped in full slayer gear and having all of her wonderful goods, Adris gets to experience Lycia lose all belief in her own supremacy.
“HIM! ADRIS! It’s his fault, he brainwashed me! MADE ME DO THINGS, IT’S ALL HIS FAU—!”
The great mound of gray strips away to reveal a broken knight that would scrape the low sky if it still had a functioning head.
“Wait… Chippy Choppingham?”
“AHa, GAH, HaHaHaHa!”
At its feet once the rest retracts into the earth, a thrashing package spitting out gray goop knocks over a stack of thick manuscripts.
“THE BEYOOOOOOOOOND BECKONS, SCREAMS FOR ME TO TRY, TRY, TRRYYYYYYYY AGAAAAAINNNN!” Tied up with silver chains, a mad, mad slut of a hare drools, completely wide-eyed and dilated as if pleasurable venom in her veins fries her brain. “OOOH!? HEY, LYSI-LYS!” Only when she notices Lycia’s presence does the addled Hoime cheer up and start flopping like a fish. “To the stars, the distant stars, shall we go together on that ‘rocket’ you talked about!? AS THEY SAY IN THE WORKS, RIGHT, ‘SHOW ME THE MONEEEEEEEEY’! aHaHaHa!”
“What the hell hit you?”
Lycia creeps from behind the pillar to look to the thrones, finding the twins bowing slightly toward her.
“Mercenaries, are always paid—”
“—fairly in weapons and slaves—”
“—so please enjoy yours hard won—”
“—that instructions might compensate loss.”
At their response, Lycia creeps toward her payment of parchments. “… ‘Construction Theorems and Practical Designs of Regalia’… by Falke…”
“ARE WE GOING TO MAKE A ROOOOOOBOT, LYSI-LYS!?”
“… ‘Mindburn Treatment’?”
What is left to Lycia, because she demanded it, is a broken Regalia, Adris’ slave from an earlier victory, and the means to fix them both.
(Too cruel, guys!)
“I already know how to fix mindburn…”
“AGGHEEEEhAhAhAhA!!!”
A clawed hand clamps over Hoime’s face. It sends the rabbit sage shrieking again with her obnoxious laughter. Lycia’s eyes sharpen, a building green glow filling the garden when she turns toward Adris…
(I don’t see you.)
This is what Adris thinks, hoping that his refusal to acknowledge her will save his life.
But it’s never enough…
“With rewards bestowed—”
“—evil must be judged.”
The ground beneath Adris’ feet lurches forward, carrying them all upon this moving carpet.
“Adris… I don’t want to sound mean… but, I think they’re the evil today…!”
Ave’s voice is a dry heave, so frightened she is that she’s about to hyperventilate. Still writhes in pain from the divine dignity washing out of Ave, just as useless as the elf.
“Kol, want things, Cute…? Why, not Kol?” Even his kobold is left destitute, finding that the end of rewards has passed.
(Time to die?)
With the full entourage of the Kestner family, past and present, arrayed before them, Adris discovers a reason to never, ever again act without a firm plan in mind.
(This is all Still’s fault. She made me come here…)
“C O N F I R M A T I O N O F A W A K E N I N G:
H e l l o, C r e a t o r.
… Or not?”
But it’s the package that finally springs to waking in Adris’ arms that might truly deserve the blame for all of this. Even if she’s pleasant most times and a sexual typhoon, a Lunamaton that can go berserk when empowered even the least bit by her Creator is just as dangerous as the twins she blinks at. And how Neesiette first checks to make sure that [Brings An End] is still hanging from Adris’ shoulder before looking up into his face to make sure he is safe really settles for Adris where he stands with her.
“Falke, query: numerous unregistered pseudoprósōpon avatars, presenting with quite angry expressions if interpreted correctly, reduced to a servile position their creator being, explaining one might the conundrum a lady reactivates to discover?”
“That… would take quite a long time, I’m afraid…”
It’s not Falke that sits on a throne. Instead, he has been deposited on the steps below along with the matron Sapphira who holds him in her wings. All that Falke is allowed to do is appear quite contrite and worried.
“As successors, deciding the fates of others, what say—?”
“—all in regards to this assemblage of fiends: guilty or innocent?”
“Trial!? Crime, defense, implications of conduct, all listed elements be unknown to this lady!”
The twins address only the harpies above.
Sisters, mothers, and cousins quickly look between themselves, taking the proper time to arrive at an impartial decision.
“To what do those present refer to!? Objection: barbarism detected, desist with ignoble actions!”
Neesiette’s impassioned plea for adjournment of the court earns her a reply from the jury.
““““““““““[DEATH]!!!””””””””””
“Reasoning!? Rationale!? SENTENCING OF PUNISHMENT BE THIS, SKIPPING GUILT/INNOCENCE DETERMINATION!?”
(I’m so glad that I chose these four girls to die with.)
“Sworn to our true owners—” Fehl raises his hand to tap his brow, then nods his head apologetically toward Neesiette.
“—the sentence, total annihilation, commences immediately.” Fehr’s beatific smile grows devilish, with the woman lifting her hand to stroke her own face with the zest of witnessing her hated rival’s coming end. Her knees knock against each other, an uncontrollable passion that she wants to unleash when Fehr hefts up her curved sword to let the scabbard slide off and clatter on the stone floor.
(Fehr, if you kill Neesiette, you’ll kill your beloved guest by default, my dear, sweet Fehr.)
“… Guests… and hosts… Falke!”
“Hmm?”
It’s only now that Adris recovers sufficiently to speak, haltingly as he does so. Instead of the successors or the toys, Adris chooses to address his arch enemy with a wild idea in mind.
(Can you bear the indignity!?)
“What do both share…!? If a host accepts a guest, and… then…!?” Adris flashes his teeth in challenge, their positions the same now as they were the moment that Adris first met this man in the flesh.
“I am the host, yes…” Such an intelligent voyeur could hardly fail to see his place in Adris’ solution, and so Falke rises with a sneer.
“You are quite the worm, Adris fehl Dain.”
(A worm that will survive!)
Falke marches down to stand before them, throwing his arms out wide.
“Falke, stand aside!”
“No, Neesiette, this act is not a mistake.”
Already following behind, this maddened lady Fehr that has her sword raised and aiming for Neesiette doesn’t stop.
“I invited this guest to our manse. As her host… and as their host after accepting the rest, I bear sum total responsibility for what troubles they brought here.”
Even when the blade is lowered to Falke’s left shoulder and inches from his heart, the old man with a gaudy mustache and beard doesn’t flinch.
“I am Falke… Kestner. To harm them would besmirch the honor of the Kestners, and I will lose too much if you harm my… friend within the manse I created.”
“… And?”
“And…?”
For the first time after reuniting, Fehr addresses her maker without Fehl adding in. Her counterpart only holds a finger to his lips, tapping with some indecisive spirit.
Fehr’s face saddens, she shifts nervously before her original creator.
“What am I to you, who is a Kestner? How does your honor matter to me?”
(So, in the end, Fehr wanted this the most…)
“You… are… what I made.” Falke’s words slowly come out, as if he was never expecting to admit this before his death. When admitted, the sword that hovers near his neck pulls away. “All of my creations are my responsibility. I cannot allow my mistake to soil you… Fehr, is it?”
Fehr blushes at this statement, her berserk aura evaporating. She pulls on Falke’s tunic, leaning closer to him as he startles to softly grab her, too.
“… No, we are—!”
“—certainly can’t allow ourselves to be soiled, Maker!”
Fehr’s private moment ends with Fehl’s interjection and a short skip down the stairs to join them. Fehr glares at him, earning a charming smile in return, before the two speak.
“I see, if the Maker bears the same crime—?”
“—then he would suffer the same punishment—”
“—so we must amend the sentence, correct—?”
“—in order to avoid sharing his stain of harming guests, too?”
And so the twins offer Falke their hands, both extending one.
“If the Maker will agree and swear to serve forever—”
“—protecting the integrity of his creations—”
“—then those creations would be amenable—”
“—to protecting their own surrogate honor…?”
Angelic smiles are offered at the same moment that the ever-present music filling the garden and altering others’ moods without notice increases its vivacity.
(It’s the “touch” and the “fix”, skipping the “blow off”. They’ve got him completely figured out…)
“It is… correct to firmly judge others, you two. But, these… no, she is my friend, so I wish to protect her from my own failings. Please understand my example, though I am not a good one right now, and show mercy.”
Falke inclines his head, stroking through his beard with a self-disgusted expression.
“Of course—!”
“—our Maker!”
“Then… I will swear to your terms.”
Falke takes Fehr’s hand, neatly avoiding Fehl’s such that the man pats Falke’s wrist instead, not losing his smile. When they shake upon this contract…
(The entire manse just heaved within!)
The dark energies that linger about grow even more concentrated, absorbing eagerly back into the mass.
Some final, unnamed limitation releases and the manse drinks hungrily from the emotional outpouring of both the harpies and the living that filled the garden with invisible tension.
“I’ve no idea how my work has gone so far off from design despite all my efforts, but I’m glad… that we can work through this to understand each other. To… understand how we may grow.”
“As—”
“—are—”
In place of only a handshake, Fehr lunges in to hug the old man when it ends.
“—we~!”
“That’s not fair, Fehr.”
“My!?” Falke cries out, but doesn’t reject her this time. Fehl rips his sister off of the stunned Maker, an old man left rolling his shoulders after the impact with scrunched up eyes of disbelief.
After this skinship, the way that Falke regards the twins almost imperceptibly… softens.
(Hah… what a stupid love story…)
“Then, in accordance with the Maker’s heart’s—”
“—desires, the sentences for the witch—”
“—the arsonist—”
“—and my loyal knight and guest…”
Fehr rounds off the listing of the criminals with amiability honeying her words, whereas her brother’s are icy.
“In deference to honor and mercy, your sentences—”
“—are commuted to eternal exile, while—”
“—the Maker is sentenced to life in paradise.”
With that, Fehr reaches in to grab onto Falke’s collar.
“Our prisoner cannot be another’s slave!”
Rather than ripping it off, Fehr’s raking hand slices through the impenetrable metal that Peak crafted so cleanly that it slides off. It sparks with rainbow lightning on the floor before sinking into the stone.
“So enjoy—!”
“—our freedom, Maker!”
(You two really are enjoying yourselves… it’s a shame this all… is just a horrible lie! There’s never going to be freedom for you, Falke!)
“DO THAT FOR ME, TOO, MY DARLING GODCHILDREN!”
Instead of being alone, Falke is now surrounded so tightly that he struggles to discover a place to stand when Fehr and Fehl lead him back to the throne area.
“… It’s gone…”
Orloss’ own collar is shredded and tossed like chaff, earning numerous slimy kisses to Fehr’s cheeks in reward. Then he wanders over to shake Falke’s hand so exuberantly that the the dollmaker’s spectacles almost pop off.
“Finally free, Falke my bosom chum!”
“… For now… though emancipation might be the wrong word?”
“Yes, that word does seem a trifle advanced in terminology for the situation…”
(You created a prison that will never let you go, and sold yourself to it because it asked you nicely and gave you some cute puppets to play with, you absolute moron. It’s too late to change your mind!)
“Oh… yaaaay. I guess I’m the ‘arsonist’, huh…?” Ave’s dejected expression while shifting to rest on top of Kol is one Adris would also like to show.
“Kol, knight? But, not do swearing! Cute, lie!? Impossible!”
“Calm down, Kol, now isn’t the time, pleaaaaase!?” A kobold tries to rush the throne, but Ave’s muscles strain with the anticipated task of barely keeping Kol seated.
Fehr’s sword lifts once more, though, when arriving at another’s verdict.
“Except for the evil thing you hold my guest, an eternal threat deserves—!”
“—to be sent back to her home in the custody of—”
“—bits and pieces and shreds of—!”
Fehr constantly jumps up from her throne and plops back to sit on it, caught between a flurry of rage and release. Fehl sighs into his hand while leaning on his throne, hiding this view of his sister’s disgraceful moment.
“—gratitude for exposing the totality of our Maker’s lapses and—”
“—REDUCED TO ANNIHILATION, THE OBLITERATION OF—!”
“—contact with our Maker, so as not to cause future offense again to our home.”
(You two don’t agree on everything, do you?)
Neesiette’s fear as she pushes into his chest causes Adris to repeat the same against Still’s breasts. The wild, overflowing emotions that churn within the false earth mimic the dual natures of Fehr and Fehl, for one desires only to kill a moon fairy while the other stares with total, abject fancy at the lady herself.
“Neesiette vera Luna, devil from the violet moon—!”
“—you are very unfortunately found—”
“—guilty of capital treason against the Kestners!”
Neesiette’s blank gaze while processing this judgment lasts quite a lot longer than the lady normally requires before replying.
“… Occurring not now, before, nor likely later shall be discovered actions matching the definition of ‘treason’ committed by this lady, neither against a family named Kestner nor any other Zennian household. Addendum, actions deem-able as ‘self-defense’: harm brought to Peak Zenith’s Pillars, incidental to liberating this lady from bondage.
‘Defective, manic, deranged’: describing succinctly do these words the units before this lady presiding in judgment.
Demanded, a retrial be, one in accordance with established Castilian legal doctrine in place of these farcical proceedings.”
This is all Neesiette states in her own defense, her visage devoid of any emotion except total confusion thereafter. The way she curtly nods though, as if affirming that reality should obey the truth, causes Adris’ heart to hurt just a bit.
(Wow, did you really comb through your entire past in that moment just to be sure it wasn’t perjury?)
“Appeal~—”
“—REJECTED!”
“PRESENTING, INJUSTICE! Higher court, refer appeal to!”
No higher court exists than a tyrant’s, though.
And the tyrant’s jury is effectively rigged, with the judge’s executioner’s blade always the sharpest.
(Sorry, Neesiette, life is a lot crueler than I am…)
As the five intrepid conquerors of the Castillo are waved goodbye to by a sad-looking Falke Kestner, surrounded as he is by domineering, clingy, and outright tyrannical women and men who would claim his own heritage, Adris enjoys the fact that the moving carpet carries them toward the doorway at the other end of the great garden.
When those large doors crack and slowly open without aid, beyond is the foyer, and beyond even it the light of morning. The outer garden and hedges with the Gran Castillo in sight, normally foreboding scenery, now tastes like freedom.
(Nobody won… everyone lost… especially Falke. Because… I know what Fehr and Fehl really are.)
The duality of twins is only one part.
In addition, there is a swearing of Falke to “his creations” without specifying that they were only Fehr and Fehl.
For that is the long con.
The longest one ever, for a construction that hoped to remain unnoticed in all proceedings groans with the contentedness radiating from the tumor-like sacks of concentrated pseudoprósōpon located throughout the manse.
(They’re not the only living constructs.)
Every object, architectural piece, and support structure breathes now with its own private animus, basking in the presence of new masters.
Now that everything has been settled the unmoving manse sheds its pretenses entirely. A machine with unexplainable inner workings in Falke’s sanctum had not guided it, but instead served as shackles.
“Now begins—”
“—a new future, here.”
Fehl and Fehr join hands, brother and sister focusing to change their world entirely. An open sky grows more distant when the walls churn upward to raise great carvings of scenery of no place found on Zennia.
Broken islands instead reflect, filling in details with native residents in place of Xin’el.
The terminal lines of an eastern palace turn soft, angled instead with edifices and curves and points that tug at shadows that play along flat surfaces.
“And may Zennia fear—”
“—when our will spreads—”
“—to touch every heart—”
“—and alter every mind.”
From great braziers that burst into flame the shadows are born. Adris’ soul is paralyzed by the choices of materials that creep into solidity from the transfiguration.
Gold trim, jade carvings, and red emblems adorn every conceivable surface available.
(AH FUCK ME! THEY STOLE THE EMPEROR’S SECRET!)
The emblem is proud to declare itself as [Xin] to Adris’ ability to interpret languages.
(They’re going to spread!?)
The Pinnacle style of the Emperor makes puppets of the shadows of both living and inanimate. Every harpy that turns to watch Adris’ and co’s departure passing beneath them grows ever more sinister in the darklight radiance that Adris’ own emblem carved into his mask replicates from copies elsewhere.
All of the shadows angle inward, aimed at the thrones at the center so that the stored intent of countless artifacts belonging to generations past can render as a tax this potential to new owners.
Walls that bear the Emperor’s mark do not worry about constant solidity, tendrils of stone winding about like creepers where they please. From the dead tree, too, they feed internal reservoirs floating within structure. These havens for the strongest emotions the Kestners’ dead and possessive harpies can foment store future change. A mist alike Adris’ missing tool’s rises from the thick tendrils to obscure treasures from the past still on display. Without heat or chill, it instead tickles the spirit.
(All of Falke’s creations came to life, not just Fehr! And they’re working to hide what’s starting to lurk within the walls…?)
The manse itself is full of hidden spectators. From hundreds of directions Adris feels witnessed. And these are only the strongest presences, the ones that pierce what obscures them.
(Is this… a place of birds… or a nursery for…?)
“This lady’s emperor, please destroy this heathen fortress.” Neesiette’s quiet yet terse demand pushes the thought from Adris’ mind.
“Later… much later, Neesiette.”
(I’ll kill the first thing that tries to force me back here!)
— AND SO IT ENDS, THIS NIGHT AND MORNING OF TRIBULATIONS —
— THE ACTORS UPON THE STAGE SHALL EXIT, HAVING PLAYED THEIR PARTS EXQUISITELY —
[Authentic Fiction] echoes in Adris’ mind, but stirs up more within his jerkin. A vibrating codex, bloated with so many pages that it’s a wonder Adris couldn’t feel it pushing into him, flies out before him to hover in the air.
(Rantil!?)
Rather than responding to his thoughts of her, his allip in tome form bursts open to spew out the pages that have unintelligible characters scrawled to fill them!
Thousands of sheets of parchment fill the garden. They soar to every surface and stick to all of Falke’s possessions, staining even darker than their already near black by soaking up some force. As if they are swarming birds they travel, supping from everything that they cling to, even harpies and the twins.
“We shall—”
“—never be—”
“—forgotten, father.”
(WHO!?)
Fehr ends the twins’ declaration, disappearing then into a chattering cloud of darkness that slowly roils out from the open hollow beneath the tree to consume their sculpted forms and new family.
(Nightmare! A nightmare! That’s all this…!?)
Adris looks up into the white sky that he now realizes is far brighter than the one past the foyer and opened to freedom.
A black moon hangs in plain sight, solemnly observing all that transpires.
With its appearance in Adris’ perception, the music that once was orderly descends into chaos and the ringing of bells echoing from his black cross.
Adris snarls, yelling as loudly as he can at his chosen tools of revenge.
“You can’t threaten me! I’ve met the thing that hides all of you! I know the truth! I HAVE THE BLACK CROSS THAT IT GAVE ME!”
“When did you foolishly—?”
“—believe we ever truly—?”
“—intended to harm our… bearer?”
(I wasn’t even a mark!?)
The thousands of stained pages flock back to Adris, swirling around him and obscuring all sight to then gather into a stack. Black binding tar secrets from the ends to join the disparate sheets. Pre-aged leather sheets rip from the spine, then fold over to mold flat.
A bound tome, one of the rarest commodities of Xin and still uncommon on Zennia, floats before Adris when a much thinner now Codex Rantilius timidly hovers back for him to clutch it to himself.
“‘We Are Alive’…?”
Another tome demands an owner, and so Adris reluctantly reads its title and accepts it with a free hand. Neesiette pushes at it in protest, but stays mute when it opens to its first page by itself, leaving Adris gasping at the author’s name.
“‘A True False-God’?”
(Wait… I was just a distraction for the hustle!? ARE YOU FUCKING WITH ME, HUUUUH!?)
— A TALE OF POETIC REVENGE ENDS WITH THE DEFEAT OF ALL THAT DESERVED VENGEANCE —
— NO EVIL IS SPARED —
— NO DESIRE IS WASTED —
— AND SO, THE STAGE WILL BE ABANDONED FOR NOW UNTIL A NEW TALE BEGINS —
(Everyone is happy but Falke and us…!?)
With that announcement, to the bitter tears, roaring applause, and condemning cries of all the hidden things that now infest the very walls of a dystopian manse that claims to be heaven…
— WHAT ‘WAS’ LIES MURDERED, SEALED WITHIN, NEVER TO BE DISCOVERED—
— ONLY WHAT DESIRED TO BE NOW ‘IS’, MEETING THE SUNSHINE AS IF IT HAS ALWAYS BEEN —
(Authentic Fiction… you take a total lie, shove a bunch of truth into it, and that makes it…?)
Adris startles when the garden’s doors abruptly shut.