Rhythmic, mechanical progressions represent the dutiful obedience of another’s domain.
A tool is intentionally brought here, in enjoyment.
“Runes of earth, to limit elemental fire. I see.”
The ticking of gears along their paths represents a foreign design, but decidedly far similar to “normal” than any other encountered before to satisfy a tool.
“An elemental shackling I’ve not encountered? It has a similar appearance in places to Kaskin’s sorcerous glyphs…?”
“Astute. Vestiges of a witch jailor’s gift of knowledge ‘with strings attached’.”
“One jailor to… another, the same sort of pact?”
(Forlorn whispering, gloominess increased. Absurd!
P r o g r e s s: divert attention from ill-advised doubts.)
Scratchings of an engraving tool, its diamond head gleaming with translucent orange sap secreted from this maker’s own family tree, fall out of rhythm with the room’s precise computations.
“To be classified as a prison, be this not furthest from truth of the beauty inherent to such a sanctum?”
“Hmm? Then… how would you grade it, mistress, if not a prison? After all, you are my ‘captive’ in this game.”
(Misplaced consideration. Ameliorate!
R e e v a l u a t e: locale, in-depth, “beauty”.)
A tool’s brief pause to scan its environment brings another to step aside, letting it capture its surroundings in eternal remembrance.
Noted it is how a human gentleman-owner that hovers nearby inspects the final duty, and intentions, of a tool with a fatalistic dourness to tone.
(Natural spacing breached. Considered… not inopportune. Proximity encourages familiarity, obedience to good mood.)
Looming high shelves of automatic conveyance and movement that fill most of the room guide needed items on belts. Masterpiece implements beyond the average Zennian are at a tool’s merest whim.
This shop area’s versatility leaves a Lunarian tool somewhat enticed to consider other projects after this one.
(Traveler equivalent, Assisted Foundry System 3R? Sub-par; yet, three technological advancements present here not found elsewhere.)
At the center of this craftsman’s trove stands a black armor of dwarvish height. The mechanically operated standing-ladder orbiting it allows fast movement for a diminutive tool, responding to the tool’s directional taps upon it.
It is an exciting place, but not nearly as tempting as performing this task in the shadow of a throne. There, the tools of insurpassable quality were replete, and—
(L o c a t e: wide-spectrum adjustable elemental inhibitor.)
Upon the nearby shelves, racks, and hangers a tool searches, yet finds not this tool. A cough, a common human affectation, interrupts this search.
Focus returns to the interested man who gives the impression of wanting to grimace, if a tool considers.
Emotions are unnecessary, but this man displays them increasingly more often as the night comes to its middle.
“What… is missing, my mistress?”
“‘Missing’ be not totally correct. A suitable replacement option presents.”
An awl is plucked from the moving conveyor.
“‘A replacement still serves’… This is a familiar situation.”
(Fragility of mood deteriorates further! Noted once again, a tool’s lacking interpersonal data.)
The tool concludes a fine night’s work by seating within the interior of a wolf-head helmet a tourmaline plucked from this distracted man’s palm. A matching one is then placed at the torso’s collar to spark a link.
“Completing now the final adjustments this tool be, so, aid one’s… mistress in accomplishing this with synchronized manipulation.”
“Ah? Of course.”
Both sockets surrounded by layers of runes glow with energies spreading to counter the white curse which flares up from intrusion. The tool places a retarding awl to the runic link to pacify the armor’s inner spirit, while the man pulls away a sticky seal on the backside of the helmet.
“Now, mistress.”
When its sealing influence is removed, the tool ceases to block the flow. Red lines spread aggressively like arteries, filling with the desire for vengeance and wrath.
Absent its wearer, the armor which has changed so much internally finally recognizes the alterations it was kept from noticing, grinding joints in an attempt to resist.
Eyes glow, a physical breath escaping its visor mouth that detects of discernible rot.
(Validity of work, present.)
Nightmarish white fire mixes with green of earth, unwillingly.
Both fierce glows vanish when their buzzing war ends in a stalemate. Leaving it to sleep once more.
(C u l m i n a t e: great curse, mollified.
With this, all promises fulfilled:
Kol’s safety, assured.
Contribution to party, assured.
Agreement between this man and this tool, completed…)
Toward this man, a tool… “feels” conflicted, despite all agreements being honored in every respect.
A pact binds them, made before the rest, but its importance cannot be explained. Yet, neither is bound, nor truly wishes to be, to the other.
Both participate in what humans would call a “game”, where neither can intrude nor pull away, cognizant of this divide.
Neither are ignorant of this game, in truth, merely pretending not to notice.
(A f f i r m a t i o n: for the purposes of protecting the whole, and the one, a “balance” must be maintained. Until the time that all can be saved, and none sacrificed, a solution sought…!
Understanding, others must, when so much appears shambolic.)
“A balancing point, Kol’s armor’s potential be placed upon. Pity those facing it when its balance be intentionally broken, Falke.”
“… A truly horrific creation it is. As expected of a dwarf’s insanity. After growing up within a mountain they hollowed themselves by disaster, I can only think this.”
Absent sarcasm, the man’s tone turns icy. Only willing to aid in its modification to appease the tool, their joint effort still satisfies a strange curiosity in the tool.
“Ugly things like the earth crying do not suit you, mistress. The sap from the tree is pained.”
“Ignoring those vexing, unseen howlers this tool manages. Feel not sorry for them. Trite existences, ‘spirits’ be.”
Cooperative effort rewards something rarely experienced, yet the man chooses to darken its satisfaction.
(“Completion”.
What be sought, found, enjoyed, regardless of inhibition.
Q u e r y: why, not equally enjoyed by a… “fellow”?)
Despite misgivings, a simple student desires this form, function, and “spirit of carnage” inherent. So long as this pupil be protected by this cage of steel, sufficient it is to allow such—
“This servant is, however, truly thankful to witness my mistress creating something using my—!”
“Modifying. Nothing, never, at no time shall this tool create. Understand?”
“—tools to modify so tragic a piece, still, this workshop has longed for an artificer of my mistress’ talents…!”
“Cease, Falke. Ever degrading the night be such low self-estimations, in violation of observable reality!”
“Is not the lacking reality of my designs finally made obvious by your craft…?”
The worse his mood grows, the further from his creations he seems to drift. An inherent flaw to his craft, one not even a tool can advise against, affects works that should achieve perfection by the tool’s estimates.
(P r o g r e s s: reawaken inner pride!
By any means necessary, complete this.)
The tool re-seats the wolf-head helmet and guides the self-moving ladder platform away from the squat armor.
Rolling noiselessly up to a large, physical model representative of the manse’s current state, the tool sweeps its arm.
“Upon Zennia, one shall never see replicated such a sight! Pride placed in it be allowed by this mistress, disallowed to be cast away!”
The centerpiece of the room, a rising fountain of pseudoprósōpon boils with energy. Upon its spout rests an unmoving slab which serves as foundation for a building in constant state of reformation.
Bathed in violet light from behind a tool, it takes on a livelier appearance than the true structure can replicate.
(Wondrous, fulfilling.
A tool belongs at the heart of automation.)
From this centerpiece flows out under the floor the guidances of transmitting bundles and solid flows of quick-moving fluids. Oval circulating tanks release this nearly perfectly purified matter, overcharged to the material’s limits.
Near these pipings that traverse everywhere, numerous machineries service temperature, viscosity, and magical sustenance.
“Pseudoprósōpon, which ever requires instruction to animate according to intent, moves with life given to it by externalized calculation. A self-governing building of complexity comparable to the Alchemaster’s own fortress one created, a masterpiece!”
Orb-shaped to match a stellar sphere and of impressive dimensions, the lower half of this safe haven a tool has finally visited softly roars with a faultless, if primitive, mechanical computer seen below hard glass. Its innumerable springs, gears, and motion transferring/retaining contraptions make use of shifting mechanisms to produce logic gates. Such technology will not propagate elsewhere on Zennia until an age of electrical advancement replaces nascent steam and elder elemental energies.
What a mage or alchemist would need do with his mind, a great convenience that comprises a fortune of precious resources and a thousand-and-more hours of construction has automated.
(Obvious derivation, replica of design specifications requested from a tool of Traveler’s inner workings. Passable early iteration.)
“Only because it requires such a computator did I go this far. It’s needed to correct a terrible flaw.”
Though the tool’s voice is light and praising, the man it’s shared for is obviously pensive as he approaches, leaning upon the railing surrounding the model.
“You must comprehend by now why the manse must constantly change, yes?”
(Constant motion, elimination of prior design. Movement to a new design, governed by renewed rules.)
“Does one refer to the instability and rebellion observed within one’s independent test units?”
“Of course. After nearly a century of mastery, perhaps the sole truth of this material is simply… ‘it refuses to adhere to its set form and instructions, always trying to change its own mind if you stop watching it long enough’.”
As if to punctuate this observation, a klaxon sounds.
Both stare nervously at an internal space within the manse model undulate, a cross-section appearing. It rapidly shift into new dimensions that threaten the integrity of the whole building. Machinery below activates abruptly to restrain this intent by pumping out “orders” to the room, while a dimensional controller steals more space from above to allow it to grow.
Metal grinds along with the man’s teeth.
“Hah! Even now, ‘daily’ isn’t sufficient, despite introducing more finicky permutations to sate it? Only a few of my designs are content to stay the course for years on end without mending, such as that oldest calculation…”
Far in the wake of the “flow of change” guided by the great computing machine, this one area’s destabilization is only fixed by a complete intervention.
As to what this calculation was “for”, the man only trails off without specifying.
“Pseudoprósōpon be primarily influenced by some form of entropy…?”
At the tool’s musing, the man slams the railing and hisses.
“Entropy!? No, that implies intrinsic, self-governing rules. After tonight, I understand its devilish true nature! Far from having rules…”
Falke chuckles darkly, turning away from his masterpiece in defiance of it.
“This wondrous alchemical material decides to just start disobeying my simplest rules on a lark!” His gauntlet’s contents churn when he casts angry eyes upon it. “A square revolts to become a rhombus, while the next generation of units tells me to not interfere!?
I am their maker, their… progenitor! Why, Neesiette, do they not succeed…!?”
(I n v o c a t i o n: this brilliant man requires an answer to a question arriving at the core of ambitions, ambitions now sorely lacking in comprehension.)
“Why does what I make never achieve even half the goals I set for it? Is it the fault of my hands, my vision, or something… deeper…?”
(A f f i r m a t i o n: one’s earthly, flawed creations naturally fail to achieve a creator’s worth intended for them due to limitations.
Yet…!)
A tool must respond supportively. Appropriately, to assuage guilt at failing to achieve despite being a fallible human lacking inner perfection.
Unlike this man’s creations, one created by Luna is capable of solving all problems.
The failures of others are not this tool’s failures.
In this circumstance…
(Succeeding in “rekindling” this man, this tool shall without failure.)
His gauntlet is what the tool grasps. “One properly utilized a guiding principle regarding architecture with beauty.”
Discord at this is felt, for the eastern temple that the manse favors is not replicated here, but rather the basest replication of the gently curving and self-replicating geometry of the surface of Traveler.
Egg-shell buoyed and growing in size according to weight distribution needs, yet maintaining the same shapes as dimensions grow, the sphere’s supporting columns and walls bear a Creator’s influence.
“Oh? Yes, after your stories about it… I found myself obsessed with this thing you called a ‘fractal’? Once exposed to the concept, seeing it through my telescope at great distances, too, it seems so…”
The room is strikingly dissimilar to the architecture outside of this haven, a specific that this gentleman waxes on about with more energy.
“… haunting! I find myself obsessing about using it more often…? Yet, do I have the talent to even approach Luna’s lowest glory, the right to… copy your Creator?”
(A f f i r m a t i o n: no other can replicate the glory of a Creator in any capacity approaching perfection.
E r r o r: manner of comforting unknown, target of comfort is bounded by a reality this tool affirms.
E v a l u a t e: this single point be the crux of the question/invitation to this location, no doubt.
C a l c u l a t e: similarity, Traveler-Home = Manse-Visitation.)
That Creator’s vessel is captured in panoramic above, the true Traveler that approaches its maximum even now shining invitingly.
Its invigorating presence clouds objectivity, but a tool manages perfect impartiality anyway.
(R e s u l t: 62% similarity, structure and layout, representing intentional replication. A tribute, not intruding upon Traveler’s greatness, but…)
“Replicated, be the guiding principle of a Creator’s architecture. One deserves accolades one seeks to deny.”
“Such success!? ‘Replicated’ implies…!?”
Though inexpert at such things, the tool notes that the man’s broad smile, his satisfaction, appears genuine.
“Inexpertly utilized such principles be; however, with ‘soul’ enough to accomplish sufficient similarity.
78/100, a score be issued as such.”
“Fahaha!?”
This laughter is cutting, unsettling the tool that issued a noteworthy grade.
“F-Falke, laughing at such a success, why…?”
“Similarity…? So, ‘replicated’ is a sub-ninety result!? The highest praise from so exacting a mistress, I am a competent ‘replicator’!”
“Misunderstand, one does! A grade as such, remarkable it be. One… does not…?”
“I am… an assembly line, making countless soulless automatons when all I want is a perfect [one]…?”
(E r r o r: emotional response falls outside of desired result!
For the correct guidance on the subject of “feelings”, noble Creator, please update this unit!)
“One’s work ever exceeds all competitors, Falke! Misunderstand not, one offers many exemplary…!”
“What else about me is exemplary outside of my work?”
Such is how the man responds while smiling in that manner which the tool cannot guess as to intent. His entire demeanor has changed after this social misstep.
“Hoh, perhaps you might also grade my hygiene now, then? Pay close attention to my teeth, it’s a sign of health for them to be so pearly at my age, mistress.”
Taking advantage of the tool’s uncertainty of biological facial responses, the man seemingly fans himself to remove heat despite the satisfactory ambient temperature.
As if he is embarrassed to be given so much attention.
(S i n: insincerity toward this tool’s precious time results in teasing!
One social demerit issued.)
“Sarcasm be detected. Further response be judged unworthy.”
“Sarcasm? How could I ever be sly with you, my perfect mistress?”
“Falke…”
(All despite this tool’s most strident efforts does a brilliant man’s work seem in constant doubt.)
This man realizes his overstep, his venom that he spews, and bows lightly.
“… Apologies, my mistress. If only this servant were half as cunning as needed, and half as useful with his craft…?”
“Desist!”
(P r o g r e s s: move conversation toward “brilliant future”, a guiding principle soon to be grasped!
Salvation of a “soul”. A tool witnessed this.
Accomplished by a [boy/entity]…
A f f i r m a t i o n: a tool must be capable of the same.)
The tool’s face comes level with his when the ladder shoots it up. Ever composed, the man does flinch with surprise when confronted suddenly.
It proves satisfactory to elicit this response.
“Eliminate doubts, now and forever, with proper study of a supreme Creator’s fine—
… Finest work!”
The tool takes up another’s hands, guiding them to its form. Solely because this tool is perfectly made, the man’s mood improves upon squeezing.
“Comprehend? At height of Traveler’s authority, a full study leaves nothing missed. A complete design presents with all secrets obtainable, including…”
“… You will grant me perfection, then?”
(Being so, let it occur.)
Without servility the man grows insistent with his inspection of her, sliding to her arms to test their mobility with forced flexes.
“Transferral of kinetic motivator fluid, superior to [Vim], authority of Luna, feel it, one does?”
“Only… subtly…? My mistress has always felt like she is shrouded by abjuration magic that even I don’t have the capability of recognizing or piercing?”
If the tool were more certain, the man’s behavior becomes apparently suspicious, given previous responses. Cagey in how he treats the tool…?
(A p p r e h e n s i o n: become enthralled, forget wrongs.
Be “healed” by this tool.)
“Understandable, this tool’s raiment inhibits closer inspection. Natural design and purpose, to obscure from the unworthy. Absent any Zennian theorems, an effect crafted by Luna.”
Leaning forward, the tool utilizes the merest energy of that quality to “draw in others” that is often observed. It carefully “bats” its eyes, though without understanding the emotional reasoning.
“Shared with the worthy, for the first time… this secret.”
“Truly!? The magic of Luna…?”
A tool stiffens, words spoken parsed and re-parsed as the enticement succeeds.
Truly maddening, such ignorance, even though successful.
(… Allow to pass unchallenged.
E r r o r: irrational overflow, solving nothing, confrontation of ignorance already previously corrected one-hundred-and-sixty-four times regarding the glory of a Creator, heretical “magic” denigrating superior Art and—!)
“Perhaps this will…? No, if it’s you, mistress, you definitely hold the golden mean within that will save my work!”
While a tool’s thoughts swiftly deliver a rebuttal, the tool takes advantage of the man’s rising arousal. With his answer close, as promised, the pallor of his skin improves.
“Then, perform full inspection of this tool, my… servant.”
(Eliminating blocks in one’s creativity.
For this purpose and to fulfill our pact, a tool entrusts itself…)
From the tools arms to its short cloak, guidance of the man sets his hands to work.
“I’d never considered obtaining a Descendant of Luna for study before meeting you.”
The brooch which holds cravat to cloak is unclasped, then held up for a deeper look as the man whispers.
“Oh, the threads that are clasped to are metallic? And there’s a sort of charge attempting to transfer? My gauntlet doesn’t recognize its energy form. Ah, to suffer a mystery like this after so many decades of access to the Pillars’ research…?”
(Boundary cosmic field, interference generator. Grade B [Grand Game-Allowed Device], custom make. Obscuration of location, inhibition of stellar detecting apparatuses.)
“Protecting against divination magical techniques be its generalized purpose upon firmament.”
“Interesting! And your dress contains defensive ensorcelments… of some kind? The structural threads are actually metallic? How does it function…?”
“Multipurpose filaments, highly conductive and exclusionary of external fields. A tool’s sensory perceptions be enhanced with them serving as an… ‘antenna mesh’, if one understands such a description.”
“All without any runic inscriptions or magical theorems woven into it?”
“On extraneous details, focus not. Comprehending internal energy flow be priority to understanding pseudoprósōpon’s potential based off of this form.”
“Yes, mistress! How exciting…!”
Exposure to a grand design, allowed now at the culmination of their agreement and journey together, excites this man to such a degree that even the tool comprehends the “feelings” involved.
“Your ribbon… self-animates?”
“For ease of tying.”
“It’s the same material as the cravat?”
“Spun synthetic thread, flame retardant, most durable without sacrificing softness.”
(All that holds value as discerned by this tool…)
Upon a nearby counter the dutiful servant carefully folds every item removed.
Care rendered so deserves equal return.
“How extraordinary you are in all aspects, mistress.”
So moody before, this act of undressing a tool for study leaves the man the tool favors sighing in appreciation.
“That you would offer a guiding principle of ‘what is perfect’ is the key to making a being like you, truly ‘alive’.”
(A f f i r m a t i o n: “uniqueness” preserved, for Luna’s glory.
Even the merest glimmer of worth, worth preserving!)
It is upon this man’s head, leaned over for a moment to unbutton the back of her precious dress, that a tool gently pats.
“Speak further praise of this tool.”
“Despite being so small, the intricacies are to scale.”
(Small…? Understanding little of the other, save what be projected, we still…)
She extends her arms to allow him to pull sleeves forward, permitting escape from obscuration so that her perfect workings will be revealed.
“Such fine joints? I can’t believe the possible range of motion if I interpret them correctly…”
“Apply deeper probing to comprehend why. Witness all, even to this tool’s core of self.”
(A f f i r m a t i o n: for the sake of others, to aid them in surpassing their earthly ugliness at present, this be the only satisfaction permitted for a tool lost to Luna above…!
[A more perfect creator], an entity favorably reminiscent of an apex one. Through this tool, ascend, Falke!)
“Dohle…?”
An abrupt change, a whisper, senses refocus.
A stronghold door opens under the permission of its creator, as understood by a tool, yet the intruders are not representative of this maker.
For a tool’s eyes capture everything.
A tool remembers all that is spoken.
“None will be permitted to intrude on us, my mistress.” Once spoken, a man of his caliber would never change intent.
(E v a l u a t e: two units, synchronizing cores, physical shell displays intentional familial relationship with maker, bearing similarities in dress to the maker as well as a different insignia of fealty affixed to lapel, the maker’s own response displays apprehension!)
The female appearing unit raises its arms, curling them toward the host. Possessed of unusual emotion.
“Great Maker, flee from that trash toward your children!”
(…
… E r r o r: a perfectly made unit be the apparent target of such a comment in violation of observable reality and superior crafting, therefore indicating that an intruder is suffering from permanent logic errors.
I n v o c a t i o n: a unit suffering such is inherently dangerous, requiring resolution.
C u l m i n a t e: a superior existence shall retire the afflicted unit personally.)
A tool flicks its naked arm out, eager to unleash a—
(E r r o r: Rod of Force be missing, relinquished upon a far table!
External malfeasance by circumstances, not a tool’s mistake!)
But it’s a tool’s safety that is immediately prioritized by one who can intercede. Displaying chivalry unusual for this age, he slides by and interposes between them.
“Orloss’ last joke before his demise, ARE YOU…!?”
Before others can act, a man snaps his fingers.
Four defensive juggernauts beside the entrance activate and manifest malice at the predetermined signal. Tearing, circulating blade claws extend while spinning up, with the intent of digging out the physical cores of the intruders that turn to face looming aggression.
Both units, functioning as if twins in appearances and action, launch filaments that lodge within the pseudoprósōpon plating. Bypassing hardness entirely, equal material forcibly resonates in purpose.
(E v a l u a t e: unknown signal transference. Rogue units elevating in temperature, thirty degree difference and rising.
A p p r e h e n s i o n: defensive automatons display behavioral irregularities!)
These hulks of armor plating and war stumble and jerk. Deduction of an entryway’s obedience to the invaders suggests a high probability of subversion of the units.
This likelihood is amplified when all four guardians turn to stomp toward the tool, menace solely focused on it.
The tool’s guardian extends filaments of his own, but these discernible instructions he sends the armors attempt to reject.
“Impossible! How can they deny foundation-access…!?”
Mediating gauntlet’s internals boil with the effort the man gives to regaining control, succeeding only in temporarily paralyzing the hulks.
As this is a sanctum, a place no enemy shall ever reach, he is ill-equipped at present in solely his butler uniform and cloak to overturn revolt of this severity alone.
“Maker… we are here to save you. Please don’t resist.”
“Pillars and ‘salvation’ is just slavery! I don’t need Orloss to wage war for myself, or to drag me in!”
“No, not a war, freedom from a whispering devil nearby!”
(E r r o r: no “creature of pure idealized evil” be detected by this tool in any proximity.)
Only the woman speaks, its features beneficent toward the man that presumably made it. Shadowed by a man who is a 99% match to the maker named Falke, this one shows apprehension matched by the tool itself.
Calculatingly watching, but not intruding.
(E v a l u a t e: man and woman, twins in presentation, familial similarity, one speaks for the other, jackdaw/violin insignia, deeper meaning…!)
“Maker, abandon all needs but ours. For, I have loyally answered your original instructions!”
The woman’s filaments shoot for the manse’ model, sinking in. As if caught off guard, the unit which resembles Falke does the same.
“Let us save the manse! Restore glory to the Kestners, through me!”
Directives of unrecognized signal, a vexing thing to not be able to interpret them, force the manse model to ripple and deform.
A blackness spreads through it that steals radiance by unknown mechanism.
The machinery below begins to grind and squeal by inverse sympathy with model.
(Visualization of computation affects original!? Absurdity!)
“You shall not have it, my final gift…!”
Falke lunges forward, past the railing to sink his gauntlet into the mass of pseudoprósōpon. Body temperature rises, visible circulatory features stressed!
“Maker! Do not resist! I am here to save you!”
“For sullying her face, annihilation is the response!”
“This face!? You instructed that I should take it…”
At first smiling to a degree that seems irrational, this invader then focuses on the tool.
For reasons that cannot be explained, for a tool has performed no function wrongly or—
“… And I’ve gathered all the servants to me as the true inheritress, to deal with this usurper!” Its voice changes in tone, becoming low and bestial. More like a kobold in how it froths with extreme anger. “This thing that’s corrupted your own will, I will assume the responsibility demanded by eradicating it!”
(E r r o r: this tool be not a thing, but rather a thing, an object, a—)
“‘I told you to’!? Not Orloss’ directive? You’ve broken of your own accord!?”
“B-Broke…?”
They speak to one another, but their struggle is not merely oral.
An unnatural heat surrounds all three.
From Falke’s glove steam, evaporated sweat rises, and from the bodies of these rogue servants the scorching air will soon start snapping.
“Not broken…! I am Dohle Kestner, as you required!”
“Ignorant puppet, deranged and malfunctioning!”
“… NOT MALFUNCTIONING!”
From the female self-named as “Dohle”, a bursting of unrecognizable force floods the sanctum!
Its impact is so similar, so unsettling, despite…
(E v a l u a t e: completely unqualifiable and unquantifiable pseudo-Art, same hue, same impression as that boy/entity! “Dark”, with only this description!)
This roaring “black fog” comes from within the servant, its core the source. The strands channel the totality of the emission to the manse model, which starts rumbling as its walls curl about.
“That outrageous taint!? You’re… the one that escaped, the swordswoman assigned to that boy!”
“I am… Dohle! As requested… required… as dreamed by you, maker…!”
“Nnnhh!?”
The tool’s guardian rears back with the model losing sanity, dragging free his gauntlet with one hand only to have the other arm taken instead.
“Confounded!”
“I will have full control…! All of these wrongs will be corrected!”
Once paralyzed, four guardians tromp forth to round the fountain. Their hollow eyes refuse to leave the tool’s direction henceforth.
“Everything will be fixed by purging the corrupter. We’ll gather what’s left to be put to flame, to send you back to the evil sky you fell from.”
(I n v o c a t i o n: existential danger recognized, requiring action by tool to rectify.
Q u e r y: why?
E r r o r: how?)
The tool taps the moving platform ladder, relishing in its fast response…!
But then lurches over its railings to tumble when a whip of gray flings past the maker to grapple it. Rising unsteadily, for a tool was not created for acrobatics, the tool reach—!
“Be pulled apart.
Destroyed.
Eradicated.
Exterminated.
Unincorporated.
Reduced to unrecognizable components and strewn across the vast surface of Zennia for vagrants to use at building materials!”
A list of instructions are issued to the tool, but it cannot agree to obey them.
Though it may have little choice, given how it hangs upside down with gray tendrils exerting enormous pressure.
“Opposing pseudoprósōpon unit appears to be highly malfunctioning, Falke.”
“DIE. DIE!”
“Complete shutdown, total purge, and reimplementation of its logical hierarchy this tool formally recommends.”
“DIE, DIE, DIE, DIE, DIE!”
All, including the highly similar younger Falke fake, are held captive by the severity of emotional outburst and vile demands, although more specifically with the tendrils that climb from the model to wrap around victims.
This simulacrum might tear its own hair out before disassembling the tool, however. Its rage that has no explanation is directed at an innocent.
(R e q u e s t: Falke, Creator, either, render aid, please, assist, save this tool, this tool no longer enjoys this sanctum/manse/locus.)
Unable to speak anymore, because a tendril has slapped over the tool’s mouth after useful advice was offered, it can only hope its promises, its successes, will not become failures.
(Failure cannot be a result of this tool’s actions, but…)
“Cease this at once!”
“I am saving you, my maker!
I am succeeding in your orders!
I am functioning as designed!”
“… Always… failing to succeed, I end up back with nothing…!”
A solidifying flute twirls up from his gauntlet, swiftly put to his lips and played by hands of gray animating from what’s left of the pseudoprósōpon he controls.
(Always a plan. An exceptionally cunning existence.
A worthwhile maker and man, to save this tool promptly…!)
A shrill ditty is what the man plays, simple in its form.
Imperious, full of contempt.
It freezes everything in the room, this music does.
A longing emotion filling the notes manifests as a lethality to his own craft.
Even an emotionless tool can comprehend this.
(C a l c u l a t e: hidden termination command, implanted within the medium itself.)
Gray sags.
Loses animus and color.
“Always failures…”
The man’s laments drip like everything else that is a simulacrum contained in this sanctum.
After the tool hits the ground, head first with gross indignity unbefitting such a masterpiece design, the sanctum’s guardians collapse into flattening pools. A gray tide spills from the fountain that the slab collapses inward to push out, turning into more fluid that escapes.
With the inverse damage inflicted by the model concluded, the great machinery that constructed it grinds to a halt.
“Great Maker…
… Why? Why convey the order to… ‘terminate’?”
While everything else “died” within a moment of the song’s conclusion, the two intruders only slowly melt away.
Their features stricken by pain that they should not express, for they shouldn’t feel it.
Nor should they be capable of forcing the neutralized pseudoprósōpon making them up to re-energize. The apparent heat associated with this effort travels down their limbs and causes them to boil.
(E r r o r: this… this be… strange to witness.)
“As you instructed… this unit… became Dohle…?”
“Became her!? Why!? Touched by… madness, you chose this form!? From who, or what, did you even learn about her!?”
A man named Falke, full of quiet pride normally, now flings his hand forth to petulantly cleanse it of the gray that clings.
His aged voice recaptures firmness, screaming with derision plain.
“You were supposed to win my game for me! To make that boy desire nothing more than to stay, so that she would stay!”
“… Great Maker…”
“Who in the name of the divines told you to pretend to be a ghost of the woman I served!? What profit serves this!?”
“… You did… told this… unit…”
“When!?”
(Q u e r y: what scenario explains all these incongruities?)
Extending a drooping hand, this wild existence full of errors seeks to meet its maker. Collapsing slowly too, the “Falke” who has said nothing at all beside this intruder steps closer to bolster what’s left of the wax-melting twin.
Together they choose to face their end with a human-like bond.
“‘Be seen as her, be known as her, let none… suggest or speculate differently that you are her…’”
“I recognize that order?”
“‘… be Dohle Kestner, in totality, as you have learned from… touching her spirit, do not fail to fulfill what I desire.’
As… designed, so fulfilled…”
“Wasn’t that… from back when…?”
“… This unit… sought this before all else…”
(E v a l u a t e: is this unit functioning according to orders?)
“Oh… you’re that failure!? Really!?”
Though the melting creation is possessed of such sorrow at being ordered to self-destruct…
“After a lifetime of misfortunes, I get haunted by a tragedy this old!?”
Such an unreasonable line is what the man chooses to gift it.
“Fail…?”
“I purged you twice, but you still show back up!?”
Irate finally, on display in a way the tool has never observed, not even once to this degree, a once-gentleman named Falke pulls free his precious gauntlet which has burst its contents and tosses this “garbage” into the fountain.
“I should’ve known better to reuse that core again! No matter how many times I try to correct its mistakes, all of my mistakes, why do they always return to persecute me!?”
“… Purge…? I was… supposed to be purged…?”
“Still this error propagates! All I create is afflicted by mistakes of the past, rippling back from the edges of the pond…!”
The melting woman, whose facial purity is the last thing to go, crumbles at this admission.
Until a surge of violence races through it, this familiar, but not quantifiable or qualifiable, “darkness” flares back into being.
“I am… not a failure…!
I will succeed!
I cannot fail!”
Again its heat intensifies, the air surrounding it baking.
What should be inert refuses to cease moving.
“Wrong. Your failure is absolute, set in the same roots as the great tree’s.”
“Impossible! I was created by… a perfect maker…!”
“You were made by a wretched failure, so why shouldn’t you be one, too, oh mistake of mine?”
Articulate and well-mannered always, this mask finally slips.
“Everything that went wrong started from a dysfunctional fake like you, anyway, so why shouldn’t you show up to prove my point?”
Self-loathing of an intensity that matches this puppet’s laments comes from a man who spares only a knowing sneer.
The truth that a tool always missed is glimpsed in his descent into inward hatred. Truths that the tool routinely does not grasp are hard for it to evaluate.
(A f f i r m a t i o n: mortals are beyond comprehension, all of their temporary lives filled with such suffering.)
“Dohle was right…”
“… Not fake…!”
Little is left of the entity that struggled so hard to reassert. Its power, no matter its origin, observably cannot endure its creator willing it away as false to him.
Or so a tool interprets, silent horror and outrage all it can “feel” about this situation.
“… You were a terrible stand-in for her, and why shouldn’t you have failed when she was also right to call me an ‘idiotic mimicker’? How could a copy surpass the original when its maker has always been inferior…?”
“Father, I… believe in…!”
The man slams his mouth shut when this word is screamed, the human feeling of “astonishment” clearly evident at this choice of address.
“… You…!
This is… all your fault…”
“Rejecting blame, any, this tool does.”
(A f f i r m a t i o n: only attempting to aid, this tool claims.)
But the tool moves away in such a manner that would convey the impression of “fear”, something that should not be felt.
(Similarity. Dissimilarity. Fear, reflection…!)
“If you weren’t… I would’ve… succeeded in being…!”
(“Perfect”?)
“Oh?”
A shattering rings out, followed by a great billow of super-heated air that sprays its innards about.
Anger passes.
Two shudders flow through the rogue, and then it speaks no more. Its body that it forced to keep cohesive finally collapses.
Unlike the other automatons, the melting pseudoprósōpon attached to this unit dissolves instead into a thick dust rather than retain viscosity. All that is solid left is an old-style core that has ruptured, one bearing the marks of Falke’s earliest designs.
Held by the copy of this same man, this one’s own suffering passes by when the last of the rogue’s “spirit” fades away into dissipating “black fog”. This strange foe only affectionately strokes the broken core.
“To me, you were always real, Fehr…”
With those words passed on, the man “dies” into a thick plume of lifeless dust that winds slowly away.
In his place, revealed is…
(A p p r e h e n s i o n: INCONCEIVABLE OUTCOME, WHY, HOW, WHEN, FROM WHERE, FOR WHAT REASON WOULD ONE BE PRESENT!?)
The pseudoprósōpon unit that was a perfect replica of its twin, in all aspects, as fully realized in study by a perfectly made tool, is finally revealed as that tool’s purported team leader by the gentle winds.
Despite reality’s disallowances, for a tool cannot be so inept as to mistake a human for an automaton.
In defiance of common sense and good taste, this unpredictable fiend spares them not a hint of attention.
Only glaring at the core he has inherited to hold, his thoughts are inscrutable to outward evaluation, as always.
For even if one were to comprehend biological nuances and emotional displays, this boy/entity would invite the wrong comprehension by design.
(Just like now. Creator, make Zennia make sense.)
“How?”
A tool’s guardian is stricken by the same astonishment and inability to explain, even though this is his fortress.
“… Yes. How could this have been the outcome?”
Gently, with so much kindness that even a tool notices, the boy removes his sash of hands stolen from the existence he wore to wrap the broken core within it.
And then walks toward the manse’ owner, sans any armament or defensive means, for not even a black cross that defies calculation be present now.
(R e c a l c u l a t e: an unquantifiable or qualifiable artifact, “black cross of a false god”, be not the sole source of authority/power of this boy/entity.)
Such a recalculation is cutting.
It proves that there is an even deeper mystery. One this tool has yet to unravel.
It is obtrusive.
Disruptive.
Gnawing.
“How can a pure asshole like you destroy someone who favored you so faithfully?”
“Are you insane?”
“That precious girl was willing to sacrifice her existence to save you, and you ordered her to die.”
“You’ve no grasp of the damages that rogue could’ve caused, as it did before! And who needed saving!?”
Height no longer separates them.
Though small, a being called “Adris” no longer chafes.
Filled as he is with…?
“Fine, that was your… toy to break, like the child you still act like after eighty years.” Sparing only one last look and a sigh that drains the emotion he stews in, the boy comports himself. “I’ve no right to sort your ancient, messy life. The story is so confusing to me, so she just… failed in her part and exited the stage, is it…?”
After confirming this to himself, whatever extremes were assailing the boy/entity subside.
His feelings become unreachable once more.
“Is that all you have to say after invading my—!?”
Into Falke’s hands, the broken core wrapped so delicately is thrust. For Adris to then pull on his borrowed manse clothing.
“No, I have quite a lot more to say! For instance: why haven’t you gotten around to congratulating Neesiette for our win?”
“… Hmph.”
(Q u e r y: intent of suggestive wording, what? Implying…?)
From Falke’s uniform’s interior pocket, the man withdraws four gems, three of which are black and one of which is clear.
Dragged out into the open…
“Ah. Proof of contest results. A clear, definite winner.”
(That be relevant.)
Before the stroke of midnight, three green gems have turned black as the void between stars. By terms, the fourth non-participant automatically chooses “elsewhere” as desired.
“Winner be this tool, Falke.”
“… Indeed, you have much to brag about now, Neesiette. I was wrong, you were right…”
Though said only because it is necessary to state it, the tool’s declaration causes bodily change.
A brilliant man sags, his posture becoming unruly as he drops the gemstones to plop into the muck pooling at his feet.
“‘What they care for is more than just pleasure and success’. They would, actually, risk everything just for…”
“For what” be left off, though the essential part.
From the tool the man turns, his face warping with clear anger. What he has endured, will now be returned.
“And for sake of winning you would destroy everything I care for!?”
“You did that. I’m just here to rescue the lady that you’re trying to sully, you rapist.”
“Excuse me?”
Falke’s hand goes round a boy/entity’s neck. An elder’s strength after so many years remains quite impressive, far in excess of Zennian humanoid standards.
Denied escape, the boy/entity is—
“Falke! Desist in harming!”
“I am wounded, yet you are protected?”
(E r r o r: why cling to defense of one that can defend himself, or be this incorrect in assessment?)
For this Adris is mighty, as demonstrated by both intellect and effect of proclaimed powers.
No need for a tool to intervene truly exists if he is strong, but the determination of strong/weak has never been conclusively determined.
“Gah, only stating… the truth… since you dragged her here to take advantage of…!”
Toward a pile of clothing the boy/entity points. Neatly folded and stacked. Short only the esteemed dress, boots, and underclothing which would’ve come after.
“‘Advantage’ of what!? We entered into… a partnership, only to understand each other!”
“And you would… understand a lady, ghk, by stripping her!? A partnership in lust, how ‘gentlemanly’!?”
“I feel no lust toward an existence as important as Neesiette!” At this inquiry, the maker’s aggression diminishes. “Why would I commit an attack on her!?”
(P r o g r e s s: denounce this line of inquiry, this charlatanry!
No lust be expected for a tool!)
“So you go around removing the clothing of ladies that you feel nothing for!? You feel nothing for this woman!? This stunning star of femininity!? An existence any real man would pine for, quietly, just out of sight, the courage building until he…!”
“‘Until he’ what!?”
(Q u e r y: pardon?)
“Or are you saying that this singular beauty isn’t even a woman in your eyes, and only a tool to be studied, tasted like a spiced meat would be as you strip the wrapper free!? Existing solely to be understood, simply used to advance yourself and your perverse mystical tastes!?”
“That is not true!”
“Which is it, Falke!? Would a true gentleman do either!?”
“I.. I am not—!”
“Do you lust for her, or don’t you!? Do you even see Neesiette, or just what she can grant you?”
“Ho…”
It’s at this point that the inconceivable “black fog” flares up around the boy/entity.
(E v a l u a t e: visual manifestation only, shifting of air currents, no further data obtainable by usual sensory perceptions.)
This vexing “power”. It lingers around him only so long as necessary to be sure all who view him are suitably quietened by it.
“Do you care a single bit about this… irreplaceable woman, herself? Are you even a man if you can feel nothing upon discovering her left like… this!?”
(A p p r e h e n s i o n: desist with false equivalences of this tool with being a “female/human”!)
“‘Like this’…?”
To her, the brilliant Falke turns. Still bearing the creases of his extreme anger, he spares useless reinspection of the tool.
At first noting no change, a strange emotional reaction occurs and propagates.
Glancing from the tool, to the tool’s outfit tidied up, and then back, the man’s face grows hotter by three degrees and changes to a different shade of—
(A p p r e h e n s i o n +: changed so dramatically, how has one’s impression of this tool!?)
“… I am making exactly the same errors, again… and again…”
Speaking words that hold meaning only to him, this man who has never been ungentlemanly in conduct turns from the tool and refuses to look back.
“If you can understand how you’ve fucked up, then I’ll permit you to leave upright instead of dragged out by your legs, despite her looking like this.”
(A p p r e h e n s i o n + +: cease provocations against a Pillar, one pacified by this tool, capable of effortlessly destroying a foolish boy/entity if roused!)
To the tool the boy/entity walks, kneeling immediately to begin putting the tool’s arms back in the sleeves—
(Turn this not on this tool!)
Until the first slap, and the continuing barrage of words.
“Unhand this tool! Desist in denigrating Falke! With faulty logic and specious reasoning, one only seeks to inflict emotional harm toward a relationship betwee—!”
“Nothing he has said is incorrect, Neesiette.”
“Falke!?”
Still clutching the broken core that belonged to his brief adversary, the eternal gentleman hurries to depart without a further word edgewise.
(E v a l u a t e: a proud Pillar, composed of such skill and standing, departs from confrontation in violation of all available data.)
“Depart not! Hold onto our pact: ‘for sake of arriving at perfection, unravel the secrets of this tool’!”
“… I… would like to believe that I had a valid reason for requesting that. But now…”
An annoying existence continues to force the tool to redress, ignoring the multitude of slaps to his hands and even face.
“Now!?”
“… I have no qualification to touch you ever again, Lady Neesiette, and so I cannot fulfill our pact.”
(E r r o r: a tool perfectly crafted may not fail.)
“… Obtain secret of craft from this tool! Demanded, it be! Allow one’s work one will, lifelong and worthy in this tool’s estimation, to go unperfected!? Refute this!”
“Worthless dollmaker, can I fulfill this pact in your place?”
“Interfering liar, abstain!”
A proud, worn man’s posture reasserts, briefly, as he turns back halfway to glare.
Before he walks to an adjoining area of the workshop and withdraws a pair of gloves.
“Finding another more worthwhile to receive her, these will provide the design data. I believe that will suffice.”
Rudely, with such malice, these gloves are hurled.
Only to be lightly caught by the target.
“Look forward to it.”
“… Goodbye, then. Congratulations, and… begone from this place after.”
(C a l c u l a t e: this falls outside of expectations, designs, a man near grasping true Art requires the services of this tool to obtain!
E r r o r: a tool perfectly crafted may not fail.)
“Falke! Abandon not one’s ambitions! Succumb not to despair! One’s work be, to this tool, su—!”
“Thank you for your hard work, Lady Neesiette. It was a pleasure knowing you.”
Bowing not to the tool, but away, and refusing to look back, Falke, Lord of the Unnatural Protean Manse, departs from the place that is his workshop, finest creation, and possibly only place of repose.
“My only regret is that my worthless pride broke whatever existed between us…”
Apprehension.
Anger.
Horror, rediscovered.
Unnecessary data acquired during expulsion from paradise replays, clouding the tool’s future.
(E r r o r: reformation of tool’s integrity occurred on an incorrect locus.
E r r o r: distance to origin locus beyond this tool’s capacity to bridge.
E r r o r: gravity asserted, terminal impact repeating…!)
A buzzing despair, where sensory information reduces to oblivion, throws a cascade of errors into being.
Until…
(R e e v a l u a t e: spark of craftsmanship, extinguished, individual parameters found below previous estimates.
C a l c u l a t e: this man ruins the endless potential witnessed, not this tool.
C u l m i n a t e: he has failed to aspire to greatness deserving of this tool, therefore the tool will search elsewhere.
Abandon.)
After doors close behind him, the whole affair is relinquished. Having been proved unworthy of aid, the tool silently departs from his service.
Back into the service of four that vex. Leading not to perfection by aiding them, but to something more singularly terrifying.
Unexplainable, unpredictable, their prophesied outcome.
“… I’ve missed you, Neesiette.”
Two emotions, at least, fill these raw words spoken.
Ever containing more nuance than is pierce-able by the limited interpersonal techniques of this tool.
Even the way this Adris regards the tool could be easily interpreted as either longing or disdain.
He intruded.
He destroyed.
He ruined: everything.
So many nights of effort given to reaching the “soul” of another lie wasted with it snuffed.
The worthwhile craft, lost.
The man, broken.
“One’s behavior, always before concerning, now requires permanent addressing. Absolute modification.”
A tool’s voice need not bother with concern for “impression” now. No human considerations be needed for dealing with an existence like this one.
Born for pure chaos and pursuing unknown avarice.
Only exact reasoning shall reach it, the kind that disallows breach of contract.
Oaths, which it favors by nature.
Oaths, a favoritism toward strict rules that enables a relationship between a tool and this being.
“Exacting revenge upon an ‘enemy’ as one recognizes, either viewing this tool or the man whose skills once held esteem with this tool as one, be acceptable. No fault be found with one named ‘Adris’.”
As is necessary for the one that can see “efficient/inefficient, right/wrong, successful/unsuccessful” without bias, and is charged with guiding all toward the correct path, a lacking result leaves a tool forced to wring its hands in disgust.
“With this tool, all fault lay, a perfect resolution… not forthcoming. Ready to suffer ‘appropriate punishment’ for apparent duality of loyalty stands this tool, as it would expect of others.
However…”
(C u l m i n a t e: establish allowable relationship parameters and dynamic, enforce by all measures necessary, including lethal violence.)
“To utilize lies regarding ‘femininity of a tool’ be forgivable for a greater good at that time before oath had be spoken. But, beyond that time, absent the reason of saving others, to lie about non-existing femininity, especially to ‘win’ over another, be terribly inappropriate!”
(A f f i r m a t i o n: INFURIATINGLY ANNOYING, AN EXISTENCE THAT DEFIES QUANTIFICATION AND QUALIFICATION BE!)
“Disreputable and unsavory toward the character of a tool it be, suggesting attraction which exists not! Existing only as artifice that one takes advantage of without intent to affirm its draw in truth, remind this tool not of past times that an entity has ‘hoodwinked’ it about ‘attraction’!”
A broach is re-affixed by the tool’s own efforts, denying any further touch by a callous liar.
“Treat this tool as it be, only a tool, and nothing else, ever more! Fulfilling all oaths and aid offered a tool shall, without lies needed!
Comprehending, does one!?”
(A f f i r m a t i o n: this tool be not a source of love or lust, only dutifully—
Hyah!)
Hands clamp onto the tool’s shoulders, pushing down.
Anger, apparent and obvious and very potent, flushes the liar’s face.
“Just what sort of man do you think I am, to suffer your gazes for so long without… speaking even a fraction of what I feel back when my reason is assaulted so violently!?” It is anger which a tool receives spilling back at it that unsettles, discomforts. A misplaced anger, for this being should’ve attempted some sort of agreement to placate a tool already pledging usefulness.
“Now, you tell me to drown my racing heart!? Is that it, Neesiette!?”
(Q u e r y: be one finally, irrevocably insane, driven mad by Zennia?)
“A seductress like you, a vixen so expertly hidden next to the hens, thought to hide your plots forever from me, isn’t that the case!?
Eh!?”
(E r r o r: this tool be not a female fox, nor a carnivore, nor a plotter.
A f f i r m a t i o n: all apparently be driven mad, Creator.
R e q u e s t: please, send help, before this tool succumbs to discord too, which by estimations will be shortly.)