[ that makes sense. it's safe down here - no one is talking constantly in your ear, asking how you feel, if you need anything, if you should eat. you can't take any more of that right now.
you sit down at the desk, and without even necessarily meaning to ... start flipping through the pages. at first, it doesn't seem like anything. you know a few languages, courtesy of the Orders, but nothing like whatever this is. It's a chaotic assortment, some of which you can pick out, but most of which you can't.
a breath tickles the back of your neck.
But as you flip through, it becomes clearer. You can start to see a pattern. Words ... make sense.
What is it to dream and, having plunged into those endless fertile fields of imagination, wake to find those conjurings made manifest? Real.
I have searched and searched and searched, collected, and studied, begged for answers from one corner of this land to the other, combed the libraries of wiser men, and all to make sense of what I know in my heart is senseless. The order of it… The order… Why must it be put in order? Perhaps that is where I have gone all wrong, all wrong! The order. Dawn comes and I see it clearly now: There is no more wisdom in order than in chaos.
I will relent. No. I will submit.
A lurid red eye is drawn under the words, giving you pause. You watch it in return for a long moment. Brevyn had died for this. Died for you. You could have left this thing there in those ruins, but you didn't. You didn't and this is all that's left of her.
As you keep reading, there's parts that are destroyed, or blotted out with dark red ink, scratched and ripped and torn. But you can get the general story - a mage, after the Age of Arcanum, but long before your time, had found the same ruins in Aeor that you did, and intended to use the discoveries therein to prove to his peers, his rivals, how small-minded and short-sighted they were. He had organized an expedition - similar to your own little voyage - into the wastes of frozen Eiselcross.
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you sit down at the desk, and without even necessarily meaning to ... start flipping through the pages. at first, it doesn't seem like anything. you know a few languages, courtesy of the Orders, but nothing like whatever this is. It's a chaotic assortment, some of which you can pick out, but most of which you can't.
a breath tickles the back of your neck.
But as you flip through, it becomes clearer. You can start to see a pattern. Words ... make sense.
What is it to dream and, having plunged into those endless fertile fields of imagination, wake to find those conjurings made manifest? Real.
I have searched and searched and searched, collected, and studied, begged for answers from one corner of this land to the other, combed the libraries of wiser men, and all to make sense of what I know in my heart is senseless. The order of it… The order… Why must it be put in order? Perhaps that is where I have gone all wrong, all wrong! The order. Dawn comes and I see it clearly now: There is no more wisdom in order than in chaos.
I will relent.
No.
I will submit.
A lurid red eye is drawn under the words, giving you pause. You watch it in return for a long moment. Brevyn had died for this. Died for you. You could have left this thing there in those ruins, but you didn't. You didn't and this is all that's left of her.
As you keep reading, there's parts that are destroyed, or blotted out with dark red ink, scratched and ripped and torn. But you can get the general story - a mage, after the Age of Arcanum, but long before your time, had found the same ruins in Aeor that you did, and intended to use the discoveries therein to prove to his peers, his rivals, how small-minded and short-sighted they were. He had organized an expedition - similar to your own little voyage - into the wastes of frozen Eiselcross.
But you hear the door open behind you
and then you're back
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the body may be back but the soul has left the body.
hey iris how do you unpeep things you wish you had never peeped.]
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well.
he'll be off to one side, physically smacking the side of his head like it's going to jostle something loose. ]
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the void will soon spit out another memory at them, but first, harley glances at him.]
... Uh. I don't think your brain's going to come out no matter how hard you hit your head, bud. Are you okay?
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I—- I know. I’m not trying to bash my head in.
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[or don't? she's not the boss of you. but also, yeets.]