My ethereal eyes float through the fortress. I still feel every particle, every wave, as they pass through me and as I pass through them, but the eyes make it easier to make sense of the shapes. I can still see the not-souls of the undead beasts, tethered to frames as white as the snow they walk through, but it's easier to distinguish the ephemeral world of souls and the even more ephemeral world of flesh. The souls of the living do not notice me, bound as they are by corporeal existence, but the souls of the dead are aware of my eyes. They are everywhere, moving around, observing the fortunes and misfortunes of Hellcannon. Some have drifted in from elsewhere, I can feel that whatever place they came from is the same, masses of souls clinging to this existence for years, decades, centuries before moving on.
My eyes draw some notice. The souls cannot see me, but they see the eyes I have willed to exist. Most of them are uninterested, others are curious, still others panic in the fear that the eyes are some sort of forgotten abomination. I do not feel a need to communicate with them so I do not will my words into the realm of souls. It would be quite easy, actually, as I do not need to push and pull on quarks to make baryons oscillate the way I want them to. I have a few brief conversations with the dead, coercing pions so they remember what I never said, but this proves to be pointless fairly rapidly. I would say they are boring me, but I can no longer feel boredom, nor happiness when the freshly dead souls are unexpectedly reunited with friends and loved ones, nor amusement when I watch a skeletal crundle get pecked at by a rooster chick.
I cannot give up though. I cannot unmake my eyes and retreat back into the realm of particles, of organised, coherent physics and let my mind slide until I am naught but a passive observer for all eternity. I must stay here, observe Hellcannon, subtly guide the thoughts of its inhabitants. The place is leaderless, and in its current state, no-one will take control. I do not even care about the fortress anymore, in my state I am beyond caring; however, I cannot leave it to its fate. As I skulk about, watching, I can feel something. It is not an emotion, but I have no other terms to describe it.
It is dread. Pure dread. There is something watching Hellcannon from afar. Something malevolent. Something not even the souls can feel, something which only appears to exist on the same plane as myself.
And if I let my guard down too soon, all will end.You messed up the link by Stratgia's name. It should be House of leaves.
I've never actually read that btw, any similarities are coincidental. It's just meant to be stream-of-consciousness - literally, as that's all Strategia is at this point, a disembodied consciousness. From what I understand, House of Leaves is like that too, so it's basically just portraying the same concept the same way.
So unfortunately, finishing my turn this weekend didn't happen either - and for that I profusely apologise. I restate my intention of finishing my turn, although I'll have to let the detailed journal updates I've made up until the Battle of Hellcannon slide for various reasons. I could still take notes and infodump, like I did for the Battle, but I'll use the updates proper to further the metaplot. I'll tie in major events, of course, but given the nature of what I have planned, I unfortunately cannot focus on individual skrundle fights or random deaths or other events of such a level.
(Dwarves going insane, though, will fit in quite nicely.....)
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Topic: Hellcannon (Succession: Battlefailed 3) (0.31.25) (DEAD) (Read 836232 times)