The Horror and the Wild

<h1>(text-colour:(hsl:0,0.6543,0.4765,0.6))['' Tales of the Everliving Wood: The Horror And The Wild'']</h1> <audio src="./dramatic-camera-zoom-6393.mp3" type="audio/mp3" autoplay></audio> (align:"=><=")+(box:"==XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX========")[<img src="./dominik-dombrowski-KNUp-YBwBSE-unsplash.jpg" alt=""> ] (align:"=><=")+(box:"==XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX========")[You wake, startled, from your dream. In your dream, the Seasons do the impossible, the apocalyptic, they stop turning. An eternal winter, like that of the heretical sects, falls over the Wood. Those that remain alive point fingers at the others in the owl masks, your Visionary fellows in Taleholding, and their machinations towards a “Finale”. You turn and see your partner by your side, and you know nothing is final, not yet. The Seasons will still turn. [[Explore Surroundings]] [[Admire Your Love]]]

(align:"=><=")+(box:"==XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX========")[You look through your dwelling. Your eyes settle on your workspace. <img src="./medical-tissue.jpg" alt=""> Looking over your lab in your home, you see the products of your life’s work: preserved undead corpses, organ specimens in jars, jars of necroinfluencers, and dulled but still working tools that have been used in many surgeries and splices. You are the Graverobber of the Taleholders, Flesher Calonyction, and your Work holds the Everliving Wood together. [[Examine your recent work]] [[What Work do you have to do?]]]

(align:"=><=")+(box:"==XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX========")[= They were the one who convinced you to agree to the pact. They spoke to you of Visions, they tell you stories every night, fantastic stories of a halcyon age where the Seasons still turned, but Bel-Air stood and the world was better. You live in the Everliving Wood. Your heart burns for completion of the Work you've quested after for so long, in a place that seems intent on destroying and consuming you and all you love each day. Yet you soldier on. [[How do I make do?|Explore Surroundings]]

(align:"=><=")+(box:"==XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX========")[<img src="./bloodsap.jpg" alt=""> The last Gene Splice, the last Working of the Graverobber's trade you performed, was on one of that new tribe, the Pinbacks, they wished to see their Hedonistic visions. Useless Eyes, she has so much potential. In a tube before you are strands of mycelium, and something else, a substance you've been experimenting on that you've collected from The Workers. The Workers, those strange beings of the Grave. The fibrous, nerve tissue-like substance they leave behind in their wake in passing through the Wood: a regent of your Work. Why anyone would want to take such a strange, dangerous substance into themselves to see visions of the Grave perplexes you, but the work fascinated you throughout and Useless Eyes now preaches to throngs of Pinbacks at the Cracked Bone Cavern, rapt in attention at her prophetic words. You made an Oracle, absent of the Visionaries' Oracle Box. You’ve made so many things. Your hands and heart tremble slightly at the thought, the sinking knowledge that not all of them have been for the betterment of the Wood. [[What Work do you have to do?]]]

(align:"=><=")+(box:"==XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX========")[The Work never ends. The Visionaries and the Seasons are at each other’s throats. Blood begets blood, the price of its price. "Sanguinus pretium sanguis", so says the Blood Note, currency of your trade. It must end for the Wood, your home, to survive. For the Tale to be told, for everything you and your partner have worked for to remain for the next generation, for your progeny, for your Great Work. This Has All Happened Before And This Will All Happen Again. [[Set about your day]]]

(align:"=><=")+(box:"==XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX========")[You pack up your things, leave your sleeping partner behind, an ache in your heart at the thought. An ache that grows deeper and deeper thinking of your task today. You walk outside of your home, into the dense thickets of the Everliving Wood, and an owl mask peers from through the trees. <img src="./rotstag.jpg" alt=""> A Rot Stag lopes across your path, velvet sinew hanging about its frame, a ribcage full of jostling crystals held on by strands of flesh. It acknowledges you for a moment, something in its eyes haunts you, and it darts away, leaving the owl masked-figure to approach you. [[Ask what they want]] [[Ask what they need]]]

(align:"=><=")+(box:"==XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX========")[“Your services are required, you’re late for a very important date. The Season Finale must play on for the Tale to be told.” Your fellow Taleholder explains. “The Showrunner decrees it,” you respond. You prefer not to use your partner's name. You prefer not to give them power over you that you do not have to, more than they have earned. “The Signal wills it.” You are reassured, feeling yourself affirmed in turn in your faith in the Seasons. There is an accord. They understand something you understand. This time, they think this was their decision, not that of a greater force, not part of a Great Work. This is a variable in the process that is set correctly, you tell yourself. You should move forward, knowing what must be done. [[Then on with it.|Ask what they need]]]

(align:"=><=")+(box:"==XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX========")[<img src="./obsidian.jpg" alt=""> “You know the plan, you have set this all in motion, the chymical union...” the Taleholder before you says as they lead you through the Overgrowth. Others in owl masks pass by you, brandishing blades and rope, going towards your home, you can not bring yourself to look back. A few minutes forward, through the dark, winding paths of the Wood, you walk down a steep hill, cross over a new bridge striding the familiar humbling rapids of the river, and come to the Theatre. A ramshackle structure, like the ones of old, it is down a rolling hill with seats hewn from stone and wood for the spectators. Taleholders sit waiting for you, their masks hiding their faces as all eyes are on you. On the simple stage, on one of two stone slabs, is the leader of your faith. Adorned in the trappings of Winter and Father Night — raven feathers, their own decorated night owl mask with icy psionic crystals inlays, and more — they thrash against binds. The screams cut through your dizzying thoughts. [[Go about your dread work.]]]

(align:"=><=")+(box:"==XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX========")[<audio src="./creeping-horror-73989.mp3" type="audio/mp3" autoplay></audio> The screams keep going. Your partner is dragged by the other Taleholders through the paths that you took, down the hill past you. In the last moment, the Showrunner has regrets, has doubts, has weakness, does not understand your Great Work. It hurts to think about such smallness, so ungrateeful. They look at you for a moment, still screaming, their words lost in your icy, Winter-woven devotion to what must be done. They are brought to the other slab and swiftly accept their fate. You are Flesher Calonyction, now to become what you have always been: Graverobber and leader of the Taleholders. As you are handed your tools and walk down towards the slabs, you know what you must do to your partner — to the Showrunner of the Visionary Taleholders — and to your faith leader — most blessed Child of Father Night, a tutor in the art of the Gene Splicer, the Speaker of Winter. The accensorite at your side, Ozymand, presents you the executioner's last blade, the surgeon's final tool needed in the process, the key to the door you are opening, one of many instruments of your Great Work. You are Flesher Calonyction, Graverobber of the Taleholders, and you create horrors in this powerful place that further your Great Work. For the Taleholders, for your creation, you go about your work. ''All This Has Happened Before, All This Will Happen Again.'' (text-colour:(hsl:339,0.6939,0.3843,0.6))[//''For the Great Work.''// ]]