#tarballfeatherparade

[lothli]

This is a chapter release post for An Unmaking. Today's chapter is "Consumi ab Ipso," which is a spoiler. I will include the meaning and reasoning in the Read More.

Other than that, I finally have my PC again. Just one day before Christmas Eve, although it took until today to actually get up and running.

Now, "Consumi ab Ipso" means "Consumed by Oneself." This applies to two of our characters today. First is Donovan, who, filled with hubris, taunted our Edge Long to her face. Only Fia's presence saved him from being devoured entirely.

Next is Fia herself, who is consumed by her own empathy. If it were only up to her, she would absolutely sacrifice herself to rid the city of the Millstone.

Such is the life of Long. Powerful, but only so much so. Thank you, as always, for reading An Unmaking.

[lothli]

An Unmaking: Masterlist

World is heavily based on the world of Weather Factory's games, Cultist Simulator and Book of Hours, and does not necessarily strive for 100% accuracy.

An Unmaking is an independent work and is not affiliated with Weather Factory Ltd, Secret Histories, or any related official content. It is published under Weather Factory’s Sixth History Community Licence.

Available on AO3 and Spacebattles. Rough drafts are available on my subreddit. Read at your own risk.

There used to be links here, but to be honest, posting serialized works on Tumblr is exhausting. I recommend Ao3 if you want to read.

[lothli]

This is a chapter release for An Unmaking.

I was in between jobs for a moment, but all is fine now.

Unfortunately, I am still too exhausted to make a full commentary post. Apologies.

As always, thank you for reading, and I hope the delay does not sour your enjoyment.

[lothli]

About the Depiction of Hours

This is a chapter update post for An Unmaking, so as always, spoiler warning for today's chapter.

Today, we have the first appearance of an Hour in the Wake. I don't think this is canon-supported in any way; the most an Hour has influenced the Wake in the two video games, from my understanding, is limited to their shadow.

However, I think it would be a little silly to restrict the Hours to the Mansus wholesale. If one of the Hours decided that whatever was happening in the Wake was important enough to personally interfere, I believe there wouldn't be anything to stop them besides another Hour.

And somehow, I doubt the Wolf Divided would be generous enough to save one of his followers.

Another point that I've tried to stick to is that Hours do not communicate in basic English. The Wolf Divided communicated in manic visions, and the Twins did not speak to begin with. They had no need to.

In my mind, the only Hours even capable of human speech are the ones from flesh, and even still, they'd probably prefer their own methods of communication regardless.

I hope that my depiction of the Hours is satisfactory. They're probably the most difficult to write, with the most rewritten scenes, even if they barely appear compared to the Long of the story.

Thank you, as always, for reading An Unmaking.

[lothli]

About the Moth

Another chapter posted means another Thought to post here.

I don't have anything in-depth to cover for today's chapter other than the fun fact that our protagonist's guardian is an Illuminated One from one of the base Cultist Simulator starts who achieved a Major Lantern victory.

Instead, I will cover my Moth-tilted inspiration: a Vocaloid MV titled アブノーマリティ・ダンシンガール, or Abnormality Dancin' Girl in English. Subtitled video here.

CW: Suicidal theming.

Although the motif here is a butterfly instead of a moth, I believe the lyrics and general mood here can parallel an overtaking of Moth that leads to one's perilous fall.

The protagonist begins stuck in the mundane, yearning to be something more. She is overtaken by "abnormality" before shedding her ordinary clothes to become something more. Throughout the MV, various background symbols indicate her final fate: suicide. A yearner too overtaken by Moth, one who perilously yearned for more.

Perhaps in those final moments, she found what she was looking for. Perhaps what she left behind was not a corpse but a shell.

Now, this is not an endorsement of suicidal ideation or suicide in general. But Moth itself is a Principle deeply linked with suicide; the core imagery of it are moths that immolate themselves within a candle's flame, after all.

This is simply another way of looking at things.

But as always, venerate your Principles in moderation. Don't let the yearning take you to somewhere you cannot return.

An Unmaking will return sometime this week. Wednesday if I remember, or later if I forget.

[lothli]

About Names

Names in the world of the Secret Histories are powerful things. After all, Names are powerful beings who serve directly under the gods. It is no small wonder that even for lesser beings, immortal or not, that names could carry weight.

At this point in An Unmaking, our protagonist has not truly claimed a name for herself yet. She has been named Fenris, and yes, that was an important moment for her as well. But the day when she has to accept that name, or any other, has yet to come.

Lykos, the Puma. The first named character in the story, with both the Moth Long and Winter Long leaving themselves unintroduced. His full name is stated in his introduction, demonstrating an openness that neither Long before showed. Yet, our protagonist refused to acknowledge that name — not until his final moment.

Now, we come to the Long that was finally named in these recent chapters. Iaspide's been an interesting character so far, more of a passive observer, unlike the other Long, who have shaped our protagonist's journey much more actively. But with her name comes her start in the spotlight. I hope you all will enjoy her in the chapters to come.

Finally, Fia, the Long who refused to remain simply just a Long. She, too, introduced herself with her name, but unlike Lykos, she refused to be dehumanized, so to speak, by our protagonist. Up to this point, she has categorically refused to address Long or any other creature of the Invisible Arts by name, but Fia denies her this. And maybe that's just what she needs.

Thank you to all of the readers of An Unmaking. I'll post one of these while I still have things to say for every chapter release.

[lothli]

This is a chapter release for An Unmaking.

"Molae" is "Millstone". A fairly obvious title this time around.

I have much to say about the Millstone, but such things will have to wait until it has left the pages of this story. For now, I will let you in on a bit of inaccuracy that I've decided to leave in.

Due to the lack of cheap refrigeration, ice cream would most likely not have been available for public sale in the Cultist Simulator era.

But having Fia give our Fangy-Wangy a sharp little treat is worth bending our suspension of disbelief a little bit, no?

Thank you, as always, for reading An Unmaking.

[lothli]

Inhuman After All - Chapter 5: Deuce

This is a chapter release post for Inhuman After All. I was having issues with the linked post format, so I have reached this compromise instead.

This is the first chapter of a new arc. The previous chapters were simply setting up the setting, but now we begin to explore Eve's new home.

Thank you, as always, for reading Inhuman After All.

[lothli]

This is a chapter release post for An Unmaking. Today's chapter is "Bombus Paradoxus," which has dual meanings. It could be translated as "A Buzzing Paradox" or "A Paradoxical Bombshell," both of which refer to the words that Doptera conveyed to Fenris as she prepared to leave.

Happy New Years, and as always, thank you for reading An Unmaking.

[lothli]

A new intermission for An Unmaking has been released. I am testing out the Link format of submissions, but I'm not quite sure I like it; while I may be announcing a new chapter, I quite like titling my About series as such. These posts are not just about chapter releases, after all.

But this is a test, as well as a simple intermission release. I don't have much to say about it, as I'd already covered the importance of names in About Names.

Other than that, thank you, as always, for reading An Unmaking. To cover for the fact that intermissions are quite lacking in content compared to full chapters, I will maybe post a writing prompt or something in the coming days.

[lothli]

This is a chapter release post for An Unmaking. Today's chapter is "Novi et Vetus Socii," or "New and Old Friends."

Unfortunately, I will be moving house tomorrow and will be without a computer for around a week, so I won't be able to update any of my fics for a bit.

Thank you, as always, for reading An Unmaking.

[lothli]

A new chapter for An Unmaking has been released.

I realized that I haven't been explaining my chapter titles. Today's chapter is "Trinitas Nova," or The New Trinity when translated. As they arrive in this new town, the quiet moments they share further reinforce their bond as a new, strange family.

In this chapter, I played around a little with the Principles in a more everyday sense. Nothing much happens, but as Long, it would only be natural for them to use their Principles almost unconsciously, as if they were an extension of themselves.

All in all, I hope you all enjoyed this cozier slice-of-life chapter for our three Long. Peace never lasts, however; there will be no rest for the wicked.

Happy Halloween, and as always, thank you for reading An Unmaking.

[lothli]

New Year, New (Ish) Blog

Something I've realized is that reblogging and interaction with other user's blogs are integral to truly being part of this site. As this blog is now, it is untethered and rather isolated, as I did not want to clutter the blog with reposts and other shorter-form thoughts.

However, from observation of other blogs, this seems to be highly irregular. Alongside a better understanding of the tagging system, I believe that I am neglecting a key piece of this website I have chosen to nest.

Therefore, I am introducing the #clutterfog tag. For any of my followers who enjoy the way my blog is currently presented, I recommend blocking the #clutterfog tag. I ensured that this was an unused tag; therefore, blocking it would ensure that you would filter my own posts in your home page while not having any impact on your other followed blogs.

Thank you for bearing with a lost little bird. Here's to a new year, hopefully with more words than the last.

[lothli]

This is a chapter release post for Inhuman After All. As I have encountered significant delays with posting, I have decided to post two chapters at once.

Please do note the addition of the "Graphic Description of Corpses" tag. If this makes you uncomfortable, please skip directly to Chapter 4. There should be no major effects on the storyline if you do so.

[lothli]

IV. Quid Perdam?

I sat and contemplated.

The Moth Long was... an ally, if I was being generous. Very generous. Even still, he was a source of knowledge. The Children were still alive and growing in influence despite the blow I dealt.

They would be on their guard, now. Their Long had not shown herself in the past month, but I doubt that meant she'd disappeared. She was probably waiting, resting, biding her time, just like I was.

So, the Children would be difficult to strike at. I could try targeting the other cults, but what would be the point? I needed to crush the head of the serpent, not its tail.

I had a new tool, too. The bullet. An Edge artifact.

I held it in my hands, rolling it in my hand as I examined it. It wasn’t large, barely the size of my palm, and its weight was surprisingly heavy. It was an unnatural, dull gray and sharp, even though its shape was round. It keened, a faint, unceasing tone that vibrated deep in my bones. I knew I wouldn't even need a gun to fire it when the time came.

This weapon would cut through anything and anyone. Even a Long, perhaps, but that was wishful thinking. Still, with its power, ending a Long's immortal life went from 'impossible' to 'improbable'.

There was something else. My knife.

I picked it up and examined it, too. It was an ordinary thing before. A simple knife, but now it was... different. It was cold. It tilted toward Winter. Not exactly helpful against the Children of Silence — infusing them with Winter would do more harm than good — but against the other cults, it would be a useful tool.

I sighed, setting the artifacts down. I needed more. More weapons, more tools, more artifacts, and more strength. I would need to return to the Mansus. Not only that, but I needed to ascend. I had to ascend to the Stag Door.

The Stag Door was the second door into the Mansus. It was the first true doorway to the realm of the Hours, without the restrictions of the White Door. But yet, the path was harsh, and the Door had a guard. The Name, Ghirbi, the great disembodied head, the riddler.

If I were to pass through this Door, I would have to answer his riddle. And if I could not answer, I would not pass.

The Mansus beckoned, and I must walk its Ways. I rested, bracing myself for the ascent.

---

The Stag Door.

I stood before its bloody horns, its cracked visage before me. A cold breeze blew past me, and the hairs on the back of my neck rose.

I was ready.

But before I could place a hand against the door, a voice called out to me.

"I see you are attempting to cross through the Stag Door. But it will not allow you, for you must answer a riddle. If you fail to answer, you will not be allowed to enter."

The voice was deep and rough, like a siege engine. I look at the gigantic, disembodied head lying, wounded, in a declivity beside the door, staring at me. His jaw was shattered, yet still, he spoke. Ghirbi.

"Speak the riddle."

"Very well. What may be lost?"

I waited, assuming that there would be more. But he didn’t say anything else.

"What do you mean by this? This is no riddle," I demanded.

Ghirbi only stared back. Molten tears began to stream down his face.

I was stumped. It was such a simple question. ‘What may be lost?’ What could be the answer to that?

I didn’t know, but Ghirbi wouldn’t move on to another riddle. This night was a bust. I woke up frustrated.

---

The next day. I sat, contemplating Ghirbi's question. It was such an abstract thing, but I had to have an answer. The question sparked a certain yearning, a buzzing in the brain. It felt like... the Moth Long.

I needed him, for some reason. He could answer the riddle, I could feel it.

And so, I tracked him down, following the buzzing of his presence to an apartment on the second floor. I stood in the hallway. The air was thick and muggy, and the buzzing seemed to press in around me.

I knocked. A hundred voices called from behind the door, but I knew which one was for me. "Come in, come in, come in! I've been expecting you!"

I turned the doorknob. Inside, the air was suffocating. It smelled of moth wings and of hemolymph. I pushed my way past the piles of dirty laundry, old magazines, and unopened letters. They spilled from their shelves. The only light was a small, dim lightbulb on the ceiling covered in moths. They flitted around, crawling on its sides and dancing around its flickering light.

I sat down in a chair in the corner next to a nasty black stain. The Long grinned. He wasn’t quite in the form of a man, nor quite as a monster. Something in-between, which he seemed to prefer.

"You came just as I predicted! Did I not say that? Yes, yes I did! Of course I did."

"Yes, you did," I replied, looking around the messy room. It looked like he'd been living here for a month but hadn't cleaned it at all since. I sighed.

"I can see it on your face! Your silly little face. Do you think this is my home? No! Of course not! It's some other fellow's home. I do hope he doesn't mind! Just kidding. He won't. Cuz he died!" The Long laughed, but there was no joy in it. It was more a wicked chuckle, of the sort that permitted no questioning.

"I don't particularly care."

"Ah! I knew it, I knew it! That's why I like you, you don't care! You only care about your quest for blood, vengence, and the hunt! So, tell me, tell me, why have you come? Why are you here?"

"I have a riddle. I was asked, 'What may be lost?'"

"Ah, you're here for the riddle, the riddle, the riddle! The riddle for the Stag Door? Or one of them, I suppose." I winced. I was hoping to keep that part from him, but it was a long shot, anyway.

He leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms. "It's easy, the answer is! The answer is—"

The buzzing rose to a shriek as all of his voices coalesced into a single, unearthly sound. It conjured vivid images of myself, discarding first my clothes, then my hair, and then my skin. The voices crescendoed until they suddenly died down, the Moth Long grinning at me.

I could only stare, completely lost for words. "That is—"

"The correct answer. So, I assume you have no more trouble with the riddle?"

"I don't think I could reproduce that. Not now, not ever," I replied. I hadn’t even begun to process whatever the hell that sound was.

"You don't need to repeat it, silly! Only say the words, and he will let you in, in, in. Say it to me! You can do it!"

"What? Obviously, I can't—"

"Try! Try it! You can't even try?"

"Alright! Fine! Fine, I will," I gave in, already exhausted from the conversation. I inhaled and let the buzzing in my brain take over. I opened my mouth and—

"Everything. My Edge. My sanity. My cause. My life. Everything I am, all that I know and remember and will forget, my everything, may be lost."

—I gasped. The buzzing left me, leaving my voice as mine alone once more.

The Long clapped appreciatively, bursting out into a full, ear-to-ear grin. "So that's your answer to the Ecdysiast's Parable, huh? It's too bad your mortal mouth can't form the true answer, but that will certainly do for Ghirbi. After all, he's not exactly the world's most enthusiastic guard."

"So now, the Stag Door will allow me to pass," I mused before pausing and turning back to the Moth Long. "But wait, why is Ghirbi guarding it in the first place?"

"It's his punishment! He broke the door, so now he has to stay there forever! Oh, the ignominy! The indignity of it all!" The Moth Long laughed, a crescendo of buzzing. It would've been loud enough to wake up the neighbors if he had any. Somehow, I doubted he did.

I left, satisfied with my progress.

---

The Stag Door.

I was back. This time, I bore a faint, welcoming buzzing from within. I approached Ghirbi, his mouth still broken and molten tears still running down his face.

"What may be lost?" he asked.

"Everything," I responded.

There was a long silence, so long I began to suspect I had made some grievous error. Then, a true outpouring of tears erupts from Ghirbi, so intense I could barely understand what he said. "Another one enters. Another one, making the same mistake I did, all those years ago. The Stag Door shall allow you to pass, as it had for me."

He wept, wracking sobs shaking his titanic head, as I approached the door unhindered. The doorway into the Mansus proper reveals itself, but before I can walk through, Ghirbi said one last thing.

"I pity you."

I walked through the door. This marked the beginning. I was now Know, a mortal who had breached the Stag Door, who had stepped onto the Mansus' path.

[lothli]

Neither, Nor

I wrote this surrealist story(?) on my phone. You may view it as an expression of frustration at the lack of my computer, a piece by its own merit, or simply a truth or a lie.

CW: A guy gets eaten. Sorta metaphorically.

---

I'd met a girl once.

Perhaps, with that kind of start, you'd expect a story full of saucy bits and romance. But it was not to be, for she was no true "girl". Something that resembled a girl, something that could look like one, but I knew that it was not flesh and blood that dwelled within her shell. It was something dark yet so burstingly full of life, and in those moments when I was closest to her, I felt as though I was being consumed by it.

It all began when I saw her in some random food court in the shopping district, and her beautiful appearance took me in. She had wavy black hair, hair that almost flowed. And yet, what really drew me in were her eyes.

Deep, pitch-black wells that exposed that shell for what it was. Bottomless, soulless, yet so inviting.

I had approached her, of course; how could I not? But as I did, she turned away, and she was gone in a blur before I could catch up to her. But what was left shocked me to my core.

A napkin neatly folded, and on it, in delicate handwriting, was my own name.

"Owen," it read. "Meet me tonight at the old church on the hill."

I didn't go, but the next morning, I found the same napkin with the same words by my pillow.

---

I went, and she was there. In the dark, she radiated a strange and mysterious warmth, one so familiar yet so far. It was almost like a mother's touch, but one that had forgotten about me long ago.

She was different from that time at the food court. Not in a physical sense—her hair, her eyes, her figure were still the same. It was something else. She was less... guarded. Less human, or should I say, less pretending to be human. The shell was still there, but it was leaking, the blackness seeping through, making it all the more wonderful.

"Your wool is stained, Owen," she told me, her voice so soft yet thick, filled with a substance that was not quite blood. "Is that so bad?"

"Is it not?" I asked, not quite understanding the implications. I did not know what my wool was or what it was stained with. But my hands picked away at it regardless.

"In a world filled with little lies and bigger truths, is it not a wonderful thing to be stained with what you truly are?" As she said this, the blackness that filled her eyes seemed to swirl and churn like some living storm. "Are you a lie? Or are you the truth?"

"Am I not both?" I asked, and the shell that she was in smiled.

"Bold is the one who lies and knows it. But bolder is the one who lies and believes it." Her head jerked as if something was pulling her neck from behind. "You saw through my shell to the spillage. Do I stain my body, or is my body a stain on I?"

I did not know what she meant by this and tried to tell her so. But my mouth could not form any more words. Instead, it kept chewing, chewing on something without taste or texture. It was a strange feeling, not knowing what was in my own mouth, not having any control over it either.

But I did know, didn't I? It was a stain.

"Are you a lie?" she said again. "Or are you the truth?"

My wool felt wet and heavy, but my fingers would not stop picking at it. And the wetter it became, the lighter it felt.

"What are you?" I tried to ask her, but my mouth continued to chew. Chew on something that was neither hard nor soft. It burst from my mouth, black ink that gurgled and sputtered and spattered all over the floor.

"Ah, a lie," she answered the question that I had left unsaid, and I wanted to scream that she was wrong. That she was the most truthful thing I'd ever laid my eyes on. But I could not. My mouth was still chewing. My fingers still picking away at my wool. My wool was now soaked and dripping and oh so light.

"Do not worry," she said, and her words reached out and held me, cradled me. "Your wool is stained, Owen. That is not such a bad thing. Do not pick so hard. You'll unravel, and then you will be no more."

And so, my fingers stopped, and I was at peace.

"I know what you are," I said to her, and the words came out this time. "You are a wonderful truth. You are an angel."

"I reject your truth," she replied, eyes devouring my mutton. "To pin such a large truth on a little white lie is a sin most foul."

But she was neither little nor white nor lie. My legs collapsed, my mutton carved out from within, and I fell to my knees. She was before me; she was so big, and I was so small, and she was so good, and I was so stained.

"Are you a lie? Or are you the truth?"

"Neither!" I could not take it anymore, her presence, her being, and I screamed for the whole world to hear. I wanted out.

But that, too, was a lie.

My wool was gone, my mutton ripe for the taking, and there was no going back. I could only go forward and hope and pray that she would allow me to do so.

"To be neither is so, so very... unfulfilling." Her head jerked again, her body twisting and convulsing. The shell was cracking. The blackness within was pouring out. It covered me, and it was warm. It was a lie, I realized. That was the truth.

I chewed, and I chewed, but the lie would not come out. It was stuck inside me in a place I could not reach. My wool was gone, and my mutton was bare. But I was still stained. I was still stained.

"Please!" I cried. "Why am I still stained? I am no longer covered in wool! My mutton is ripe! Please! Please! Take it, take it from me!"

"Because you are stained with the truth," she answered.

And so it was.

She was a lie, and I was the truth. I could only cry, even as she devoured my mutton, even as her teeth bit into my skin, even as my mother embraced me one last time.