#the Susurrus Society

[phoenixiancrystallist]

Month 3, day 19, now I'm designing a falcon angel character XD He needs a name, but I'll be able to figure that out after I get his attitude/personality down, I think. Right now all I've got is "goes zoom," which is not helpful XD

[ablubluh]

OC Reference sheet

there's a few of them so this'll go behind a read-more for my sanity and your dash

TTRPG OCs

Impetus - Tiefling Swashbuckler Rogue/Champion Fighter Twin of Patience, proud owner of a vorpal rapier, traveller of the planes, stabbed Commander Saturn from Pokémon non-fatally, lover of chaos, definitely killed a deva once

Samit - Vedalken Artillerist Artificer Quiet, well-read, enjoys working on his boat, cares deeply (platonically) for his work partner, works for an inter-planar society to avoid non-natives to any given plane causing trouble

Tommy May - Human (Hexblood) Wild Sorcerer His mama wished for a baby in earshot of a hag, he's a cobbler, the most average man in the world with 20 charisma, once exploded in the mouth of a big ice wyrm, thinks it's normal to pull your teeth out to act like walkie talkies with your friends

Roald Kromsson - Dwarf Battlemaster Fighter Used to be a cleric many decades ago, fell out of faith with his god while on a 'righteous' crusade, prioritises protecting his friends/party members to the point of putting himself in more danger than he should, ostensibly pacifist but once a fight starts his aim is to finish it as efficiently as possible

Achlys - Tiefling (Reborn) Wild Barbarian Contracted to work for the Witchlight Carnival, keeps dying in looney tunes esque accidents and being brought back to finish the length of her contract, isn't entirely aware that she's actually died a bunch of times and thinks she's just really lucky, WILL run head first into a situation

Chiara - Half-elf Necromancer (Dark Urge) Hates her own pain and gets faint at her own blood but doesn't extend this feeling to others, extremely trusting since she doesn't have the memory to shore up her own convictions, doesn't like getting her hands dirty directly, caffeine makes her a different person

Viscera - Human Swords Bard (Dark Urge) Worst woman you've ever met, loves to cause pain and chaos, will fuck your girlfriend, thinks everyone should do whatever they want forever

Alice Murray - Human Knowledge Cleric of the Raven Queen Blind, wanted to be a wizard when she was a kid, was told she wouldn't be able to maintain a spellbook without sight, was taught rituals by a traveling acolyte of the Raven Queen and entered her service in pursuit of knowledge of the arcane, has a raven familiar named Sealladh

Kakra - Khenra Zeal Cleric of Hazoret//Draconic Sorcerer//Beastmaster Ranger (not all at once) From a game where there are various AU versions of her at different times. The constant between them is her connection to her twin brother Atsu. As a cleric, she was one of the few remaining mortals alive on Amonkhet after Bolas' return. As a Sorcerer, she was a fervent follower of the God-Pharaoh. As a Ranger, she died and was Eternalised in lazotep and is discovering her ability to feel again with her soul inexplicably tied once more to her body (her beast companions are all also undead and embalmed).

Ragnarok - Human Scribes Wizard Incredibly dramatic emo boy who thinks he's a warlock. In actuality, his grandmother apprenticed to a tiefling archmage (@enecola's Eternal) and when he, as a child, approached the Cool Magic Fiend and asked her very seriously to grant him arcane power, she gave him a spellbook and a couple of basic lessons. So he thinks he has a book of shadows and a pact with a fiend. But he's in fact a nerdlord with negative charisma.

Sybil Susurrus Rowena Shadow Susu Terracot - Gnome Knowledge Cleric of Mystra/Gunslinger Fighter A very anxious and introverted gnome who ended up the keeper of the party gun and decided to spec into it. She's the kind of lawful neutral who prioritises the lives of her friends over the fate of the world, quietly, but intensely.

Kiaran [surname redacted] - Drow Draconic Sorcerer A daughter of a distant branch of a powerful drow family who prize their bloodline's draconic ancestry and the magic that arises from it. Only the main lines of the family manifest this draconic power, but Kiaran found a magical tome which had been used to seal away the magic of anyone deemed undesirable amongst the family, unlocking her own magic and painting a big target on her back, leading her to escape the underdark. She's a sweet girl but does find it hard not to apply drow morality in the overworld.

PKMN

Jeff Williams Half-Mewtwo half-human freak of science. He was working on the Mewtwo project with Team Rocket (initially my character for him was also Bill the PC guy, but I'm reworking him to be Fully OC Guy), and was one of the donors of human DNA to the project. Similarly to the Bill incident, Mewtwo was supposed to simply be transported, but instead got fused with this poor hapless scientist. He then got trapped in TR labs for some years and experimented on, before breaking free and starting his own Organisation, running it from the basement while refusing to show his face for fear of being seen as a monster.

Jason Mancarella World's soggiest Interpol agent. The child of two very powerful and high-flying Interpol agents who got him into the family business despite him having zero ambition or ability to take the initiative. His partner Pokémon is a Heatmor named Vanessa. He loves the Muppets.

Kelly McCuin Quartermaster with Team Rocket. Got recruited as a teenager. Not fully cackling evil, more the casual selfish kind of nasty that leads to a callousness and lack of introspection into whether her job is worth doing bad stuff in the world. Unabashedly Australian. Best friend is @kranberryjuice's oc Ted from Accounting.

[chidorisjournal]

FFXIV Write 2024 - Day 15 - Liminal (you pick!)

Fenris waited, impatiently, perhaps, but he waited, his fingers resting on Hel's. Before him the broad back of his older brother and the fractionally less broad back of Asti, who had chosen tonight to wear a suit in a grey a few shades lighter than Auberi's charcoal. Ever the interstitial, Asti, tonight they leaned into the male side of the space, but tomorrow they might wear a dress and drink tea with Hel. It didn't matter. The clock was striking, it's soft cuckoo calling the hour, the liminal time between sunset and full night.

The doors were opened, flooding the room with the soft light of the sinking sun, a warm bath of scented autumn wind swirling around the four of them as their names were called. Auberi and Asti, Fenris and Hel, twinned twins, the pair of pairs. Together, as always, heading down the open stairs toward the dance floor where it had been laid out on the lawn. They always arrived together like this. In the moment between day and night, the hour between early and late. Never loud, never brash, the four of them together always caused a ripple, and even now he could watch it spread. Whispers about Asti's suit, about the single white flower pinned to Auberi's coat, about his own coat, and Hel's dress. Always, the whispers, the rumors, the subliminal sense that ever word was about them. It was why the siblings arrived together; as one unit the ripples would spread, rebound, and then fade when something new arrived. Individually they would be four rocks into the unquiet waters of society, and the way the ripples moved would only feed on one another, sharks scenting blood.

Tonight was no different, the soft susurrus subsiding before they even made it all the way down the stairs. Hel was stunning in cloth of stars, Auberi approached by his fiancee, Asti played court to suitors that were unphased by their current mien. And so the party slid from that earliest stage of uncertainty into exactly what all such parties became, and Fenris slid off to find the drinks. Perhaps they would have something stronger than lemonade, for once.

He wasn't going to count on it, but he could dream in these moments before the bevy of waiting debutantes descended upon him. With Auberi off the market, the second son would simply have to do.

[cruelfeline]

Susurrus' firm belief that him doing and being what he was made for makes such legitimate sense to me because like... in a very practical way, it's sort of true?

Like... it's hard for a living weapon made of birds to conceptualize a life outside of being that because of the sheer logistics of it.

I mean, it would be simple if he were a regular human. Just like... peace out and open up a market stall. Or settle down and become a farmer. Or go teach kids at the local school.

But he's not. He's a pile of sassy birds that can also be a horrible eldritch wheel demon or a six-winged angel or maybe a dragon, depending on the truth of that ancient lore image.

And on top of that, he's feared and hated and can't change himself enough to maybe convince people that he's not that weapon-creature they despise.

So... how does he just stop? What does he do? Where does he live? Whom does he get to talk to?

It's all well and good to say "just do something else!", but it's an entirely different matter when the thing you are isn't meant to exist in society outside of your violent role.

[cruelfeline]

Huh; I confess I haven't thought about this much!

On the one hand, he seems, to me, to have some ability to extend his consciousness out, as when using his compass ability. Though, in retrospect, I wonder if that's akin to reaching a hand out to touch something: it provides sensory information, but it doesn't change the location of his actual mind; that remains with Frey.

So yeah.... I can absolutely see this!

Though... y'know, that makes the whole situation with the Tantas and their citizens even more odd and more sad. Like... if the Tantas had told their people what was happening, prepped them better, then there's a chance that they could have been helped while Susurrus was away. That's twenty-one years of a Suss-free experience, and yet no one could reach out to them to try to ameliorate the damage that had been done.

I'm forever disturbed by how little the Tantas told their subjects about what was happening to them. I feel like it left the Athians tragically helpless: they simply don't have the knowledge needed to improve their circumstances. It's possible that they could have helped their Tantas, yet they were kept too ignorant to do so.

I feel like that's one of the major flaws in this society, at least to me: the Tantas made their populace far too dependent on them. To the point that Athians are left barely treading water for decades when, theoretically, they could have been helping their rulers recover during antime of reprieve.

Unfortunate, really.

My Susurrus headcanon is that he can’t actually be in more than one place so his consciousness just jumped from bracelet to bracelet, which would make it so much worse. Those moments of reprieve, just dreading his return… And then he’s stuck on the other side of a torana and can’t actually get back so the twenty years of madness is just the results of what he cultivated.

[theinvulnerabletide]

Whisper was a performer. Had been for about seven years of her life, and usually it showed in the way she cast. Her lilting Abyssal incantations started out hushed, growing ever louder, crescendoing to the last word when she released her power into the world. Her motions were fluid and attention grabbing, twirling and commanding hand gestures, slamming the end of her staff on the ground. She was the kind of woman who made her own stage wherever she went.

Today, she didn’t care about her audience. She screamed each spell, the words echoing off of the building’s high ceiling. Each gesture was terse and abrupt and brutal, a close of a fist to create a Maelstrom in the water, a slash through the air to create lightning, a slam of her staff to send a Tidal Wave slamming across the water. She was dimly aware that people were staring at her. People always stared at her. But for once, she didn’t care what they were seeing. She didn’t care what they thought, she didn’t care how they viewed her, if those murmurings were awe or fear or annoyance.

All this power. Enough that she could destroy this building if she wasn’t carefully keeping it to the pool, enough that she could lay waste to a small army all by herself. She’d swept herself and Isao and Thia halfway around the world in an instant with pinpoint accuracy. And yet she couldn’t bring Oriana back.

What use was power if you couldn’t use it for the important things?

She let out another Tidal Wave with a scream, only for nothing to happen. Her temples were throbbing, and a sudden wave of dizziness swept over her. She had nothing left in the reservoir. Fuck.

Her hands trembled as she wrapped them around her staff and pushed herself away from the pool, aware of all the eyes on her. Good. Let them stare.

She wasn’t powerful enough to bend reality to her will yet? Then she’d get stronger. She’d burn herself out every day, practicing like her mother had always wanted her to, until she didn’t have enough left in her at the end of the day to fill a bathtub. She’d spend hours in the library, learning and growing herself, until every kind of magic came naturally.

Then she’d break the world open. Again and again, until Oriana drew breath and was there to play baroness and she learned how to take care of her son properly, until Adoroar had his family back together, until Isao’s monastery was fixed, and Thia had her answers and Frank had his ears, and Shade had his ghosts in corporeal form, and Twiggy had whatever it was that he wanted. If the world wouldn’t give her what she wanted by “conventional means”, then she’d twist it until it’d do whatever she said if only she would stop.

And then she’d twist harder.

She stepped into the too-bright light of the afternoon, only to see Thia and Isao talking to one another just across the street, something that would usually make her smirk, but right now she could barely bring herself to care.

 Thia looked over first, saw the way she was leaning on her staff, the scowl on her face, and was there in an instant, hand buzzing with healing energy. “You okay? Do you need—”

Whisper waved her off. “I’m fine. Peachy. Did you guys need me for something?”

Thia let her hand fall to her side as Isao joined them. “No, but we didn’t find anything at the library. Whatever information we need, it’s not here.”

“Of course it’s not,” Whisper muttered. The important answers were never in a library where just anyone could stumble across them.

“So we were thinking of grabbing dinner and then heading back to rest? Unless—”

“Unless?”

“Can you get us back to the keep now?” Isao asked, and Whisper briefly fought off the impulse to hit him with her staff.

It wasn’t his fault. He couldn’t possibly know that teleporting three people clear across the prime material plane took more energy than anything else she had ever done, that she’d been the last one out of the pub because she’d had to wait until the room had stopped spinning before she could move. Besides, he’d just catch her staff like it was nothing and then she’d look like an idiot. Her ego really couldn’t take that right now.

“No,” she replied flatly. “I’m not going to have enough energy to do that until I’ve slept.”

His mouth twisted, taking in the sweat on her face and the way she was leaning on her staff, but she turned away from him, looking at Thia, who was all concern and no judgement. “So, where too?”

“Back to the pub?”

An entire island floating in the sky, and it only had one place to drink at. This place was the worst. But she couldn’t say she wanted to be at the keep right now either. There was only so much mourning she could take.

She looked at Thia, who practically was vibrating with the need to move, and flashed her a cocksure grin. The one that said: ‘I’m always alright, don’t worry.’ It did the trick. It usually did. Thia’s shoulders relaxed, if only a tick. “Lead on,” she said, sketching a small bow with one hand, and Thia turned, her face already tilting up to catch Isao’s gaze.

At least she could still pull off a performance when the audience mattered. Good. Those two had better things to worry about then her.

[islanderscaper]

Adoraor Zanfire Gallentara (human fighter); Frank (goliath barbarian); Isao Ito (human monk); Keithia (half-elf ranger); Oriana Wright (aasimar human pladain); The Shade of the Darkwood (firbolg druid); Yah-ar ‘Twiggy’ Galanodel (elf ranger); Kalista Nethespire Whisper (tiefling sorceress)

The Susurrus Society

[strangelittlestories]

Ghost Catcher

Amongst certain esoteric societies of London, there were some who called her 'the ghost catcher'. The ghosts, of course, had another name for her.

Let me explain. Those who were in the know - especially those who owned property that was on the older side - maintained little void books. They may have begun as little 'black' books', but a particular peculiarity of their contents meant that the cover would soon fade almost out of sight completely, leaving a garish cuboid vacuum cut into the world.

(This phenomenon was little understood, but most agreed it had something to do with the Goth Anthropic Principle.)

Now, as you may have guessed, these little volumes were a certain kind of address book. For when a certain kind of problem reared its spectral head, a person would be well behooved to have a list of all the various exorcists, mediums and practitioners of Society.

All of these lists were in slightly different orders, depending on their needs, the occultists' previous references, and the various biases of the list's holder.

There was only one constant across these tomes: ‘the ghost catcher’ was last on every single list.

You might think, from this information, that this means she was the *worst* exorcist known to Society. This would be a misunderstanding. She was simply the specialist that you would call when all other options had failed.

There are many theories as to why this is. If you were to ask me (and I’m afraid that I shall be telling you even if you do not), I would say that the hypothesis I subscribe to is this: she makes landowners uncomfortable.

It is hard to put your finger on exactly why.

Maybe it is the way she looks you up and down, assessing the inches of you as if she were a Society columnist, thinking up the ink she will spill to describe your outfit and personage and finding it wanting.

Perhaps it is the way she refuses to enter via the front door, but always emerges unexpected through the tradespersons’ entrance (or, in one memorable occasion, the chimney) and demands a strong drink upon being welcomed into your abode.

Some would say that it’s the music that accompanies her, a great thrashing of noise and wailing that emerges from her pocket every time her watch chimes the hour. It is not without its sonorous and melodic qualities, but it is usually *quite* startling.

Or, when you get down to it, maybe it’s the way she is with the ghosts.

Most exorcists approach a job as a kind of battle of skill, will or guile. Even the gentlest of them usually only go so far as to help the pre-ceased become fully deceased, by finishing whatever mortal business still tethers them.

‘The ghost catcher’ does not expel the spirit from this realm. She takes them away with her.

When she approaches a spectre, she speaks to it in a way that is difficult to describe. In some ways, you might hear the sound of it as ‘crooning’. A soft, but insistent call runs its ice fingers up your back and makes your geese bump. Do you want to run far away? Do you want to follow wherever she goes? The answer is yes.

In other ways, you might describe her monologue to the departed as ‘banter’. She offers them a glug of her drink, she shares a bawdy wink or two, and she speaks in a way that makes you feel both utterly at home and as if you’ve heard something quite scandalous.

Then, after she has conversed with them for some time (hours, maybe days, once just minutes - though she seemed quite dissatisfied with that ghost), she takes out her pocket watch and opens it and with a soft susurrus and a slurp of ectoplasm, in goes the ghost.

On her way out, if the watch chimes, it does so with one more voice added to its chorus.

Few know what she does with the ghosts once she leaves.

But I’ll tell you a secret. It may even be true.

I once saw her out at a music hall. I don’t usually attend such lowbrow events, but a friend had dared me and so there I was, my church-glass monocle close to popping.

I am glad it was only close to popping, for the sacred glass it is made of meant that I could see her, the ‘ghost catcher’.

She was in the wings, directing the various performers back and forth.

Only, the performers were not human. With my close eye, I could tell each was a construction of brass and silk, containing a ghost.

Without my monocle, it would have been impossible to tell. Audience members even got up onto the stage to dance and sing with some of the ghastly constructions.

I saw them in the bar afterwards, enjoying generous snifters of brandy that - even for that liquor - was long past ingestible. Dead brandy for dead performers.

Yes, indeed, there are some who call this dame of the dead ‘the ghost catcher’. But the ghosts have another name for her.

The ghosts just call her ‘Madame’.

[whateverthehellthisisdnd]

Session Recap, Sprin’torel Campaign: Apotheosis

Continuing on with Anya’s trials, Whisper finds herself in an arena along with Adoraor. The only instructions they are given are “win”. They are then put through a series of battles that get increasingly difficult, only ending when they have survived every round of combat. 

Next up is the trial of Thrills, which sees Whisper paired up with Twiggy to fight a pack of hellhounds with the instruction “be prepared”. 

Following that is the test of honor, which sees Whisper and Isao bound to each other back to back, being told to “survive together” as the face down giants in a fittingly titled two headed giant battle. 

After three trials of combat, Whisper is ushered into a stone chamber where Thia is waiting for her, the two being confronted with a ghostly form of Justiana and the instructions “there are no secrets among friends”. The two struggle to come up with secrets they have still kept from each other. As they consider how to proceed, Thia heals some of Whisper’s injuries and Whisper tells Thia that she picked a good partner in Isao and that she is happy for her before confessing her own shortcomings when it comes to relationships, leading up to her confessing that she has feelings for Adoraor. In the interest of full disclosure, Thia tells Whisper that Shade has been spying on her and telling Thia all about her and her family since they arrived at Albatross Reach. Whisper is surprised that they didn’t turn on her as soon as they found out, leading to a heart to heart between the girls about their relationships and all they’ve been through, especially when it comes to Whisper’s family and how she only ever wanted Justiana to be proud of her. Thia tells her that “If she can’t see how amazing you are already, then she doesn’t deserve you.” After all, Whisper is the best at magic, as well as the best friend and almost sister that Thia could have asked for. The girls hug, and whatever is controlling the trials allows them that moment together before Thia fades out and Whisper continues on her way. 

The final room Whisper finds herself in houses a fountain, the gun that she stole from the monikers, and a shadowy figure revealed to be Oriana, who seems to be just as shocked to see Whisper as Whisper is to see her. The instructions they are given are “one life for her’s”. Whisper picks up the gun, prepared to shoot herself so that Anya may return and Oriana may go free, but is stopped by the appearance of a new figure. The new presence is revealed to the trickster Ur god, Baz’d. They tell Whisper not to take the shot as they have plans for the entire group. As the room shifts, the rest of the party appears along with two other figures: Haya and Alma’art, the gods of life and death. They, along with Baz’d, are the last surviving members of the Pantheon. 

Baz’d has many things to explain: his history with Anya, who he calls the Mother of Monsters; the collapse of the world as the Gods have fallen to a point where it is necessary to reset everything and everyone with a new pantheon;  and his history with the party. Baz’d had appeared throughout each of their lives, pulling them together and pushing them towards this point. As Oriana’s mentor, Isao’s army commander, an interference to ensure Frank failed his tests to enter his clan, one of Adoraor’s marks, Whisper’s mysterious drug dealer, the sender of Shade’s visions, the one that brought Twiggy to MoonMoon, and as Aasim - Keithia’s guardian, a front for Baz’d who admits to being her biological father. 

Keithia is expectedly confused and angry by this reveal, even more so when Baz’d admits that they killed her mother Coille (the goddess of the hunt and Thia’s patron) shortly after Keithia was born, as she had overstepped her bounds and wanted nature to overtake society again and also would have killed Keithia if she had survived, something which Thia has a hard time reconciling with the image Baz’d had given her of the goddess as Aasim when she was growing up. Over the course of their conversation, it is further revealed that Baz’d was responsible for the demiplane in which Isao killed Keithia, only furthering her anger towards them. In addition to revealing that Thia has been a child of the gods this entire time, Baz’d also reveal that they created Oriana from the last bit of Wahrwreight’s divinity and that Frank was distant descended from Kovat, giving them divine origins as well. That, of course, leads into the plans Baz’d really wishes to place before the group. 

With this version of the world falling apart, Baz’d faces the prospect of placing all those in it into a stasis while they assemble a new pantheon to rebuild it. They wish for all members of the society to be included in it, presenting them each with their individual titles: 

Shade. The protector, not only of the group but of all forces of nature. You would become The Warden, he who stands watch against those who would do nature harm. Your watch shall continue for all eternity but you won't be alone. Your people shall be returned to their home, and protected from those who would seek them harm. You would have your own wardens to do your work on Sprin'torel so you could protect everything.

Adoraor. Your life has always been one of turmoil. You raised through the ranks to become an assassin to a husband and father to a hero, yet you lived in constant agony over that which you have lost and in fear that loss would come for you again. You would become The God of Change. Whether for good or bad, you would watch over all. After all, the more things change, the more they stay the same.

Frank. Through it all, you stood alongside everyone. In your greatest sadness you stood watch over your friend. You never backed down, And never once held it against anyone all the times they turned their back on you. You would become The God of Loyalty, standing as a paragon for all. You would inspire countless others to protect and stand alongside their friends and allies even in the darkest night, when all is truly lost.

Whisper. Despite your fears and insecurities, nobody here would argue that you are not as powerful as a tsunami - especially when you have been angered. Your strength and your heart has earned you the title of Goddess of the Sea. You would look over not only the creatures of the sea but also those who would sail upon it or even look to the sea for their dreams. None are more deserving than you.

Twiggy. All that you have done, you did to live your best life. From running away from the life of comfort to standing before me as you are now, everything you did, you chose to do freely. As such, you would be The God of Freedom. Around the world, people would look to you as an inspiration for a life of freedom where they may live as they want, And not as others force them to be.

Oriana. You devoted your life to the search for knowledge - even if it caused you the greatest harm and sent you to Carceri. Yet, even while you were there, your punishments were about your friends. As such, You would become The Goddess of Knowledge. Wherever people seek the truth, You will be there to guide their path and their hand. Where people seek to deceive others, You would show them the world as it is real. Knowledge is not simply about the facts, And none know that as well as you.

Isao. You sought redemption, and thanks to those around you, You have finally grown to realise what redemption means most. To forgive yourself. Especially with the help of the one you love most. You would become The God of Redemption. You would look over those who want to put a life of crime behind them and help them to the future where they would be able to forgive themselves. You would show them the path unique to them, using your experience of redemption most fully.

Keithia. None here would say that you are not a hero. Your love for your friends and for others inspired you to greatness. And while that greatness sometimes meant allowing others to stand in the spotlight, that simply cements the fact that you deserve to be the hero that all other heroes look up to. For that, you would become the Goddess of Heroism, standing bravely and boldly as an example of true leadership and heroism. Every child with the dream of wanting to make the world a better place would look to you to figure out how.

If they accept, they will ascend to the new pantheon. If they don’t, they will be returned to the material plane to take their place in the new world. Either way, Baz’d promises that they will be allowed to remain together as they are now and that Shade and Adoraor’s families will be returned to them. Some members of the party jump at the offer, such as Oriana and Shade. Others are more reluctant. Twiggy almost declines, but accepts when he realizes it means that his friends and his dog will live forever alongside him. Adoraor accepts with the promise of his wife and daughter being returned. Whisper, having been the most reluctant besides perhaps Thia, accepts after learning that Miren is dead and the completion of her mission will not bring about the world she was told it would. She disintegrates the gun with her magic before agreeing. Isao tells Thia that he is in if she is, implying that he will also stay with her if she does not accept. With Keithia being the last one to answer, she looks over her friends with a smile despite her anger, kissing Whisper on the cheek and embracing with Isao before turning to her father. She tells them that she does not forgive them for all that they have done to her and that while it may be possible to earn her forgiveness, it will take a long time to get there. She will not do this for their sake or for the world they let crumble, but she will accept to stay with her friends -- her true family -- and look after those she will leave behind when the new world comes to be. With that cementing a yes from everyone, Haya steps forward to write the ascension of the Susurrus Society into godhood. 

And that is where we close the campaign. 

[phoenixiancrystallist]

Gotta love the dichotomy of "everything changed" and "nothing changed at all."

Because the overall themes of my self-insert fic? Still the same! The nitty gritty details? UP IN THE AIR, WOO-HOO!!! 🥳

*sigh* How am I gonna get Bobbi's bitch-ass isekai'd if there's no reason for another Susurrus-like being to be on Earth? Before I had Knell and Flick breaking off from the Rheddig and trying to recruit Sus to help them overthrow the Rheddig leaders. They went after Sus in NY because that piece of him was technically Tanta-less and they figured that portion of him would be the easiest to obtain. It just took them ~15 years to figure out how to replicate a Torana with Rheddig magic, and then when they got there they learned it's surprisingly difficult to find a sentient piece of jewelry in New York. Who knew?

Now, though? Not a fukkin' clue! ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

I refuse to go truck-kun. I want the angst of desperately trying to get home and ultimately choosing to stay, and I can't have that if she ded. She's too genre-savvy. If I get hit by a car and wake up in another world I know damn good and well what that means! Darn it, me!!!! XD

Susurrus being created by a supposedly immortal "greater being" throws a wrench in so many of my plans, too. Especially since I made Knell and Flick beings like him. Keen hasn't changed much; he's the villain and sees himself as superior to Sus. Knell and Flick? ... I might have to track down my notes for when I thought Sus came from a society outside of Rheddah. Those might be the easiest to convert.

I'm sure I can finagle everything to work, it's just gonna take a whole lot of time and effort. ...and a lot of on-the-clock daydreaming >w>

[thegildedcentury]

On Dealing With Sharks

If you run afoul of shark society, the most important thing is not to panic, and keep an open mind.  The sharks will gently restrain you and an elder shark will teach you the secret language of sharks, a surprisingly understated, susurrus tongue.  They will then tell you of their greatest hunts, of lustful feeding frenzies and how they followed a trail of blood to the ends of the ocean and had to face their wounded prey while they were famished and exhausted.  Finally they will demand a tale of hunting from you.  It can be a hunt for anything: an animal, a job, love, a toy you wanted as a child and never received, anything you hunger deeply for.  If you give the sharks a poor tale they will release you and sulk away, disgusted.  If you give the sharks a tale that's merely adequate they will tear you to pieces, for sharks hate nothing more than mediocrity.  If you give the sharks a good, ripping yarn they will carry you to shore and you will have garnered favor with the shark god, a being of teeth and hunger that resides at benthic ocean depths light has never touched, and from where no shark has ever returned.  No matter what happens, a big chunk of your day will have been wasted.

[21stcenturydiogenes-blog]

Lunkhead: What is your impression of the Susurrus Society? Are they everything you expected them to be?

“They’re all good people. I thought they would be more .... weird in how they do things, but I guess that may have been stretched. But I like weird. Gregori and Sarafi were weird. A lot of them remind me of those two. I’m sure they will become amazing heroes.”

[cruelfeline]

I'm currently reading the second Temeraire book, and after an unfortunate encounter with a sea serpent, Temeraire and Laurence have an uncomfortable conversation about the dragons' place in English society. To summarize it, Temeraire questions whether the dragons' circumstances make them little more than slaves, while Laurence does his best to try to convince him that this isn't so. With... not much success, really.

What caught my attention, though, was how Laurence tried to draw some sort of parallel between the dragons and himself, talking about how they must all serve their King and Country. He tries to portray it as a noble thing: sacrificing and doing one's duty because it is the honorable, moral thing to do.

And to the surprise of no one, it's making me think of Susurrus.

The way Laurence talks about his own blind English servitude as if it's some sort of honor rather than a society-enforced position he has little power in reminds me of how Sus talks about his duty.

There's this sense of looking at a shitty, oppressive situation and trying to portray it as something righteous and noble and great.

There's nothing great about blindly serving one's King and Country. Neither care about you. Neither would sacrifice for you the way they demand you do for them. Insisting that it's something grand is, as far as I'm concerned, a way of coping with the reality if serving someone or something that doesn't even care to know your name.

The way Cuff talks about his purpose gives me the same vibe: he's talking up a role he didn't choose and that he can't escape, making a noble duty out of what is little more than a working prison.

I suppose Laurence at least chose to join the armed forces. Susurrus didn't even have that.

[scoundrelishgirl]

Earth-Talker

Tara buckled on the thermosuit, feeling her way between the clips. The Bauson had explained to her on the surface how to put it on, but now that she was down near the cave entrance, her fingers had become clumsy versions of themselves, the buckles slipping out of her grasp like wet soap. She snorted in frustration as she tried, for the third time, to catch the loop of fastenings near her wrist. “Here, let me.” Namia’s voice cut across her frustration. Tara let out a long, pent-up breath and focused on where the Force told her Namia’s face was. Namia and Master Samukay had accompanied them to Kankara to act as point guards while she and Master Dor collected data. It had been while they were planet-bound that the opportunity had arisen to record the dying words of the Ayezi, the matriarch of the Multvurf, a secretive subterranean species on the frozen planet. Tara had gladly accepted the mission, but Namia had insisted on accompanying her to the lower levels where she would don the life-saving thermosuit. When Tara had tried to refuse, Namia had pointed out that Davin’s hoverchair would not be able to negotiate the stairs to the lower levels, and that there should be another Jedi to keep watch. She hadn’t listened when Tara pointed out that Davin was perfectly capable of wearing the set of exos that the Healers kept suggesting. Namia had found a reason why that wouldn’t work either. She’d even gone so far as to sit in the briefings about the Multvurf society. Tara had appealed to Davin for help, but her Master had teased her about having two Masters and simply told her that it was adorable . Tara did not find it adorable. It was irritating. Irritating that despite how far she’d come, Namia still insisted on treating her like something to be coddled and kept safe. Sometimes Tara felt her girlfriend was suffocating her with the desire to keep her as close as she could as if that would somehow undo what had been done to her. “I’m fine,” she said grimly, as Namia’s fingers caught her arm and pulled it gently towards her. Tara gritted her teeth. “Don’t be silly,” Namia said softly, “I’ve got it. It’s a bit hard for you to get.” Tara’s fingers curled into a fist. It didn’t seem to matter that it had been two years since she’d come home. It didn’t matter what she’d achieved in those two years. Didn’t matter that she could now use the Force to navigate, which often meant that she didn’t need the help her friends so readily and eagerly offered. Tara couldn’t help but feel that what had happened to her had changed the dynamic of their relationship to something she didn’t like. Somehow Namia was trying to be her Master, her parent, and her lover all at the same time. This mission had kicked the protective side of Namia into overgear. “The catch on your shoulder isn’t done as well as it could be, I could get that too.” The words raked themselves down Tara’s spine and left a bitter taste in her mouth. Tara snatched her hand away, taking a step back. The words spilt from her mouth before she could stop them. “I’m not a child, Namia. I’m not a newly shorn padawan, either. Nor a doll for you to fix and care for. I’m me. I’m blind but I’m not useless.” She could still feel where Namia’s fingers had been, so firm on her arm. The cold wind that emanated from the cave whispered along the spots where Namia’s fingers had touched. It burnt and Tara bit the inside of her lip to stop herself from apologising. Instead, she clenched her jaw. “This is my mission. When I get down to the Multvurf I’m going to have to manage the suit by myself. I have to know how to do it.” She took a breath, trying to find her centre, but instead hit a wall of anxiety and anger. “I didn’t realise,” Namia said quietly, “I’m sorry, Tara, I-” “Never realise. Never think about how I feel when you mother me.” The words kept falling; the vehemence of her own voice startling her. She was less controlled than she would like. All the fear and worry about stepping into the unknown, the feeling of not being able to be herself around her friend, the overwhelming feeling that she was going to fail. That she would somehow stuff up and that would be the end of her ― down in the neverending cold. “I didn’t realise you felt-” Namia started again. Tara felt her friend take a step towards her. “Suffocated. I feel suffocated,” she spat back. She knew she was being unreasonable, but the feel of the thermosuit against her skin and the dangers ahead had clouded any ability to think rationally. “You make me feel suffocated,” Tara hissed angrily, not caring how much the words hurt. She couldn’t see Namia’s facial expressions, but she could feel the spiral of confused anguish across their bond. “I don’t understand. I thought we were-” “Lovers? Friends? It won’t matter soon enough. You’ll go off and become a knight. Like everything else you ever do, you’ll sail through it without issue.” Tara bent down and hastily jammed her archivist gear into her bag. “While I’ll be stuck as a padawan, still needing people to look out for me, because I’m somehow less than a Jedi.” There. That phrase. The one that played in her head in the early hours of the morning. Less than a Jedi. “No one sees you like that,” Namia tried. Tara could hear the whispers of the Force surround her as her friend took another step towards her. She threw up her shields to blanket the sound. “Everyone sees me like that. Less than a Jedi. The blind padawan. The one who needs her friends to watch out and over her. When you’re off talking to politicians in the Senate, I’ll still be here ― an archivist. A simple story-keeper. Staying in the shadows where I belong.” The suit itched as it sat hot against her skin. The stupid thing summarised her entire life ― covered, protected, suffocated to make sure she survived. “Tara, that’s not fair. I won’t forget about you.” Namia’s unwillingness to match her anger, to rise to the bait, somehow made her more insufferable. Tara slid her arms through the straps of the backpack and picked up her helmet. She shot what she hoped was her most withering glance in Namia’s direction. “I kind of hope you do.” She shoved her helmet over her head and swung the catch so that it snicked closed. Inside the suit felt hot and she could hear her own breathing over the insistent murmurings of the Force. She turned and made her way towards the entrance of the tunnels, telling herself not to look back, even as her bond with Namia screamed with pain. * Tara followed the narrow winding corridors. It was calmer down here. The Force, which merely whispered on the outside world, now hummed its own melody. The Multvurf rarely came to the surface, preferring the almost pitch-black corridors that ran, warren-like, under the permafrost surface of Kankara. The Bauson, or surface-dwellers as the Multvurf called them, said it was because the Multvurf had been banished to the freezing depths long ago for some terrible crime. The two species shared, at least according to the archives, some common ancestor, but their relationship was now strained. It had, apparently, been at the insistence of their wise women, their Ayezi, that one had braved the surface at all to request the presence of the ‘ones that listen to the earth’. The Bauson had warned them that the tunnels were pitch-black and that the Multvurf did not allow light, as it offended the Holy Dark. The Bauson had said that in the depths the darkness was so dense that it would suffocate the unwary. They had not wanted them to go, but Tara had insisted ― an archivist’s job was to collect all the stories of the universe, no matter how dangerous. She could still remember the argument that had flared at her initial declaration. Namia had insisted that it was too dangerous for Tara and she would do it, Master Samukay had wondered whether she was physically able to take the strain of the apparent freezing conditions, and Tara had stood her ground trading barbs and counterpoints with equal ferocity. Eventually it had been Master Dor who’d settled the matter when he’d pointed out that the darkness would pose no problem to someone who couldn’t see. Now she strode cautiously down the slopes. She could no longer hear the wind that rattled Kankara’s surface, and the thermosuit had become uncomfortably warm. She could feel the prickle of sweat across her back. The Force sang to her, showing her the uneven floor, a dip in the ceiling, a fork in the road. It trilled that there was a life-form ahead and Tara slowed. “You the earth-speaker?” The voice was strong and bright and at odds with the ever-present sensation of being swallowed by the soil. “I am,” Tara said quietly. “You do not need your armour, earth-speaker,” the voice said. “We do not live on the surface where the wind howls. Mother Earth keeps us warm.” Tara paused, listening to the babble of the Force around her. There was no hiss of treachery, just a quiet susurrus that gathered together and threaded itself into a song full of trust and patient curiousity. She shook her head, not trusting the speaker or the melody. The Bauson had said the air down here was too cold for her to survive long and she had no intention of dying in the dark, despite her thoughts when she had been arguing with Namia. “If it’s alright, I’ll keep it on. I’m Jedi Padawan Tara Tarindae,” she said, bowing as best she could and feeling the beads of sweat gather and run down her back. “Are you Multvurf?” “We are the earth-movers. I am Juriska,” the voice said. Tara sent a tentative Force probe but could only make out the vague outline ahead of her. “Keep the suit if you wish, but Mother Earth protects us and she will protect you too, earth-talker. The gifts of the Bauson only promise danger.” Tara stood her ground. After a moment, there was a low chuckle. “Please yourself. I shall take you to Ayezi now.” The Multvurf turned and headed down a corridor. Tara followed, feeling more and more uncomfortable with every step. By the time they stopped again, she was light-headed. The Force buffeted and sang to her, murmuring that she was surrounded by more bodies she couldn’t see. Ahead of her was a figure, shining bright in the vision the Force gave her in the darkness. This was the Ayezi. “Juriska, why does the earth-talker still wear her armor?” The new voice, which came from the shining dark figure, was old and grated with the sound of rock on rock. “She will not listen to me, Ayezi. She believed the surface-dwellers, that our homes are inhospitable. She sees nothing but light and does not believe in the comfort of the darkness.” Tara stood silently, biting her lip in an effort to remain upright. Every part of her felt soaked to the bone with sweat. “I came to listen to your story,” she said softly. “Take off your armor.” The Ayezi’s voice was granite firm. “Once you are fed and watered, once your feet are cemented in the touch of the earth’s grace, once you reveal yourself to the wonders of the dark, then I shall tell you my story. Tara breathed out slowly. The Force murmured and hummed around her, reminding her that she was safe. Slowly, she reached up and unhooked her helmet. The relief as the cooler air hit her skin was almost palpable. There was a hiss from the surrounding Multvurf. “She cannot see,” a new voice said from the darkness before it was quickly hushed by another. Tara frowned, turning her head this way and that to catch the tiny whispers of conversation. “Look,” Ayezi whispered, her gravelly voice resonating with pleasure. “She is of the dark like us. The earth-mother sent one of the darkness. She will understand that not everything is of the light. She will tell our story.” There was a murmuring of agreement from around the cavern. “You should remove the rest,” Juriska said curtly. Tara raised an eyebrow. Under the rest of the suit she was not wearing very much. Juriska snorted. “The earth-talker is modest, Ayezi, she fears revealing her true self.” “Come, child, you are of the darkness,” Ayezi said and then laughed. “I know you. Although you do not think of yourself as a child anymore, you are still but a babe in my arms. You want all the trappings of adulthood but you are too terrified of what they might bring.” Tara frowned, wondering how the Ayezi knew that. There was another throaty chuckle. “You are not the only one the earth talks too. Remove your armor and then sit by me.” Tara slowly peeled off the suit, her fingers struggling with the clasps. The Multvurf stayed silent and unmoving around her, watching and waiting. It was so different from the surface, where everyone would rush to help her. Down here she was expected to be competent. The thought scared her as her fingers slipped over clasps and buckles. Down here they expected her to be more than a Jedi.

Earth-Talker Eventually she stepped out of the leggings, shivering slightly as her sweat-soaked shift caught the breeze. The cave was neither stifling warm nor icy cold. Instead, it hovered at what Tara would have thought was an acceptable temperature if she hadn’t been standing bare-legged in a wet, thin shift. For a second she felt panicky without a protective layer of clothing, but the Force whispered that down here she was safe. “Blankets and a drink for our earth-talker,” The Ayezi said quietly, “and then we shall begin.” Tara sank almost gratefully onto the cool loam floor. The rich smell of earth surrounded her, and a sense of peace she hadn’t felt for a long time filtered through. The tense friendships and the self-doubt and anger that had existed on the surface seemed to sink into the soil. Someone draped a blanket around her shoulders and pushed a mug of something steaming and hot into her hands. It smelled rich, spiced and warm. Tara placed it gently down onto the floor and retrieved her recording equipment. That sense of peace filled her again. This was her mission, her purpose. Here, now. This was what the Force had preordained for her. The listener and keeper of untold stories. This was what would make her ‘enough’ for the Jedi. Here in the cool earth. She was sure of it.

"Let us begin."

[kootenaygoon]

"Nanor and the River Eels" by Will Johnson The Adams River contains a queer magic only detectable to those who trouble to learn her song. There’s an electric undercurrent in even the most placid of eddies, and the roaring power of the rapids can be felt far beyond her seductive shorelines. She is the throbbing lifeblood of the Shuswap, a phantasmagoria of violence, chaos and intoxicating beauty, and she thunders along relentless while human beings live short and brutal lives under her beguiling influence. She barely notices each time her currents claim a life, as cold corpses bounce against the riverbed, and her machinations are beyond human comprehension. She has a grand plan, but nobody knows what it is. Shuswap Joe spent his formative years living among the Indigenous fisherfolk who had saved him as a baby, but the river was the closest thing he ever had to a mother. She woke him in the morning, whispered to him in a soothing susurrus all day long, then sang him to sleep in his solitary home high among the trees. Every night he would lay listening to the forest’s tumult of groaning, creaking conversation and wonder where he fit into this world. He had no way to know it, but he was quickly becoming the spitting image of his strapping gold miner father while adopting the lifestyle of his gypsy hermit mother. All he could do was imagine who they were, but he also understood that time only flows in one direction. It’s useless to fight the current for very long.

Long after sunset one night Shuswap Joe was pondering his parentage, at 12 years old, when the night came alive with a strange electricity. Above him the moon had a skeletal scowl, and the surrounding trees all stood silent, as if holding their breath. Instinctively he rolled on to his stomach and gazed down from his nest to the river, scanning the moon-glinting surface for any sign of intruders. Earlier that season he’d gotten into a friendly tussle with a black bear over a fresh salmon, so he had a healthy appreciation for the dangers of wildlife, but he knew that the true villains were always human. With their guns, their alcohol, their greed. He was entranced and frightened by these settlers, and wondered if one day he would join their sordid ranks. He looked down in the direction of the weir, a large wooden dam that had been recently constructed near the river’s mouth. Multiple sluice channels were open, allowing the lake to tumble through in tandem torrents, creating a soothing soundscape perfect for his sleeping hours. At first Joe could see nothing out of place, and he nearly disregarded the strange clench in his stomach. But then, from out of the darkness, came a slow-moving tree trunk that was half-submerged in the current. Its waving branches clawed maliciously at the sky. Mounted at the front was a flickering torch that illuminated the purple waters surrounding it, as well as the limp body of a dead logger lashed at its base. Perched atop the black wood like some giant arachnid was a hooded figure with long bone-white limbs. He manipulated the branches in slow, sweeping motions, and expertly guided the trunk around the bend without a sound. It was only a handful of moments before he was gone, leaving Joe to wonder if he’d been asleep or awake for this disturbing vision. Was he some sort of demon? A watery death spirit that lived on human flesh? The next night, as the moon took its rightful place among the stars, Joe waited crouched and shin-deep on the riverbank. He had become skilled at navigating the river using the detritus of the forest, careening through rapids atop a rolling log or swimming through the Canyon using a broken branch for flotation. That night he’d chosen an elbow-shaped branch, the bark peeled clean, to help him tail the spectre from the night before. And when he eventually appeared, his torch casting ominous shadows across the surface, Joe shoved into the current and allowed the river to talk hold of him. With the branch wrapped around his chest he bobbed in the darkness as the water lapped around his cheekbones. He gazed up at the silhouetted trees, which were all whispering with suspicious voices. They understood the danger he was in, whether or not he did. Eventually the current began to rumble and rage as they approached the rapid known as the Lion’s Head. Joe could see a billowing pillow of water pummelling a proud boulder directly ahead of the hellish raft, the waves hopelessly yearning for the exposed roots of a grove of trees at its zenith. His legs bounced against the jagged rocks beneath him and twice his branch was completely submerged. He fought to stay afloat. Far ahead he heard a high-pitched keening, like the song of some demented bird, echoing amidst the chaos. Was the man singing? Joe expected the man to pivot his trunk downstream, towards safety, but instead he seemed intent on driving it straight into the rock wall. Blinking through the waves, rivulets pouring from his face, he watched as multiple whirlpools gaped open on cue and swirled hungrily. The river’s grumble escalated to a thunderous roar and he kicked furiously, pointing towards the flickering flame. He was vaguely aware of the man’s skeletal arms waving towards the moon and then his body was forcibly yanked underwater. It was as if someone had grasped him by both ankles. He didn’t have time to scream or panic or fight before being consumed by the blackness. The next thing Joe knew he was retching the contents of his stomach on to wet stone. It was cool to the touch. Above him was a curved ceiling alive with dancing light, illuminated by a glowing pool beneath it. He wiped away bile with the back of his hand and examined his surroundings, dimly aware that the roar of the Lion’s Head waves were now on the other side of the wall. He rose to his feet and scanned his surroundings, his gaze eventually falling upon the snake-like limbs of the man he’d been chasing. Nestled into the twisted white roots of a tree and bathed in shadow, he looked exactly like some giant spider ready to devour him. As Joe stood agape, the man unfurled himself from his cross-legged perch and crawled towards him on all fours. His face was a horror to behold, with fiery red veins shooting through his ice white skin like river channels. His grin was a red ravage of broken teeth. “Why have you intruded upon my lair, boy? Do I not frighten you?” Joe considered for a moment, dripping. “Nothing frightens me.” He laughed. “That’s because you’re drunk on youth, and a stranger to the darkness. There’s plenty in this world that should frighten you, as it does me.” “And who are you, exactly?” “Most don’t even believe I’m real, and the rest wish I wasn’t. My name is Nanor, and it’s my job to ferry those the river claims to their final resting place. A gruesome job, perhaps, but one that needs to be done.” Nanor was perched above Joe on a rock ledge, dressed in nothing but a soiled loincloth, and his shoulder blades violently jutted out like sinister wings. He clambered down the rock on all fours until he was inches from Joe’s face, the stench of his breath thick with brimstone. His eyebrows and hair were bleached snow white but a few curled black whiskers hung from his chin. There was no way to judge how old he was, but it was clear he’d survived long past his natural lifespan. There was a strange twitch to his muscles, a jolting quality to his movements, that suggested he was being controlled by some power apart from himself. Joe forced himself to stand his ground, never backing away as the man swooped and spat his way through a meandering monologue. It was clear he hadn’t spoken to anyone for a very long time. The story began decades earlier, when Nanor was a young man flush with mining ambitions. He’d grown up alongside a woman named Lenore, and upon reaching manhood had promised to save enough money for their marriage. He set out with his rucksack into the wilderness, and signed on with an outfit that was exploring deeper and deeper into a mountain rich with silver. At the end of each day he would take off his boots and marvel at how the mud sparkled, how this precious substance had been buried and hidden among all the worthless rock. He became addicted to its sheen, scrabbling ever harder and digging ever deeper in search of its lustre. By the time he’d saved enough for a ring he knew that it wouldn’t be enough, he had to keep accumulating. They could buy an acreage, with a nice little farmhouse, lousy with farm animals and screaming with life. It was this beautiful dream that kept him spelunking further and further into the black crevices far beneath the ground. Sometimes he would forget how it was above the surface, up in the sunshine, as he became increasingly acclimatized to his subterranean solitude. “Some people think this world is here for us to ransack, to rape, and I should’ve known all that time I was yearning for silver that it would have a cost one day. That’s what you’re going to learn, kid, is there’s a cost to everything. Especially dreams.” “What happened to that woman, then?” “She had her own dreams, I guess.” The day came eventually when Nanor returned to the surface with his bounty, only to find his skin had turned translucent from its time away from the daylight. When he turned his face to the sky, basking in the sun’s warm kiss, he instantly felt a sharp sting. His cheeks split open like bacon crackling on a spit, and furious red sores erupted across his forehead and down his neck. He retreated into the darkness with licks of grey smoke curling up from his burning flesh, and when he covered his face with his hands they came away covered in an oozing pus. For days he writhed in agony, applying wet bandages that made him look mummified and horrific, as he lamented Lenore’s imagined response to this condition. How could she love someone like him, a nocturnal ghoul incapable of living among the rest of society? He couldn’t and wouldn’t ask that of her, so he convinced the mining company to issue a letter in which they informed her of his death by tragic accident. It was kinder that way. For months Nanor lived in the wilds, traveling only by night and burrowing underground during the day. Eventually he happened upon a traveling circus, and shortly after sundown he approached a mad scientist by the name of Dr. Klondike. Nanor had been impressed by his performance the day earlier, in which he introduced a number of exotic animals procured from faraway lands. He whipped blankets off water tanks that housed not only giant fish, but also squids and stingrays and all manner of bizarre aquatic creatures. The stars of his little show, though, were the electric river eels he’d retrieved from the Amazon River. While the crowd hooted in delirious delight, Dr. Klondike danced across the stage with an intricately carved flute that produced a trance-like, elegiac melody. It roused the river eels to the surface slowly, until they began to leap into the air shooting bursts of electricity and singing in their otherworldly voices. Nanor watched those river eels dance, transfixed, and knew he had to claim them for himself. It was rumoured that their electricity could cure all kinds of afflictions, why not his? “How do you kidnap a river eel, though?” Joe asked, genuinely interested. “Can they survive out of water?” Nanor shook his head. “I couldn’t steal the eels themselves, but I could steal their eggs. That night I brought Dr. Klondike a jug of his favourite hooch, and together we drank long into the night. That was when he confessed that he had a new clutch of eggs, fresh, that he’d nestled away for safekeeping. Before the liquor swept him off to unconsciousness I convinced him to show me the hiding spot. He had them swaddled in a blanket, like the baby Christ, three dark green eggs with white spots. I stole off into the night with them hidden beneath my cloak.” As Nanor spoke the pool behind him began to swirl, and Joe saw the twisted spines of river eels beginning to break the surface. One of them leaped into the air and belched up a lightning storm, illuminating the cavern, but his master barely noticed. He was too caught up in his story-telling, describing to Joe the healing effect the eels’ electricity had on him. He’d hatched the eggs beneath the Lion’s Head and watched as they grew and multiplied, growing ever smarter. He would wring their bodies in his hands until they fired their electricity straight into his veins. Under the influence of the eel’s magic he felt like he understood the world in a way he couldn’t otherwise, like the drab darkness of his existence was suddenly shot through with rainbows of throbbing energy. Eventually he couldn’t stand ordinary reality, and he returned more and more often to the river eels for his next jolt of life-giving inspiration. “What’s it feel like?” Joe asked. “The electricity, I mean.” Nanor flashed his broken teeth. “If you want to understand, you have to experience it for yourself. It’s different for everyone. The river eels know what lesson you need to learn, and how to teach it to you.” “Is it dangerous?” “Of course it is. It wouldn’t be any fun if it wasn’t.” Joe stood above the pool and watched in wonder as the river eels slithered and slid over each other. Behind him Nanor produced a flute, just like the one he’d described Dr. Klondike having, and lifted it to his lips. Music filled the chamber as Joe plunged his hands into the water and grabbed two of the dark green creatures. They struggled and writhed as he lifted them from the water, their mouths gaping open in panic. He watched with fascination as white flashes crackled from his palms, making his hair stand on end. Then one of them turned towards him and spoke a single word: “slave”. The vision that appeared before Joe’s eyes in that moment has long been immortalized in song. Untethered from time, and released from the restrictions of his mortal body, he felt himself fighting through the current of the Adams River as a spawning salmon. He felt the pinch of talons and flew dripping above the trees in the clutches of an eagle. The earth hummed as men chopped rhythmically at trees hundreds of years older than them, as they ferried the bobbing logs down the current and out to Shuswap Lake. He saw whiskey-fuelled street brawls and danced manic to the ragtime tomfoolery of the nearby settlements. He saw himself bearded and proud, commanding other men, then saw an explosion in the forest that left his cohorts blackened and coughing. Finally he saw a woman, looking over her shoulder at him, her light brown hair flapping in the wind. She was braced on a makeshift raft that was approaching the Adams Canyon, and on her face was a look of fearful determination. She was ready for whatever was coming. “The future is coming whether you’re ready for it or not,” the woman said. “You already know what you’re supposed to do.” “No, I don’t.” “You do, boy. Listen to the river.” Joe closed his eyes, allowing the current to drown out these visions, and the scene transformed. He was in the midst of circus tents billowing in the evening wind, turning in circles to get his bearings. Suddenly a much younger, much more human-looking version of Nanor bulled into him. He rushed past with an unfriendly growl, his cloak flapping, and moments later Joe found himself in the tent of Dr. Klondike. The river eels banged against their tank walls as Nanor chased the crazed scientist around the room, ultimately pinning him to the dirt and strangling the life from him while they shrieked. He watched as Nanor tipped the body into the tank, watched the eels tear their master into tiny wriggling pieces, and watched as the murderer cackled. Human blood dribbled from the edges of his mouth, and in his eyes was a deranged intoxication — he was now hooked on death. The dreams began to come more rapidly, swirling storm-like before his eyes before dissipating just as quickly. Nanor swept from the darkness, clutching unsuspecting humans and quickly dispatching them with his wormy fingers around their throats. Joe watched as he grabbed first a fancily dressed courtesan, and then a wealthy businessman, and finally a drunken logger. He didn’t discriminate when it came to class or gender or profession — he chose his victims at random, and came without warning. Repeatedly Joe saw the ghostly death trunk floating down the river, a fresh body lashed to it, ready to be fed to the river eels. It was true, what Nanor had told him, that he was addicted to their aquatic electricity, but he hadn’t mentioned the cost. To keep himself alive, others needed to die. Joe’s eyes filled with tears as he felt the grief of countless families, as he witnessed rainy funerals with empty coffins. From among the crowd of mourners came the woman again, his love, and she took his face in her hands. “Don’t be afraid now. Trust the river, it will bring you to me.” “He’s killing people, though. He’s feeding people to his river eels.” “There’s no shortage of darkness in this world, Joe. You don’t have to fight every battle. You’re just a boy.” “Soon I’ll be a man.” She smiled sadly. “I was worried you might say that.” Their conversation was suddenly interrupted when Nanor’s teeth sunk into his shoulder, abruptly ending his reverie. The river eels were screeching with delight, splashing in their pool, as he reeled forward and shook off his foe. They grappled then, clutching at one another in a macabre dance, their bare feet slipping on the wet stone. Lightning flashed, the light bouncing prismatic off the cavern walls. A few times Nanor’s teeth came chomping within inches of Joe’s face, but finally he hoisted the man over his head and hurled him against the wall with a mighty crash. Pebbles and then rocks began to bounce around them, the walls of their cave trembling, and then the Adams River came crashing in. Nanor surged through the racing water and they tussled amidst the waves, punching and grunting. The water rose around their stomachs, and then their chests, until finally they were being sucked into the early morning light. All around them the river eels cheered as they soared past, free from their dank confines. Joe nearly lost consciousness, but then his head broke the surface. Nanor was nowhere to be seen. Shortly later Joe dragged himself on to a rocky beach, crawling on hands and knees until he collapsed in the sand bleeding and exhausted. Just behind him came the logger’s corpse, which bumped along limp in the shallows. The sky was baby blue overhead, and for a long time he lay listening to the stoic creak of the trees. He was alive, on purpose, and suddenly his surroundings seemed that much more beautiful. He’d felt the seductive allure of death, looked her in Nanor’s ravaged face, and come out the other side. The woman from his dream was right; the future was coming whether he liked it or not, and the time had come for him to leave the Adams River behind. He was done with all its tragedy, all its pageantry and bizarre magic. He wanted to find his place amidst the rest of humanity, a place that didn’t include vampires or river eels. The woman had told him to listen to the river, and the river was telling him to run away as fast as he could. And so it came to pass that Joe lugged the dead logger’s body on to the beach and stripped it of its clothing. He pulled on a pair of patched blue jeans, stuffed them into a soggy pair of black boots, then donned the man’s red flannel shirt. He didn’t know it at the time, but this would be his outfit for the remainder of his days on this planet. Running his fingers through his hair and admiring his reflection in the river’s surface, he said a quick prayer to the power that had sustained him until this moment. “One day I will return, but until then I ask that you carry me to whatever future awaits. I am not afraid, nor will I ever be. Nanor was wrong; I’ve seen the darkness but still believe in the light.” The river didn’t answer with human words, but Joe understood them all the same. He stood and began making his way into the trees as behind him the morning came alive with the song of river eels.

The Kootenay Goon