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theorememes2026-01-03 07:00 am
TDM #2, arc 1.2: as she bends toward the sun
I sing for you and me
I sing across the sky
To find a place of life
Where all of this is true
I bring this into you❞
BUFF
For those who are bonded to the Fathomless, they will, one night, wake up from a startling dream in which they remembered a memory they had forgotten, or had glossed over.
DEBUFF
Bonded of the Empty Machine will experience insatiable hunger this month, and will never feel satisfied no matter how much they eat.
At first, you feel a pull. In which direction, you do not know. When a portal of shimmering black and glittering stars appears in front of you, it only seems natural to step into it. On the journey, it is as if you see everything: ancient galaxies wheeling through space, cultures born and growing and leaving their planets, lights creeping over landmasses and them winking out all at once. You see the hungry arm of a black hole, an enigmatic smile under a mirrored mask, a fist clenched tight around an endless sword. Fangs shining in starlight, bandaged feet that have traveled so many miles and still remain sturdy, and code shattering under titanium will.
And then your feet touch solid ground again, and what you have seen is suddenly hard to recall, the merest of glimpses springing to mind when you try to think back.
All you know is that you witnessed something enormous, something you probably shouldn't have seen.
As you struggle to refocus your gaze, all you see for a long moment is white. White walls, white floor. Narrow white cots lined up against a wall, screens blinking above them in tones of soothing aqua and mint. You are in a medbay — a highly advanced one, given the lack of bulky machinery — but perhaps the most eye-catching thing about the room is a long window showing endless black and twinkling stars outside.
Before you can give voice to any thoughts, a small robot flutters toward you, and perches on the back of a chair. "Hello, Wayfarer!" the birdform chirps cheerfully. "I imagine you must have many questions; allow me to enlighten you! You have fallen victim to a quantum accident and have been pulled to another universe, but the Ascendants, in their generosity, intercepted your signal and brought you here so that you did not wind up in empty space. You are aboard the Theorem of the Astral Rose; our mission is to explore uncharted space and search for the Song!"
They pause, thinking, their little blue eye aglow, and then brighten.
"Oh! Introductions are in order! I am Starling's Lament in Flight, but you may call me Starling's Lament. I am one of the Hosts of this exploration vessel; we will do everything we can to ensure a safe voyage for you. Unfortunately, at this moment, we cannot send you home. The Ascendants have indicated that their search for the Song may play some key role in doing so." They whistle a merry tune. "Please enjoy your stay! The other Wayfarers are currently on planet Epsilon-355, you may join them at any time!"
And so, you take a shuttle down to the planet; an orb of a nearly unbroken gold landmass and pale pink clouds scudding across the surface. On the journey, the pilot Host recites for you why this planet was picked: it is a possible match for a planet mentioned in a story about the Last Pilgrim, one of the most enigmatic of the Edicts. If there are scraps of the Song to be found, it may be in the path they traveled there.
PLANET TYPE: arid world
ORBITAL CHARACTERISTICS: close orbit to native sun, no eccentricities in orbit
ROTATION PERIOD: 31 hour days, 405 day year
NATURAL RESOURCES: iron-rich silicate, limonite, titanium oxides, sodium, nickel
BREATHABLILITY INDEX: safe for humanoid respiration
WEATHER PATTERNS: occasional sandstorms, very little rain
LANDMASS: 98% of planet
AVERAGE TEMPERATURE: 31c
SURFACE GRAVITY: average
BIOSIGNATURES: indicates a narrow range of native life
ARTIFICIAL STRUCTURES: none found
On-planet, activity is bustling.
Research & Archives pinpointed a clue in the story that would make finding the Last Pilgrim's trail easier to find: a pathway of bones that the caravan traveled upon. It is unknown how long this pathway is, or even if it still exists, depending on how long ago that story came from.
Science & Engineering, meanwhile, concluded that the golden sand of this planet is wholly unlike the sand of other deserts, made up of not just silicon dioxide and fossilized marine life, but of many inert chemicals and minerals, a scattered rainbow of compositions. Epsilon-355 was, they concluded, at one point the closest planet to its sun, and that has sown a strange field upon it: the golden ash and viscera of a star's fiery tempest and the powdered remains of a destroyed moon. It is, quite literally, made from stardust and moondust. The glass that litters the sands was put there by chaotic lashings of star plasma, whips of heat so intense they penetrated through the atmosphere and raised burned lines of melted sand over its surface. Luckily, the orbit of the planet has since taken it too far away from its star to do such damage again.
After long-range scans, Wayfarers were able to find signs that pointed to a large deposit of inert biological material that lay to the north-west.
As you pack up your camp, the weather is clear, and the sky is bright. For most Wayfarers, adjusting to the 31-hour cycle of Epsilon-355 has been difficult, but midday naps and staggered sleeping schedules have made it easier. The sand has proven to be a constant irritant when the breeze picks up, but the creatures largely prefer to hide, and there have been no more sightings of the barren-racers. It seems they travel only alongside the sand-whales, and the sand-whales only emerge after a storm.
With all of your supplies stocked on people's backs and the hover-sleds the Hosts have brought for easier travel, you set off to the north-west.
After the storm, the glass outcroppings had been scrubbed clear, and they still remain that way. The path north-west takes you through something of a valley, bordered on both sides by sharp juts of the glass, enormous spikes just waiting to impale anybody who sets a foot wrong. As Wayfarers move through this valley, the reflections feel like they are watching you, but you can never quite catch any coherent image in them outside of your own selves.
Until, that is, you happen to glance at another, and see a vision of something you regret. A past action you took, a decision you made, a fate you changed. It's a static image, like a photograph reflected in the glass's surface, and it does not fade when somebody else looks at it.
They all remain like specters lining the path you are taking, watching your every move.
After two days of travel, you find them.
At first, the Wayfarers find the trail of bones mentioned in the scrap of story you're following. It is just as described: a pathway of enormous bones, presumably of the last titans the story refers to. They are neatly laid in a winding pathway over and between the rolling sand dunes, bleached white by sand and time. Most of them are meters long: humerus bones three meters long lining the path like a border, rib bones twice as tall as a person creating elegant fan shapes.
On the side of the path, greater remains may occasionally be seen. Enormous titanic skeletons half-buried in the sand, watching the pathway, like they simply laid down and died as eternal sentinels.
Astute observers notice that the skulls are all pointed in the same direction, and so, that is the direction you follow, until finally, you find life.
You hear them before you see them; music and laughter carrying through the light breeze. And when the Wayfarers crest a massive dune, you look down upon a valley where there winds a serpentine path, and upon it walks a long caravan of people. You catch up to them, and as you walk alongside them to get to the front of the line in hopes of finding a leader, they all greet you warmly, like old friends that simply have not met yet.
There is a brightly painted wooden wagon with a group of old women in the back, their faces stained with red ochre, their eyes blind, and their mouths laughing. A young boy wearing red pearls leads a metal hover-craft with a pilgrim painted on the side, and a pack of young children in aquatic water-suits run with him, giggling bubbles into the water in their helmets. Young women of dark skin and magnificent wings trail in a line behind a four-legged robot, singing helio-cycle poems and carrying bowls of vivid fruit. You identify what must be the lapho-beasts from the story: huge quadrepeds built like a gorilla with hooked beaks, the size of a three-storey building, plodding along at a sedate pace, their backs lined with rolled up tents, and barrels of grain and water that sloshes with every one of their thumping steps. A small group of tall entities with featureless faces and elegant robes walk along a pair of rock-skinned hexapods. A squat creature with a head shaped like a mushroom dances alongside them all, strumming music on a long instrument that emits color and light with every note. Everywhere you look, there is music, and laughter, and celebration.
It takes a while to get to the front, but there, you meet the ringleaders of this pilgrimage. The first is a tall robotic entity with limbs as thin and straight as sticks, a narrow rectangular face, a bright red woven cloak, and a hat that resembles a dǒulì, wide and conical. Her name is Elegance, and she introduces you to her wife, Rēza, a short woman who resembles an upright moth, with large furred wings and compound eyes, her antenna waving in the breeze. The scarf around her neck and mouth is of many colors, and looks charmingly handmade, a little rough around the edges.
They tell you that this caravan has been traveling for thirty days, and they are not far from their objective. The unknown temple, they believe, lays little more than a week's travel away. Everybody you see has come here from local systems, hoping to find something in the Last Pilgrim's footsteps. Thousands of pilgrimages have been doing the same, one after the other, for eons.
Everybody, they say, finds something different. Something you did not know you needed until that very moment.
If you ask them if the Song is to be found there, Rēza laughs, and says they do not know. But perhaps, if you need it that badly, it will be what you find?
Elegance and Rēza are happy to have you travel with the caravan, and encourage you to meet with everyone. They also think it would only be appropriate for you to help with the caravan's various ventures: the story-tellers are trying to compose an epic poem to mark their trip, and the hunters are catching local flora and fauna to stretch out their rations. Or, you can join the sand skimmers, racing on their boards with brightly colored sails taking them through the dunes, scouting ahead for an oasis to seek more water.
Medical, perhaps, might be asked to help with desert-given injuries, sand rashes or injuries from the bone pathway. Engineers might be approached to help with the sand stuck in the joints of mechanical entities. Research & Archives might be pulled into hearty discussions about the story set on this planet.
When dusk begins to fall, the caravan draws to a stop, and they begin to make camp.
The Wayfarers do the same, setting up your tents and supplies. The carvan sets up in a series of circles, some small and contained to family groups, others large to hold dozens of people. Silverthorn is gathered for small fires in the middle of the circles, and many set about making dinner. Soon, the smells of smoke and dried meat fill in the air, stews bubbling with vegetables and foraged Firelight Brush roots, Speckled Runners turning slowly on spits to roast. Grain is pulled from barrels and pounded into powder on wide, flat rocks, mixed with scant water supplies to make a bread that is nonetheless fluffy and pale yellow once its dark crust has been broken open.
The caravan gladly shares their supplies with the Wayfarers with no expectation of the same in return, though it would certainly be polite. The lapho-beasts lay down so that their burdens may be taken off their backs, and slumber noisily next to the circles, curled almost entirely around some smaller ones.
Once dinner is served, the caravan turns to the members of the Theorem's crew, and begs: tell us a story.
You see, they have been traveling for a month, and they have already told each other all the stories they know. Stories from their own lives, stories that they were once told about others. Here, in this desert, the only currency worth anything is stories, and they are all eager for new ones. Is that not the domain of the Last Pilgrim? Is it not an honor in their name, to share stories of progress, of journeys, and of learning?
Children crowd around you eagerly, old men and women with sparks in their eyes lean in close, and the light-making music-playing creature of before hushes everyone, readying the crowd to listen to whatever story you choose to tell.
Or perhaps you are more content to listen as other circles share the stories they have told already, finding new details to highlight or new questions to ask. Either way, a lot of tales are being told around these fireplaces, and it would be wise to listen to them.
You spend the next week traveling.
It's not easy. On one day there is another sandstorm, and the caravan has to hunker down and wait it out. The following day is spent avoid the sand-whales and the barren-skimmers, but luckily, they don't go near the path of bones. You make friends with people in the caravan, you share stories over spiced drinks and good bread. You help where you can, and in return, the caravan shares everything they have with you.
You learn that they are here chasing a story: a rumor that visiting the temple at the end of this pilgrimage will grant them something they want. It does not cure illness or bestow riches, they say, but it gives you something you never knew you needed until that very moment. Some of the caravan have nothing besides the clothes on their backs, and some of them are wealthy, and some of them are seeking meaning. Some of them are from Alliance space, others are not.
A week later, Elegance and Rēza call the Wayfarers to the front of the caravan. You will have first honor of cresting the next row of sand dunes to catch the first glimpse of the temple. And as you scramble up the dune and peak its crest, you see it in the distance:
A long, almost mountain-like range of sand dunes, taller than any you've seen so far. Beyond them, the pale purple sky is lit up with fractal reflections in every color; atmospheric blue and x'enuda pink, the same orange as the optics of a robot family in the caravan, the gentle gold of the Theorem's shield.
Whatever is beyond that dune-range, it is giving up a spectacular light show.
They say it will take another day to get there, but for today, you will stop at an oasis. 
The presence of water has allowed tall canyons to form around its exterior, so you must descend downward to find the shady oasis. The water is a perfect aqua blue, so clear you can see the very bottoms of the shallow pools. Here, there is life different from the tough, scrubby plants you encountered among the dunes: plant-life whose roots are able to draw in water from the pools, crowded around the edges of them in small clusters of orange and red leaves, white flowers peeking out among them.
First, the caravan must take enough water to fuel itself. But after that, anybody is free to take a dip, to bathe themselves or merely to enjoy the cool water.
If you do, you'll find yourself curiously refreshed, like you've just gotten the first decent night's sleep in a while. It may even cure minor wounds, and ease the aches of travel.
Tomorrow, you will finally find the temple that the Last Pilgrim visited.
Shanoa | Castlevania: Order of Ecclesia | new player!
Then the shape of feet that have far to go and come from farther. They are tended to, cared for. Compassion.
And then self rockets up from her feet first touching the ground. It feels like she has opened her eyes after blinking, only everything is now different after everything was the same. She exhales softly. She gains a grasp over consciousness just in time to meet the birdform.
"He-"
Being cut off, she stares wide-eyed and listens.
They pause, thinking, crystal blue eyes blink.
After being reminded to introduce herself, Shanoa embarks on a long tour and soaks it in.
.REFLECT
[The raven-haired newcomer appears diligent in her role. Instead of letting her Standard Pulse Rifle hang by the strap, she holds onto it in both hands for the comfort it brings. The shape may be new but its form feels familiar. It helps against the unease she feels when walking beneath and between those glass spires. They give her an impression of the bereaved, heads bent for their procession.
Every so often Shanoa slows to surveil the flock, mainly to watch for stragglers. Eventually she spots one.
cw; blood, death, self-harm
A man on his back lays in a pool of blood. It is his own. Patches of scalp are visible where he tore out his own dark yellow hair. The body is brutalized beyond what it would take to kill a human.
Above him there is a bright spot of white light. Within can be found a symbol traced in faint red lines. Six wings spread around a crowned and bleeding eye that stares back.
The warrior's reflection gazes up at the eye. Shanoa stares wide-eyed at the supine man. She can feel emotion welling up, and feeling this is as important as the emotions themselves. Grief. Pity. Rage. Before she can scream her palms shoot up and she looks to find them cast in red up to her elbows.]
I...
.DEBUT
[The sand skimmers captivate Shanoa like nothing else so far has. The sight of them kindles dormant impulse, and a hazy memory. It's winter. They aren't supposed to be outside. The only color she can see aside from blanketing white are the green needles of fir trees. Her brother is shouts. He plays with sticks and two boards strapped to his feet, showing off, and later he'll show her how.
Just as soon as she can muster herself, Shanoa boards a skimmer. Fine sense of balance avails her as she works to keep the craft upright, then gets a feel for turning and stopping. Then she's speeding off, testing herself and the skimmer both. She finds herself laughing, but sand gets in her mouth so she stops.
If she can pull herself away from racing or be reminded to, she will join the hunt for water and be glad to give a lift to anybody in need or want of one. Really, she will take almost any excuse to remain zooming across the sand.]
.FIREPLACE
[Shanoa helps at camp however she can, which at first is mainly with lifting and unloading.
After that, for a while she gets caught up with exhausting the young ones in games. One game involves bouncing a grain-filled sack between them, the aim to keep it from touching the ground for as long as possible. Another involves being blindfolded and spun and having to seek out a designated object. They play tug-of-war. They find an oddly shaped boulder to clamber over, then test their bravery by leaping from it.
This young woman looks imploringly to any wayfarers come to check out the commotion.]
You're welcome to join.
[When food starts to be served, Shanoa takes up delivery service, carrying cups of water and bowls of stew to any wayfarer without.]
Do you have enough water?
[She may ask, or, with more insistence]
Here, you ought to eat.
[Nevermind the fact she has yet to stop and ingest anything.]
.GLIMPSE
[Sighting their apparent destination leaves her filled with more questions, like Rēza's answers had. Was the light, its shape or its color, some hint at what they'd find, or was it simply a beacon?
What could it be she needs the very most, when she has so little?
Through distraction with her task, the journey, and learning about some of her companions, she has been able to dodge the nagging questions. Has avoided having to delve into her returned memories, which still seem as dreams.
Later, she lets herself fall back into distraction. She descends the canyon with a sure grace, and does her best at marking out a path for others to follow.
At the bottom, on water's edge, the warrior stops at last. She finds herself staring into the clear water, watching ripples from activity all around. She finds she is tired, this reckoning seeping down to the bone. For a while Shanoa can be found there, standing, swaying, listless. Beneath absent eyes she lives out a memory of the last time she felt this tired.
Someone push her in.]>> DEBUT
His first few weeks here, he’d kept to himself, isolated by habit more than circumstance. New place, new rules, same instinct to pull back. But the caravan has grown. New faces, new voices, more kids underfoot. As much as his gut tells him to keep his distance, he knows better. Support matters. Practical hands matter. And water, especially, matters. If nothing else, he can help make sure the children don’t go thirsty.
So he’s out on a run with a few of the caravan, skimmers kicking up long tails of sand as they ferry containers from a newly located aquifer. He’s crouched near the edge, steadying a few sloshing pots, when motion catches his eye.
Someone new.
A young woman pulls up nearby in a giddy, sliding stop, sand spraying in an arc. He empathizes with her sandy smile. The thrill of speed, the relief of movement, the simple pleasure of not thinking too hard for a few seconds at a time. ]
Helluva rush, ain't it?
no subject
Yes, it is. I didn't want it to end.
[A childish wish, she thinks. Her eyes flit to the pots, their contents obvious, the sides of one glimmering in the sun.
She disembarks, brushes off some sand. Then, with confidence:]
My name is Shanoa. I came to help.
no subject
[ He's already hefting one of the pots onto his own skimmer, fitting the top with a tightly sealed cork to keep the precious contents from sloshing out. ]
no subject
Yes. [Is she so obvious?] Starling's Lament told me what happened, got me supplied, now I'm here.
[She has to laugh about it. Shanoa does. The sound is lilting and light and cuts off like it's a muscle she's learning to use again. But she joins him, loads another of the pots onto his skimmer. The young woman doesn't spill a drop.]
no subject
He makes a note of that, hopes he can see her get used to the laughter. They're likely going to need it if this planet is just the start of their journey. ]
You got a division yet? M'in support, but I just lend a hand where s'needed, yeah?
no subject
[She leaves each pot for him to stopper. This much water will make a tremendous difference, she thinks, for the other caravan especially.]
Have you encountered much danger?
no subject
Not much yet. Some unfriendly critters, but they ain't been real aggressive. Most danger's been 'round us. Glass storm tore up one fella, pulled 'nother outta quicksand. Watch the sky for glass and the ground under your feet, should be all swell. 'Course, this's our first planet. Might be less friendly folks in the future.
no subject
But it seems she has had the good fortune to arrive after the storms. She has only had to deal with a bluster or two, and now the caravan has made sure she is dressed to weather the desert safely.
Caution around the glass and stepping carefully is sound advice. She nods in agreement.]
Are they okay? The one who was... Torn up.
no subject
More of a city boy, I guess. [ Says the guy at least 15 years older than she is, if she's as young as she looks. ]
no subject
What's a city boy?
no subject
FIREPLACE.
No thanks.
[With A2, it's hard to tell when she's amused right away, but her relaxed posture seems to indicate such, as does her lazy wave to the kids when they enthusiastically greet her. To Shanoa, she says, with a nod:]
Looks like you've got it handled.
[Jerk...]
no subject
There is a child holding each of Shanoa's hands. The one on the left wears a water suit and is smiling hugely at A2. 'You can go next!' they scream through water. The one on the right is a machine-hybrid with antennae and bottomless black eyes. There is one more close behind them, and red-winged fourth standing nearby holding a cloth blindfold.]
Hey, I thought we were changing games after my turn?
[Many voices are raised in approval. There is minor dissent, a holdout they can convince A2. Shanoa seizes the short opportunity to give the other girl an excuse to stay.]
Would you keep watch?
no subject
Ugh. Fine...
[The children are delighted, and a couple immediately run over to her to tug her over. She makes a show of dragging her feet enough to leave grooves in the sand, which only makes the kids laugh and attempt to cajole her into joining. If she truly wanted to resist she would, however. It seemed she was forever doomed to babysitting. She gives Shanoa a look that seems to say, "really?" but she has the good sense not to bitch and moan in front of a bunch of kids. Not much, anyway. Instead, she addresses the woman:]
You're new. [More a statement of fact than a question.] Division?
no subject
All her living has become a memory. Is she still so obvious? But her voice when she answers is tinged by pride of duty.] Security.
[She stands, top half of her face now obscured by dark cloth.]
I'm Shanoa.
[Children are already pushing at her, tugging at her arms. She tilts her head down at them, releases her hands from those tethering her, and urges them to give a little space.
Their conversation will have to wait.]
Okay. Okay. I'm ready.
[Little hands propel Shanoa around. She spins like a dancer locked in movement. Momentum builds, enough for her hair to lift and trail in waves. The blue dress she wears reveals her back and the red tattoo emblazoned there, and two more that match upon each shoulder.
Chanting voices count down from ten, each number spoken louder than the last, explode on 'ONE'.
Still contained within her circle, Shanoa stops herself with a foot decisively planted. Her hair falls in a veil over her face. She leaves it, lurches forward in a fight for balance. Her hands raise, palms aimed at the ground. She wobbles just slightly. Focuses.
A small sack is thrown high, traces a steep arc as it falls, and hits the sand with a thump barely audible over the din of camp.
Shanoa turns, barely saves herself from tipping over when her body decides it wants to keep turning. With her arms stretched out in front of her at a slight downward angle she begins meandering forward, feeling steadier with every step. The children help her unintentionally, hinting with their oohs and aahs. When they reach a fever pitch she stops, sweeps the ground with her foot and feels the soft contact. Sucking a breath she bends down, picks up the ball on her first try, and raises it over her head to shrill cheering.
This is a brand new experience for the warrior. Not even saving the world made her feel so heartened. Warm. She smiles toothily as she lifts the blindfold, and searches for A2.]
no subject
For some reason she has lasers. But so does the lizard so it's kind a hat on a hat situation. A2 eyes it critically, and then:
A thumbs-up.
The machine boy brightens, taking this as approval to talk to her about how he'd envisioned the battle, to which she inserts "mm's" and "yep"s and "whoa" at the appropriate times. She turns halfway when she hears Shanoa, and the honest brightness in her face almost makes A2 smile too. Instead she hides this with a little huff of amusement.]
Having fun?