[OOC] [Serpentine Horizon] Belos's Research Notes

[pyrighteous]

This is also a fanfic, because why not.

CW for mentions of child abuse. We're delving into Charlie Day levels of fandom theorycrafting nonsense, just FYI.

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1690 Spring & Summer

[pyrighteous]

1690 - Spring

It is strange having other creatures around, even simplistic ones such as these grimwalkers. After five years, my tolerance for their presence has increased, but I am also certain that my decision to use a slower acceleration process for the C lineage’s development was a wise choice. I would find myself at my wit’s end if I had to raise a third grimwalker in the same company as the first two.

In the five years since its creation, Archer has only known silence when it was forced to be so. The creature prattles at any given opportunity, including during sleep; the only difference is that its words are marginally more nonsensical when it is not conscious enough to filter them. It has named ALL of the trees outside of my sanctum, and addresses them by name when on his morning patrols. The nonsense he produces concerning the romantic inclinations of said conifers borders on the ridiculous. Every day his “ship wall” grows, despite being populated entirely by trees.

Booker, in comparison, has spoken to me on exactly three occasions: once to warn me of an impending hand dragon attack, once to complain about its accommodations, and once when I specifically required verbal feedback on its new uniform. In all other cases, the creature prefers hand signals to speech. This mostly serves to make Archer even more insufferable, as it can continue its babbling even when silenced. I expected the two of them to annoy each other into some semblance of balance. Instead, the creatures are as close as…well. Archer ceased to use the term “brother” after the first time I sewed its mouth shut, but I suspect one of the hand signals these two creatures share must mean the same thing.

Fools. As if they know the first thing about the subject.

Despite their flaws, both grimwalkers have proved to be helpful, if not always capable. Archer is my primary interface with the witch village at the base of the head; he is responsible for making sure the three of us have sufficient provisions. The grimwalkers can survive on less sustenance than a human can, but all beings must eat something. Booker joins me on the trips further afield, the ones that require more intelligent research that Archer is incapable of comprehending. The difficulty then becomes interpreting what Booker has to say on such journeys; I usually require Archer’s interpretation, after, and god only knows how accurate THAT is.

It gives me pause to do this, allowing Booker such access to the manuscripts we are deciphering. I have already exercised great care in keeping the Collector’s existence hidden from them. Booker having such a conversation seems a dangerous thing indeed. Archer would be less perilous but infinitely more annoying.

*

Archer informs me that it has made a friend. Follow up questions have utterly failed to reveal whether this making is literal or metaphorical. It is too stupid to manage either, so its nonsense will be ignored.

*

Archer surprised me with its presence while journaling yesterday. It asked me what I was writing about - a question I ignored, of course - and when that line of inquiry failed, it insisted on providing additional sketches to supplement my own diagrams. Where it learned how to do such a thing, I do not know. Booker is too sensible to indulge in anything of the sort.

Its insistence was annoying, and unrelenting, so I have decided that including the drawing is the lesser of two evils:

Hideous. The creature has no command of anatomy whatsoever. What is the purpose of these facial expressions? And that is before one even touches on the most egregious problem: where did it learn the term “dad”? I have never uttered such a word - nor anything else from which it could have been derived - in either grimwalker’s presence.

Is it attempting to bond with me?

I have, of course, punished the thing for its hubris, but every time it catches sight of the drawing in my journal, it gives me the same slack-jawed grimace. Foolishness. Utter foolishness.

He has recommended affixing the sketch to the food cooler as an alternative to keeping the sketch in my journal, if I dislike its position there so much, but that is more abhorrent to me. I would have to stare at it every day rather than only when I open my journal.

Booker regards the entire affair with significant amusement. No smile that I can wipe from his face, alas, but his eyes betray him.

What a pair of idiots these two are. I can’t wait for the C lineage to finish maturation and restore some semblance of order.

1690 - Summer

That was nearly a disaster.

In hindsight, making a home in the skull of a long dead monster was somewhat less than wise. If not for the extreme seclusion it provides (not to mention the way magic resonates here), I would have set up elsewhere long ago. This has resulted in some … overlooked traits that normally do not present problems.

Or, in other words: I did not realize that the skull was not fully waterproof. In the Boiling Isles, the dangers presented by rain are usually ones of temperature and exposure. It evaporates upon contact with the land (or clothing, or flesh, and especially titan bone.) Under certain rare conditions, however, the liquid can condense enough to become a blistering fog instead.

I was at the muck pit tending to the last of C’s maturation. I admit that I was distracted, but Archer was so unhelpful that I considered tossing him directly in and starting over. The only things that came out of his mouth were “when am I getting a new baby brother?” and “how adorable is he going to be?” It is, at least, an indication that the new memories I created for him are working properly, given he thinks he has a childhood. I shall have to come up with an alternate explanation for C’s appearance.

Neither of us noticed the fog beginning to fill the air until both of us were sweltering. My human flesh was the first to redden and blister. Being made of palistrom wood, Archer took longer to burn, but only by a matter of seconds.

I collapsed next to the pit as heat and pain overwhelmed me. If not for Archer swiftly pinning my cloak to the ground with his usual stone projectiles, I would have fallen in. (The pit is wildly dangerous to all organic matter, given its nature; it would have dissolved me into nutrients for C’s growth in a matter of seconds.)

But it was Booker who actually saved both of us. At some point unbeknownst to me, he acquired a copy of the teleportation glyphs that we used during our research in the Isles. Obviously I will need to determine what manner of punishment is appropriate for doing this without my permission, but for the moment I find the results acceptable enough to delay repercussions.

He cried out my name, snapping me out of my daze. Then, he utilized some small device that he’d created - a flat disk of some sort with the glyphs etched into it - and blinked across the pit to us. A second blink ushered me up to the bridge, which had not yet fogged, and a third brought Archer back to my side. From our vantage point, we were able to watch the seething hot mist thicken, and then dissipate upwards. We retreated to the main chamber until everything had cooled sufficiently once again. At a later date, we shall have to find the crack that let the mist in in the first place and thoroughly seal it.

My heart is still racing as I pen these words. I can only hope that C’s progress has not been compromised by this. Archer is badly burned, but Booker was relatively untouched. He has indicated to Archer that he is willing to take over his ramet’s duties for the time being. (Archer promptly asked him to make sure to update the ship wall daily for him. I suppose that is an indication that he is not severely damaged, or at least not more so than usual.)

We shall have to wait and heal, for now. Booker is tending to his ramet’s wounds, at least to the point that can be salvaged without magic. My texts have already indicated that standard healing magic works rather inefficiently on these grimwalkers, being made primarily of palistrom wood as they are. I do hope that Archer has not been too badly harmed. If only because he will be even more useless if that is the case.

…

When did I begin referring to these creatures as if they were people?

What a strange feeling. I knew from the beginning that they are not my brother. They cannot be - they are only dim reflections of him, and imperfect ones at that. And yet, when Booker moved to save us, I saw something of Caleb in the gesture. Archer attempting to joke with Booker as the latter binds his burns makes me remember times when Caleb did the same while I was hurting. It is as if my brother has split into multiple facets of himself.

Base sentimentality at best, and dangerous distraction at worst. I must remember why have made these two - what my ultimate goal must be.

But … is it too much to hope that after all this time, I might have my brother back? The one I remember from childhood, one yet uncorrupted by this world. Watching these two, it seems … possible.

I have hoped before. I shall not let myself hope in vain again.