[h3]Stonehill District - West Gate[/h3]
[hider=Thoughts.]
I would like to begin my recount of this story with an emphatic statement: I am I.

The rest of the world are She and He and They and It.  It.  I am I; when I hold my hand up, I am holding my hand up.  The sensation is the same as anyone else's, but I can see that there is something being done and it is happening from my perspective.  There are lines drawn, first black and then white, appearing, and no line greater than the one formed of I.

It was the philosopher Trantaeus, about a century ago, who said...did he?  A century ago?  I see it and I can tell that it is a century ago and just a few seconds ago, as it was written, self-same.  The name 'Trantaeus', from whom my father half-named me, only existed when it was decided just a few moments ago.  My eyes peer down at the ground and I wonder what the point of having such a detail being spelled out is.  There is nothing to be gained from little intricacies that do not serve to build a story, it is just the detail-oriented diseased mind that demands the fake existence of a seamless world even though it is the one sewing it together.  I feel a little peeved.

Do you hear me?  If you're listening and not just reading, here's some other things you want to know.

25 years ago I was visited by the Viscount of Theatan, who sought from me the secret of eternal youth.  He was already younger than I was, arriving in a horse and with three attendants.  I had little answer for him, but I could give him a platitude: the Gods reach upon those they find most interesting.  They will drag away stone and blow away cloud for Their beloved children, those They find endearing - whether this is to be just interesting people or people specifically like a child, I can't tell him.  I look upon the white and the grey walls and I see the Gods speaking as babes in viewing things we would never understand.  I have already seen the Fae-scion and how people clamor for it, despite its hollow eyes.  Where have we seen those eyes before?  It is beloved.  It will be protected.  The Viscount was both puzzled and relieved - after all, he had lived a life most interesting by his own recollection.  He was guaranteed to live forever.  But he wanted youth, and I wanted food, so I told him that he would never age a moment afterward.  It is true: he stopped existing the moment he left me.

11 years ago I was visited by a Fae woman, luminous, plates across the head that flowed like white sheets of ice that formed a frozen waterfall.  She stared down at me and beat me into an inch of my life and she asked that I immediately tell her what her future would be, lest I finally die.  I wonder if I should have taken her up if she was willing, but I am still here.  I told her that her inevitable fate is to go get married to a king that I forget the name of, and from there she would be remembered for some time.  I guess I remember her.



The last time someone visited me, it was a weak, old farmer armed with arrows.  He asked me for advice of love, but the God demanded that I kill him.  The God wanted me to appear unhinged and willing to occasionally dabble in violence so that this is established ahead of the start of the narrative.  I was tired so I accepted it without a fight.  His arrows were fashioned into bolts after some work, and they served me well into the coming winter where I had little but birds and smoked meats to subsist on.

None of those were real in any sense.  All of those anecdotes came into existence as written, not a moment before, plopping down into the world like a fat shit[/hider]
Must I do that in Goeta still?  I cannot make sense of how the humor They ply works...

[hider=Thoughts Continue.]solely for the purpose of making this fake place fit in more with what They expect.  What is the point if none of those will ever come into existence again?  It seems like such a minor thing to waste time on, but I am terrified what would happen if there were things that took up more time than the continued thread of my existence.  The narrative is literally only just starting, but I can see the line of memory being reorganized before my very eyes - look!  That bit about the music of spheres used to be up after the 11 years ago bit!  I swear, I can promise you!  It was there before!  Look at my finger pointing at your screen, RIGHT there.

The music of the spheres.  Dancing men melted down into nothing and reformed as trees.  Fox-faced women and blood in the mouth.  Like most of this music, it doesn't sound real - I haven't gotten used to it yet.

I told you.  It sounds very whiny, I know.  But...oh, right I remember the point.  Spear-tip, pen-tip, sharp.  Trantaeus believed that one's own existence could only be continued by one's own self, and like how the insects of the wood will be born from the ether and disappear with winter, so too will man exist only up until his self-will and the care of others runs out.  I was going to make a point about - I can see a container being drawn around my thoughts as I speak.  The Gods conferred - They want direct action.  Otherwise I am only making Their story hard to read.  Go bite your thumb, the only reason I am able to be written for is because I keep my sanity down my throat with this!  You won't keep me in here![/hider]
I stand in the rain and I let my face grow soaked as it seeps through the veil, my moss-crab shell never was good at keeping the wet out.  I watched the two do their song and dance, their rough speech formed to be delightful and pleasant and presenting them as rough, and I just wondered when I would be let out of the rain.  Of course, I keep still as the goblin inspects Germaine, old, wise-face.  I wouldn't want to be seen as human, not here - what They've shown of this city makes it appear as a small nightmare.

[hider=Thoughts continued.]I wonder what I smell like.  I imagine it isn't pleasant, if I'm not the one being called 'human' here.  That's the end of my status as one of my own, until it becomes relevant.  Thus starts the new species of Tennaeus.  [/human].[/hider]

I can only hope that this travel-raiment made of decades craft hides it best.  I certainly do not feel the same as the others, with their own thoughts kept in their heads, read and put into organized lines like ducks in a row.  Grasping at an ironwood staff, I step forward, moving along the flat plane and the flatter plane of one line into the next.

[hider=Thoughts continued.]I wonder what's in the space between these lines.  Must be the stuff that makes up the universe here.  Oh, I like it when I speak and it comes out as blue - important things are happening now.[/hider]

[color=teal]"Oh!  Reinforced Doormen."[/color]  I hold my arms out to them, the towering two ogres grey-skinned at each side.  [color=teal]"I am the Oracle of Fonys, Tennaeus.  Heard of me or not, we are with that red-haired one as much as we are with this fire-haired one."[/color]

I would affirmatively touch Farfa, thing that is bringing us together, provided he did not recoil at the thought of coming into contact with me.  My eyes turn upward, and I look upon the ogres two.  The veil clings to my face, still hiding it but providing a silhouette as it lay flush.

[color=teal]"Unless you want something besides just kind words and assurances, first guards.  You want to make our first posts difficult."[/color]