The universe is crushing in its unfathomability. I look into my own eyes in the mirror, and all I can see is flesh and blood, nerves, neurons firing, making me think these thoughts. Within the confines of my skull, but in some respects reaching far beyond, is a universe of thoughts, memories, experiences, ideas. Almost infinite in size, much larger than I can ever hope to grasp, and every moment new thoughts spring forth, from this flesh and blood universe, this neuron fountain, or something else entirely, equally mind-boggling. The idea that the mind boggles itself seems superficially amusing, but deeply terrifying. To carry with you, at all times, the ability to confound yourself with debilitating wonder and confusion, triggered only by a stray thought, in turn triggered by some simple, random impulse that you have no hope of avoiding. One could spend eternities chasing oneself in circles inside one's own head. And then to think that as you see another person – an arbitrary passer-by, an old friend, the person you love – you see another whole universe. Another universe of thoughts and experiences and ideas, completely separate and different from your own, but equally near-infinite and baffling in its complexity. And then extrapolate further; that there are billions of people living on a floating rock in something that no-one fully understands but is understood as "the universe", the universe,  and that in each of the billions of heads, all of those you see, and know, and love, and all of those that you don't, there are other universes, equally giant in expanse, and perhaps even more complex than the one in which they all reside.

Strange then, to know all of this, yet look into one's eyes in the mirror and see only flesh and blood, and not finding the person. Wonder: If you performed every action with more force, opened every door, shook every hand, penetrated every piece of meat with your fork, spoke every word with more force – Would you be a different person? A more commanding person, perhaps? Would your behaviour dictate your thoughts and feelings, would it change the reflection in the mirror? Or would it be a simple charade, a mask, a temporary escape from the person you were doomed to be, inevitably crumbling, even if just in brief, private moments, leaving you to confront your true self at the bottom of the pit you have dug, desperately trying to claw your way back up the dirt walls to reach some state of control.

Crazy; to stare at the picture of  someone, a fellow human being, and enjoy its features to the point where you are desperate to see these features again, in real life, in flesh and blood – even if you just did so some hours ago – and convince yourself that these are thoughts, not instincts. One might begin to suspect that although it seemed a great gift and boon at first, this ability to manipulate yourself, to bypass or trivialize instincts, to think about yourself and others, is actually the greatest curse, and surely the eventual downfall of mankind while nature quietly grinds on.

Storyshard 14

I write down this memory in an attempt to somehow solidify it, make it realer. I have realised, while preparing the memory once again in my head for its recording, that I have already forgotten many of its details, some important, others less so. I shall try to convey it as accurately as I am able, but there are parts of it where I must sadly resort to a general description of what happened. Instead I will attempt to make clear the emotion which these details, now lost from this world, evoked in me then, and still do now. It is my hope that this can help the reader to understand their significance, and perhaps imagine new details for themselves, to fill the gaps.

The elevator took us from the top floor of the car park, and when it reached the bottom, we exited directly into the park. It seemed a strange way to design its layout, almost dreamlike in the way you were in one instance in a concrete and metal world, and in the other in green nature, although it was also constructed.

Almost immediately after leaving the confines of the elevator, as the other four dispersed somewhat, I embraced her from behind, resting my chin on the softness of her jacket’s synthetic fur collar. She turned her head slightly towards me, and although I could not see her face clearly, I knew she was frowning.

“What are you doing?” She asked. “Isn’t this nice?” I asked her in return.

I let go of her, not wanting to push my luck, but I could see her frown soften. I could tell there was a hint of a smile there, a faint residue of something like reluctant enjoyment. I think deep down somewhere, she liked it.

I found her infinitely fascinating. She was ignorant, unlearned, seemingly by choice. Dumb in the way that she did not care for anything of importance. She had never reflected upon her own existence. There had never existed anything resembling a philosophical thought in her head. She cared so little for politics, or literature, or science, that she scarcely even knew what those things were. As far as I knew, and had been able to gather in my time with her, about the only thing she did care for was herself and how she looked. And she did look perfect.

Her hair, which was, as far as I could tell, naturally bright blonde, was barely neck long. It was tightly pinned in the front, drawing a perfectly straight diagonal from the off-centre parting on the left side of her head to behind her right ear. The shape of her face was soft. She was athletic in build, but her facial features were rounded and easy on the eye. Her nose was small and cute, and her large, radiant blue eyes sat beneath eyebrows almost constantly locked in a frown or other disapproving expression. She was so perfectly gorgeous; there is no doubt in my mind she is the most beautiful girl I have ever seen.

She puzzled me greatly, because she was so unintellectual, yet so unhappy. She was always serious. Her range of emotions I was sure contained only those starting with “dis”; disapproval, disdain, dissatisfaction. I could not for the life of me understand why she was always so serious. It was my experience that people with her level of… recreational mental activity and… shallowness, were happier than those of us burdened by existential questions, intellectual ambitions, and concerns of fulfilling societal obligations and expectations. Stupid people were supposed to be happy, because they didn’t know any better. She was perhaps the least happy person I have ever met, and I couldn’t understand why. Strangely this gave me hope. I figured that somehow, somewhere deep within, there had to be a spark inside her – a tiny fraction of potential and intelligence locked away and neglected, understimulated, repressed.

I would have explained to you how I came to know her if I could. The truth is I no longer remember, but I’m not sure I even knew then. No matter how it happened, I found myself walking through the park with her and the rest of her family – her mother and father, and two younger siblings. To be perfectly honest, I was not sure what our relationship was. I’m sure her family considered me her date, but more important was what she thought, and of that I had no idea. I felt like I was at all times walking through a minefield, or was trapped in a cage with a lioness. I was constantly worried that whatever I did next would infuriate her to such a degree that she would not permit me to ever see her again, an idea I found unbearable. Still, I risked things such as embracing her gently, and she hadn’t pushed me away yet, though her stone-faced expression revealed nothing about her inner thoughts. I was fighting an uphill battle so steep I was at any moment on the verge of tipping backwards and rolling down into the coldness of her rejection. Although I thought it would be exhausting, I was not exhausted. It was obvious to me that even though I had no idea of where our relationship was heading, or even where it could go, I had hope – and the battle was worth it.

We came to the restaurant where we had decided to eat. Her father opened the doors, and her family all went inside. As I was about to enter, I looked back to see her standing by the large, street-facing window of the eatery, scowling through it at the tables and chairs inside. I paused, and looked back at her father. He gave me a sad, almost apologetic look before entering the restaurant. Obviously this was not an abnormal situation for them, and I wasn’t exactly taken by surprise myself. Faced with her confusing display of rebellion (or whatever it was she was trying to communicate), her family seemed… tired. I had no doubts that she was loved by her family, and they afforded her any comfort they could, but they had surely been fighting this fight far longer than I had.

I approached her. In a spontaneous and ridiculous attempt at some sort of humour, I bent my knees slightly to bring my face to her level, and slowly side-stepped in between her and the glass, obstructing her view of… well, whatever it was she had been scowling at. I realised I was now prodding the angry lioness with a pointed stick, yet somehow I found the courage.

I can no longer recall exactly what I said to her. I remember wanting to tell her how simply laying eyes on her invigorated me. I wanted to tell her I was so infatuated with her, the thought of not being near her terrified me in a way I had never before felt. I did not say those things. I said something about the interconnectedness of people, and all things. I said something about her family. I said something about her and me.

Despite forgetting other things, I distinctly remember her reaction after I had finished my appeal to her. Not one little flinch was made in her visage. Her piercing stare was as disapproving as ever.  She maintained eye contact with me as she turned her head slowly towards the door, until she seemed to finally reach a decision and headed inside. I followed close behind, and took the seat opposite her at the table. Next to her sat her father, giving me a look of surprise, and he subtly gestured, the slightest celebratory fist pump, as if something exceptional had just happened.

Some time went by uneventfully. We ordered, the food was delivered, we ate. Then – it might have been in response to something said, or it might have been out of the blue – she spoke. Again the actual words escape my failing recollection, and this is perhaps the greatest and most tragic loss in this memory. I can only tell you that what she said was somehow a reflection on what I had told her earlier, outside. A reflection – an original thought, personal to her, coming from her.

I swear to this day that she looked at me and smiled. It seems such an improbable prospect, I’m not actually certain she did, but it is what I have chosen to believe. I can still imagine how she had sat there all that time, staring at her food, eating it slowly, chewing, all the while her mind racing, grinding, reflecting. I felt as though that tiny little spark within her had exploded and forced her to share her thoughts with the world, for once, perhaps for the first time. I loved her then even more than before. It seemed to me a miracle. Not a miracle of a god or deity, but a miracle of humanity, and it was more powerful and beautiful than anything I have experienced since.

Thinking back on it now, it seems perfectly logical, and indeed inevitable, that this is why it ended.

Alys

Across the alley from the orphanage there was an old, rickety house. Its second floor had long since been abandoned, and the stairs to it collapsed. There were still people occupying the first floor, although what sort of people it was hard to imagine.  The top corner of the second story wall was missing, and through it could be seen a birds nest, fit snugly between a crossbeam and the bricks. After being moved to one of the rooms for older children in the orphanage, it hadn't taken long for Alys to discover it, looking out from her window. It had been February, and Alys had just turned ten. When she discovered it, the nest had been empty. Alys had hoped the birds were simply out foraging for food, but no birds returned that day. Or the next. Or for a long time. Over the course of the next few months, Alys had slowly come to the realization that the nest was as abandoned as the house's second floor. Still, every once in a while, she would sneak a peek at it before she was sent to bed.

One evening, some time in May, she had checked it again. At first, another piece of what hope she had left had been chipped away when she saw that the nest was still empty. But then, just as she was about to turn and head for bed, a bird had swooped down, beat its wings rapidly to slow down and manoeuvre into the hole left by the missing wall, and settled in the nest. It had a greyish brown head, with black streaks running downwards from its eyes, a white and brown striped front, and a reddish brown back and wings. Its beak was curved, and on its feet were talons.

From then on she had spent much of her evenings sitting by the window, monitoring the nest and trying to catch any glimpse she could of the house's new feathery occupants. She was proud and excited about her discovery, but she told no one. If any of the other children had found out, it wouldn't have been long before some boy had made it his life's mission to throw stones at the nest until he had knocked it down. She had seen the bird be joined by another in the nest. She had witnessed the appearance of eggs, and later, chicks. She had seen one of the adult birds bring food for both the other bird and their young. And finally, she had seen the young birds fledge and leave the nest. This had been in August.

Then the nest had been empty again. It had remained empty for many months, and Alys had hoped with all her heart that the birds would return again. And in May, when Alys was eleven, they did. Alys witnessed the fledging of another set of chicks. And in her dreams, the chicks flew out into the world and became great birds, that found plenty of food and lived long, free, happy lives. Again the nest had been emptied. This time Alys anticipated their arrival in May, when she was twelve. Every time the birds disappeared, Alys was afraid that they would not return. Much could happen in the many months that they were gone, and the world can be a dangerous place, even for a winged predator. Every time the birds returned Alys felt profoundly happy, a feeling that was hard to find elsewhere in her life. The birds had gone again, and then returned, in May, and Alys was thirteen.

The orphanage Alys had been living in the past eight years had no name. It was simply referred to as 'the orphanage' within the neighbourhood, outside of which no one cared. It was run, and had always been run, by the old widow Mrs. Fields. Her husband had been a mercenary who died in the service of his faction. His rank had been high enough for the faction to keep paying his allowance to his household after passing. They had no children, and Mrs. Fields established the orphanage in their old home, spending all of her allowance towards helping the children who had no one.

Considering this, the orphanage was one of the better ones in Ymra, although the children there had no way of knowing this. There were other orphanages with agendas much darker than anyone would like to admit – at least Mrs. Fields intentions were good. However, the mercenary allowance only went so far, and there were too many orphans on the Ymran streets. Sometimes they received donations from grocers, but not enough. Regularly they scavenged food from the street, picked whatever leftovers weren't saved in the tavern from the waste bin in the back alley. There was always someone sick – as soon as one got better, another fell ill. Sometimes they didn't get better.

The orphanage only housed children until they turned fourteen. Past that they had to find somewhere else to turn. Mrs. Fields tried to arrange apprenticeships with craftsmen and merchants for as many as possible, sometimes making arrangements far outside the neighbourhood. However, should you receive an apprenticeship, you were considered one of the lucky ones. A few orphans, only girls, got to stay beyond fourteen, helping Mrs. Fields with the other children. They stayed until they were taken away by a husband, better work, or the cherrydust high.

Alys was a healthy looking thirteen year old. Considering her situation, she looked almost strangely fit. She had hints of muscle, and hadn't had more than a runny nose in years. Her hair was chest-long and smooth; plain brown. Often frowning, either from concentration or mood, her eyebrows were thin and expressive, as were her large, brown eyes.

She could only just still remember her mother. At least, that's what she told herself. She could remember her dark hair, although she wasn't sure whether it was a real memory or simply her memory of taking note to remember. She imagined she could remember her nice smell, but this too was hazy, and it was more the remembrance of the fact that she had smelled nice than the remembrance of the smell itself. All in all, the memories of her mother were fading, and she was helpless to stop it. It made her sad, and confused, and angry.

Given all the circumstances of her life, Alys should have looked a lot different, felt a lot different. However, there was one thing that changed things.

Some nights, there would be a tap on the window. Alys would sneak out from under her covers, dressed not in her nightgown, but in leather and wool which she kept under her mattress. She would flash a rare smile as she saw the hooded figure on the other side of the window. The hooded figure would help her out and up to the roof, where she would be handed a bag to carry. And then they would go and see the big bird from which the hooded figure had gotten its name: Osprey.

Soldiers - 5

Relief came towards the end of the second day. Finally the ground inclined upwards, and through the foliage could be glimpsed what had to be a veritable tower of a mountain. They had managed to improvise a stretcher for the injured Sarge, which had eased the burden of carrying him across the flat jungle ground, but which made the climb somewhat harder. The incline grew steeper and steeper, and soon enough the exhausted soldiers finally broke free of the jungle's claustrophobic vegetation, for the first time gaining an overview from above the canopy. What they saw was awe-inspiring, despite coming as no surprise and being more of a confirmation of their fears. The canopy that now stretched out below them like a green carpet continued as far as the eye could see. There was no break in the endless green. No blue water, no brown dirt, no grey smoke. There were hills and mountains at points in the distance, but they too were covered in flora. It seemed that they had happened upon the only thing rising above the timberline. They looked at each other hesitantly, then back at the sea of green.

Roth shouted in the distance, and waved for the rest of them to join him. While the others took stock of the landscape, Roth had made his way across the mountainside and had apparently found something. Once they had rejoined with him, the rocky and uneven surface giving Trent and Charlie some difficulties carrying Sarge, he pointed towards what he had found.

"Well I'll be damned...", mumbled Charlie.

"So... That looks like a path, right?" Buckley turned to seek confirmation from his companions.

"Sure does", replied Roth. His face broke into a huge grin as he could no longer contain his excitement.

They made their way towards the path. It was not wide, and no road by any stretch of the imagination. It was clear however, that some effort had gone into its creation. Boulders had been moved out of the way, and others had been put in, to provide a more even surface and a steady incline. Trent and Charlie could not help but notice the ease with which they now carried the Sarge. They continued up the path, which seemed to circle its way upwards along the mountainside. The mountain's apparent tower-like qualities gleaned through the foliage from below was reinforced here, above the jungle. It was taller than it was wide, and above a certain point it rose straight up, like the walls of a tower. It appeared to be flat on top. About halfway up the mountain path, the soldiers came upon a cave. It may have originally been natural, but there was definitive evidence that it had been modified to better serve as a shelter. The group's elation continued to rise at this corroborating sign of human activity.

"Alright", Roth began, "this'll be our shelter for the night. Trent, get Sarge comfy in there and keep an eye on him.  I reckon me, Buck, and Charlie can reach the top and get back before it gets dark." Trent nodded and Charlie helped him carry Sarge inside the cave.

Roth, Charlie, and Buckley resumed the climb with renewed vigour. Before too long they made it to the summit. It was indeed almost flat, but did not appear to have been constructed or in other ways altered by people. Although fairly flat in general, it was still uneven and jagged in texture. The three men made their way to the edge and saw that even from this vantage point, the jungle still spread out to the horizon in every direction. Buckley ran his fingers through his brown, sweat-drenched hair. He removed his black-framed glasses and used the lower part of his shirt to clean them before putting them back on. Although he did not expect to see anything new, he cast another look over the surrounding area. And that's when he spotted it. Without taking his eyes off it, he reached out for Charlie's shoulder and found it.

"Dude...", he shook Charlie's shoulder, "is that what I think it is?" Charlie turned to look and Buckley pointed. "There... Over there."

Charlie squinted and scouted for a moment, then his eyes widened. "What, you mean that river over there? You mean that goddamn river over there?" He grabbed Buckley's shirt with both hands and shook him excitedly. "That's a goddamn RIVER!"

Ymra, Part 3

(Part 1)

(Part 2)

She entered the small room she called a home by climbing through the window facing the back alley. Before she had come here, she had tied a red strip of cloth to the flagpole on the tower of Whispersong the Knowing, a few neighbourhoods away. This was to signal the status of tonight's mission without ever coming into contact with the next link in the faction chain. The peculiar mode of communication was both for practical reasons and for secrecy and ensuring that no one link knew too much. There were hundreds or thousands of agents working for her faction, and meeting another agent in person was a lot of logistics for such a simple message.

She removed her cloak, which was tan and black. It was designed in a very particular way. The hood was tan, with two streaks of black running down each side from about eye-height, forming a jagged curve and growing in thickness until it met the lower part of the cloak at the shoulders and blended into the blackness of it. It had been made to resemble the eagle that followed her when she worked, the Osprey. She was a Junior Agent, and many mercenaries weren't given a proper Name until they had worked their way into a faction leader's closest circle of agents. Still, whispers and rumours about an "Osprey" had started to surface, and this was, at the moment, her proudest achievement.

Tonight she would have no trouble falling asleep, satisfied with the night's events. The feeling of success was just enough to keep her mind from wandering to unpleasant responsibilities and duties of tomorrow.

---

"No", she said, "I haven't heard anything more from him, I'm sure he'll send a letter soon".

She wasn't sure whether the lie about her brother was a betrayal or a mercy. But she was forced to believe the latter, lest the guilt of it tear her conscience to shreds.

Osprey grimaced slightly and felt pained when her mother winced, her old bones aching as she sat down on the edge of her bed. It was a pain like no other. It wasn't a pain of the flesh, much worse, it was a pain of the soul. Not a pain like disappointment, or sadness, or even despair. It wasn't even like the pain of sorrow and the loss of meaning after a bad breakup – less acute perhaps, but so much more disturbing. She couldn't help remembering when she was a little girl and her mother had been young, and fit, and she could remember thinking so highly of her. Her mother could do magical, wonderful things then, like cooking mouth watering meals, and curing the pain of a freshly bruised arm with a kiss. And as she watched her aging mother settle slowly on her bed she felt that somehow the magic had left her, or that the magic of adulthood was a simple trick that lost its magic once you were shown how it worked. And she felt the pain that children feel seeing their mother or father hurting. Staying there became unbearable, although that broke her heart.

She walked the streets of her neighbourhood, which were still bustling with life and would continue to do so for some time before the dusk fell over them and signalled the end of the day. She felt wholly uncomfortable walking in the street, and this worried her. She would be much happier on the rooftops, springing from house to house, seeing the world from above, free from the maze that the houses forced upon the people on the ground. She worried that the more time she spent up there, at night, running errands of action, the more she would feel uncomfortable in the streets, with the rest of the people. The more she stayed up there, the more she wouldn't belong here, until she was so removed from it that she could never return to the streets, to people, to daylight.

She made her way from the trader's neighbourhoods and into darker and poorer ones. A neighbourhood could be anything from fifteen to a hundred houses in size. They could be neighbourhoods because the same merchant owned all the houses, because a church had taken it upon themselves to care for the faith of people within a given area, because a faction leader had sent an agent to govern over it, or any other reason that made it sort of sensible for a group of residents to band together.

Osprey walked down a street very similar to the ones in her own neighbourhood, except it was dead quiet – without life. There were no traders here, no smithies or bakeries or leatherworkers. There wasn't even a pub or a brothel. She arrived at something that would have been a decent house about two generations ago. Now it was so crooked and misaligned and withered, the wood so rotten and tormented, that it seemed like it would collapse should a drunken fool collide with anything load bearing. Osprey didn't want to go inside, but it wasn't because she was afraid of it collapsing. She gently climbed the outside stairs leading to the second story apartments, and entered.

She found her brother sitting in a fetal position in the corner, his head resting on his knees. In his room was a blanket, a wooden chair with two of its legs missing, and a simple wardrobe with four drawers, all empty. He hadn't noticed her.

"Tristan", she tried, not daring to expect a response.

He moved his head slowly and looked up at her. He didn't smile when he saw her – he frowned sadly and looked at her with pathetic, pleading eyes.

"Have you...", he started, his voice weak and trembling, "... Have you brought me..." He couldn't finish the sentence.

"No", replied Osprey, "I tell you every time, Tristan. I will not bring you your poison."

Tristan looked away, stared at the wall with a look of disappointment and despair. She kneeled down next to him, pausing to assess him for a moment. He was so thin, and filthy. Part of her had immense sympathy for him, her brother, and wanted more than anything to help him. The other part hated him for what he had done to himself, to their mother, to her, and knew that whatever help she could provide he would refuse, unless it was a pouch of faintly pink powder. She sat a basket filled with a sausage, tomatoes, and a loaf of bread down next to him.

"Please, Tristan. Eat it before it rots this time. I beg of you"

Tristan still stared at the wall, motionless. She caught herself being almost impressed he had kept his head up for so long. She got up slowly. Tending to their mother was bad enough, but the state her brother was in was so horrible she had seriously considered never coming back, and she did so again.

On her way back to her own lodgings, she couldn't help thinking about her mother and brother yet again, tiring though it was. Tristan had left home years ago to seek fortune in other parts of Ymra. Their father had already died in a drunken stupor at the pub at that point, and Osprey and her mother had been left to fend for themselves. Tristan sent letters home from various regions of Ymra from time to time, but success eluded him. When he finally came home, he had less than he had left with, apart from a strong addiction to the pink powder sometimes called cherrydust. He wouldn't meet with his mother, and made Osprey promise that she wouldn't tell their mother of the fate that had befallen him. The first few years he maintained presence of mind enough to keep sending letters, telling his mother that he was fine somewhere else. Eventually he became so debilitated by the drugs that the letters stopped.

Every day their mother asked for him, and Osprey always told her that he was probably fine, and that surely there would be another letter soon. And she would have felt even worse about it if it wasn't for the fact that their poor mother had no hope of remembering a conversation from one day to the next, so every time Osprey promised a letter, it would genuinely comfort the old woman.

Osprey walked through the darkening streets and longed to be on the rooftops. She simply could not wait to don her mercenary gear, meet up with her companion animal and young apprentice and see if there were jobs to be done this night. And if there weren't, she would simply enjoy the height, explore, practice new routes. At least she would be removed from the miserable conditions of the ground level.