| Present day Ortal's Home, The Spires The scroll rolls out on the table as the writer leans over it. His finger slides along the word written on the parchment as he mumbles them to himself, quickly reading through one of his previous works. He remembers this, when he wrote it, when he remembered these fragments. The scroll is different from the others, more worn out and with different sets of handwriting combining the texts on it. At the top, the text starts off with a clearer addition to the entire scroll. |
| The text that follows here are fragments of memories from the Undrykas, written by him in person during a time of which he remembers nothing. I was very lucky when I managed to obtain these few memories written out, as they give even the tiniest of insights into the Undrykas' mind at that time. I have included some notes and dates in the text to clarify or attempt to clarify these events. There are many missing pieces in the text. I don't have real proof but from what I've heard from the Undrykas so far, this has to have been written sometimes between 486 AV and 505 AV. Date and season can not be determined, possibly late in Year 464 There is light, I remember it. More light than here in this place. I don't even know where I am. Or who I am. But I remember this. I remember me, working, doing something. I remember it being an order. There were many orders then. Unlike now. There's no order at all now. Only chaos. Chaos and hunger. I was working, hastily, finishing a job for the master. I don't know which master. [The master mentioned here is Taren Alter, the Undrykas' master during his apprenticeship in Sahova.] So many masters over the years. Cleaning. I'm cleaning, making sure that the tools stay well. I don't know which tools or what they are for but there are many bones and many tables. A lot of pieces, broken bones, cutting tools. I'm taking care of the knives and drills. The cloth is ragged and old but it does the job. I work quickly, trying to pass the job in the least amount of time. There is a reason why but I can't remember. [From other memories, it seems that the Undrykas rushed to get more time for himself. Or because Master Taren Alter threatened him.] I place one knife down, next to the others, all stacked nicely from long to short. The next knife is easily cleaned as well, just dust and small pieces on them. The knife joins the other ones on the table. I pick another one, I don't know how many I've cleaned already, and start wiping the cloth along it. Somebody bumps into me. I see dead eyes and a dead face looking at me. It speaks, curses at me, I think. I know I know what it says but I don't know what it says. I feel pain. I look down and see the cleaning cloth turning red, staining with my blood from a cut. There is much blood. It looks so red. So shiny. I have to-... Grambl... Blood... [The text stops here for some reason. It is continued on what I assume is a later date.] I finish the last tool. The cloth next to me is completely red, the blood staining it is mine, I know it. But how it got there, I don't know. I don't remember. I place the drill next to the others, nicely placed from small to large, just like the knives, but on the other side of the work area on the table. As soon as I'm finished I get up and leave. I don't remember the halls. They are dark, warped, they seem evil to me now. I don't know why I was there in that place. The people all look at me with dead eyes, dead faces, dead everything. Pulser. That's something I remember. I was called that because of something. Somewhere, I was called that. I pass by them, I do not face them. They leave me alone if I do as I say. But there are secrets. I have secrets. In my room. The bed is strange, carved out with circles and images inside them, seemingly hundreds of them. More than I can bother to count. Under the bed. I remember that. There was importance under the bed. I pull it out. A box. Small and frail, barely stable enough to contain the things inside of it. I worked hard on it. I made it. The knife feels comfortable in my hand, as if it belongs there. It is the same type as those that I was cleaning. [There is a different memory here, twisted into the other one.] The fist hits me right in the stomach. I double over. Even if it doesn't hurt as much as He would want it to. My arms hold onto my stomach as I fall to my knees. The master kicks me. I know it's him. It always is. He kicks me in the ribs and I roll over onto my back, still holding onto my stomach. It's already a routine now and I know what's coming next. The master is predictable. Predictable and stupid. He's a wizard. But he's not good at it. And he's jealous and controlling. I stole something. I borrowed it. But nobody knew. And now that item was needed. The knife. But it's mine now. Nobody could find it anywhere in the lab. It's a laboratory, I know. So it was my fault. It would have been my fault anyway, but since nobody knew who did it, it became my fault. The next kick will go in my side, bruising a rib. And the one after that will stomp on my chest. The kick hit me in the side and immediately after another one hit my on my chest, knocking the wind out of me. I cough and gasp for air as I try to defend myself without doing too much effort. If I do then it'll only get worse. I know... [This is the end of the memory, which I assume takes place days, if not dozens of days or even season before the rest of this text.] With the knife I pull out a piece of bone. It's an arm, connected to a hand. I've held it often before, looking at it, thinking about it, trying to see its purpose. But there never was anything. But this time I know. Although I don't know why or what will happen. But I know what I'm going to do with it. I place the bone on top of the wooden container, which I use as a carving table. Why circles? The memory links to circles for some reason. Why always circles? I never understood that. Circles are boring and endless. They're confusing to me. I never understood them. But back then I seemingly did. I remember that I was about to start carving but then I stopped, thinking of something else. Why circles? I held the knife, softly but firmly. It feels right, the knife in my hand, ready to cut the bone. I hold the bone down as I place the knife on it, ready to cut into it. But I waver. I wait. I hesitate. I don't remember why I hesitated then but I start carving into the bone. Not a circle, as I first thought, but a straight line. I'm very close to the bone, my tongue a little between my lips as I carve into the bone. Why circles? I carve and carve, blowing on the bone to get the small pieces and the dust out of the carved area. I slowly form it into a square, an elongated one. The height is shorter then the length of the carved area. It allowed for more space. I know it was different from what it usually looked like, but I don't remember what it usually looked like. It was different, I know that. I know that I felt like it would be an immense achievement if I would manage to make it work like that. I don't remember what it is or what it does but I know it was important when I was doing it. I worked hard on... [The next part is double, as if the Undrykas remembered it again. Once again, the hand writing style and the visibility of the text make me wonder if it is written in a different time pattern once again.] It allows for more space. It's different from usual. There's no circle. I don't know why there is no circle or why there needs to be a circle but there is none. It's a rectangle. The sides are shorter than the length of it. It moves along the length of the arm bones. What are they called? Arm bones? Bone one and two? I carve the rectangle and quickly finish it, trained as I am at this point. I know I've been doing this a lot but I can't remember what 'this' is exactly. I didn't know a forearm had two bones in it. Gives me more to chew on. [This is a disturbing mention towards cannibalism. I can not imagine what the Undrykas was going through at the time. I wonder why I didn't use a circle back then. But it was important. It could mean something important to me back then, but I can't remember what. The knife continues to cut. I lean in close over it, seeing every detail of the cuts I make. The carving of the bone is easy, as if I'm very good at it, although I can not remember why. I cut and cut, carve and smooth until there is only a finely carved rectangle left. I start to work on the inside of it. Bit by bit I take out the inside, carving out something that was in my mind back then. But I can't remember what or why. The pieces of the bone, the chips, spring out as I carve away more and more. I blow on the bone often, taking out the bone dust as it covers part of the view of the final result. The result is important. I know that. I work hard and long. The candle in the room was long but now it's almost finished. I'm almost finished. The image in the rectangle is almost finished. It's a man, trying to grab something that is too far away. What, I don't know, I don't remember it and it's not carved yet. But it would help a lot, I remember that. It's important to me, I remember that. But I don't remember what it is or what I was doing then. It's so frustrating. Where is the rest of the memory? The rest of my knowledge? Why is it so shattered? What happened to me that I remember things like this? [The Undrykas obviously struggling with his fragmented memory. And half of what he remembers has no meaning to him. I can not grasp at how strange this must have been for the Undrykas. The fragment that follows is the last of what I managed to get my hands on and put into proper Common already. The remaining texts are garbled and very difficult to read. Some are even in languages I don't understand. There's also fragments in Nadar-Canoch but I would need more time to translate those completely. It takes time to translate and more often than not, words in the text are from different languages alltogether.] The blood trickles down my thumb to my nail, which I push against the end result of my carving. The man tries to grasp at something. But I'm not sure what, even now. I remember what it is but I don't know what it is. It's confusing to me. I wish I didn't remember. It would be easier that way. I watch the bone, try to determine if it is working or not. I hold onto the bone, like it is a weapon, swinging it around like a hammer or a mace. I aim it for the box and try to make it work. I don't remember what it was supposed to do. I don't remember if it worked in the end. I remember swinging and getting angrier but that's it. I can't remember if it worked, if I managed to make it work or not. It's difficult. I hope I remember one day. I wonder what I was trying to do or what I was trying to achieve. I remember it was important somehow. It is connected to some master. I don't remember his name. It would help me get ahead in the world but that is all I remember feeling while I was doing this. I wish I could remember more of it. |
| Present day Ortal's Home, The Spires The finger stops near the end of the fragment, finishing the read. The writer already knew every word in the scroll, having read through it and studied it for so long, trying to make sense of the words and information that the Undrykas had conveyed, or attempted to. With a sigh, the writer puts the scroll down on the desk, leaning back into his comfortable desk chair. His fingertips circle over his temples, massaging them slightly as he closes his eyes. |
