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Somewhere, in a remote pocket of Mesa Roja, there existed a whimsical place. A place where your destiny was unwritten, the paths laid before you stretching toward infinity with a fractal complexity. A place where your dreams and nightmares could be left aside, and you could revel in a moment for as long as you wished. A place where the seconds seemed to stand still, yet all the while they would churn and flow through the very air you breathed.
Sand fell from high above, funneling from some desert surface, and churned about on the land's floor. Pillars of spruce rose up from the ground, and held large gears upon them to churn the very air about. These pillars sucked up the sand from the floor, and transported it back to the surface to prevent the land from flooding with grit. Such was the cycle; the grains fall from above, and are sent up through the pillars.
Those who'd stepped onto Govermorne had a good reference for how this world looked. A series of wooden boardwalks, hoisted high into the air and turning here or there in a labyrinth of pathways. Some of them were suspended on the same pillars which transported the sand; others, with wooden beams or cabled strings. A hazy orange fog filled the land, and it glew soft like the flame of a warm lantern, bringing diffuse light to this otherwise dark underground. All the pillars together, with the fog, gave off the impression of a misty forest morning at the break of sunrise.
This was a wonderland of passing time, of change, of possibility. It was too small to be considered a biome in its own right- but it was always like that when it started. This place was artificial, born of a desire to understand the nature of change. And it was designed not to take from the world around it, but to give- if not directly, then in indirect ways. Though it was tiny at first, it has grown in size since, and now stands at about the size of an amusement park.
The land was known as the Clockworks.
For when you stepped into its orange glow, you could feel in your bones that you were gazing upon the inner machinations of time itself.
In the Clockworks, there was a gentleman. An inventor. A horologist. He was not a native to the Crossroads, yet he had lived within its bounds for some time by now. How long had he lived here? Not even he knows; he'd learned to stop counting the years long before he'd even arrived. Though certainly, he'd been here for a good while now. Long enough that he should have started to age, and yet, his body remained its youth.
You see, the Horologist was born outside of time. A normal human whose blood was filled with a substance which gave him the prowess of rebirth. When he died, he would be reborn at a younger age, and he would relive his entire life again with the residual knowledge of the lives he'd thus far lived. However, there was a catch...
...Nay, let us not go into the details now. The Horologist shall speak for himself, in due time. Until then, let us peer into his life, the comings and goings of the moments he experiences, and see what we may glean from the inventor of the Clockworks.
Chron Horol scratched his head as he stared into the blue light of his computer monitor. Amidst the boardwalks of the Clockworks, he'd build himself a humble shack to start up his research again. After all, he'd lost all his hard work in his transition into a new universe. So, so many eons of work, just down the drain. He knew enough of what he'd been practicing to pick up his skills fast, but the matter remained that it would take a very, very long time to regain his full set of knowledge.
Then again, perhaps it didn't matter now? The Crossroads function very differently, after all. He learned that the hard way.
With a sigh, he leaned back into his chair. This newspaper article was proving more bothersome to write than it should be. While he was still as good a writer as ever, his journalistic practice left something to be desired now. His tendency for flowery lingo was biting him in the keister right about now, as he wrote an article about some girl who'd caused havoc in the City of Hope.
The Arrow of Time. It was a paper he'd used to run back in one of his earliest lives. It served him well for his needs, and it would service him just the same now. Keeping track of current events will help him affect change in the future, while also giving an opportunity to inform the masses of recent goings-on. It gave him ample experience in talking with people in the world, often those of differing viewpoints. If it gained notoriety, he might even change a conversation with the big-shots in this stretch of the cosmos. Plus, it was a fun hobby.
None of his previous articles had garnered any traction. In fact, chances were high that they'd been wiped clean off the Medium by now. Breaking into the market is never easy; back in the day, he would simply keep note of decisive moments in history and then skew the flow of conversation to his favor on his next life.
But the Crossroads wasn't like his old world.
Chron looked over his shoulder, staring at a tied bundle of fiery red feathers placed upon a shelf. It was a Phoenix Down. He'd purchased it as a revival tool, and informed a companion of his to use it on him should he die permanently by the end of Dante's Abyss. The experiment he'd performed during the games was rather simple, really. Kill himself, or get himself killed- either would work just fine- and see if he would be reborn in his past, same as ever. All he really needed to do was die, that was the entire procedure. But he wanted to have fun with his death, as he was want to do, and he also knew that if he didn't have a proper backup plan, he would hesitate and miss out on the fun. Hence, the down on the shelf.
"Agh," Chron said aloud to himself. "By the toll of the bell... I still need to write about my experience in Dante's Abyss!"
He slapped his forehead in mild self-flagellation, before perusing his final draft again.
"Still... Odd that I would find someone that reminds me of her, here of all places."
Chron read back the words he'd typed on screen. He'd interviewed various people in Opealon, during one of his expeditions to see the various worlds, and a few of them reported a girl in orange causing trouble in the area. It was a stretch, to say the least, but he had a feeling there was more to this story.
Chron had a feeling she'd made her way here.
And if that was the case, then perhaps things would be a little bit easier for his mind.
Memories aside, the final draft was as good as done. It didn't take much longer for the Horologist to format the article and upload it to the Medium. With a full-bodied stretch and a full-bellied yawn, he got out of his chair and walked over to the shelf with the down.
Since he'd never gotten to use it, he might as well sell it. He heard the Death Games were starting up rather soon, and as usual, he'd become so absorbed in his work that he'd nearly missed the deadline. So be it. Better late than never. Though, he would have to leave soon, in order to properly register; he'd heard that they expect some preliminary fights before the games start proper, as opposed to the simple interviews he'd had to do for the Abyss.
"Better save what I've learned so far, before I go."
The shelf was adorned by a series of brown-leather books. Each was adorned by a gold symbol of a different shape, each depicting the purpose of the tome. They were temporally static data-storage devices of his own design. When you die and get reborn all the time, you're bound to forget a lot; it was important for him to create objects which allowed him to store his memories between lives so that he could retain all the information he'd learned over time.
He opened a book with a pen and paper symbol on it, and wrote the following:
- - -
Today, I published an article about a girl in an orange hoodie. It may be the Pageturner. There's more to explore here. Otherwise, my journalism is improving, slowly but surely!
- Chron Horol
- - -
Sand fell from high above, funneling from some desert surface, and churned about on the land's floor. Pillars of spruce rose up from the ground, and held large gears upon them to churn the very air about. These pillars sucked up the sand from the floor, and transported it back to the surface to prevent the land from flooding with grit. Such was the cycle; the grains fall from above, and are sent up through the pillars.
Those who'd stepped onto Govermorne had a good reference for how this world looked. A series of wooden boardwalks, hoisted high into the air and turning here or there in a labyrinth of pathways. Some of them were suspended on the same pillars which transported the sand; others, with wooden beams or cabled strings. A hazy orange fog filled the land, and it glew soft like the flame of a warm lantern, bringing diffuse light to this otherwise dark underground. All the pillars together, with the fog, gave off the impression of a misty forest morning at the break of sunrise.
This was a wonderland of passing time, of change, of possibility. It was too small to be considered a biome in its own right- but it was always like that when it started. This place was artificial, born of a desire to understand the nature of change. And it was designed not to take from the world around it, but to give- if not directly, then in indirect ways. Though it was tiny at first, it has grown in size since, and now stands at about the size of an amusement park.
The land was known as the Clockworks.
For when you stepped into its orange glow, you could feel in your bones that you were gazing upon the inner machinations of time itself.
In the Clockworks, there was a gentleman. An inventor. A horologist. He was not a native to the Crossroads, yet he had lived within its bounds for some time by now. How long had he lived here? Not even he knows; he'd learned to stop counting the years long before he'd even arrived. Though certainly, he'd been here for a good while now. Long enough that he should have started to age, and yet, his body remained its youth.
You see, the Horologist was born outside of time. A normal human whose blood was filled with a substance which gave him the prowess of rebirth. When he died, he would be reborn at a younger age, and he would relive his entire life again with the residual knowledge of the lives he'd thus far lived. However, there was a catch...
...Nay, let us not go into the details now. The Horologist shall speak for himself, in due time. Until then, let us peer into his life, the comings and goings of the moments he experiences, and see what we may glean from the inventor of the Clockworks.
Chron Horol scratched his head as he stared into the blue light of his computer monitor. Amidst the boardwalks of the Clockworks, he'd build himself a humble shack to start up his research again. After all, he'd lost all his hard work in his transition into a new universe. So, so many eons of work, just down the drain. He knew enough of what he'd been practicing to pick up his skills fast, but the matter remained that it would take a very, very long time to regain his full set of knowledge.
Then again, perhaps it didn't matter now? The Crossroads function very differently, after all. He learned that the hard way.
With a sigh, he leaned back into his chair. This newspaper article was proving more bothersome to write than it should be. While he was still as good a writer as ever, his journalistic practice left something to be desired now. His tendency for flowery lingo was biting him in the keister right about now, as he wrote an article about some girl who'd caused havoc in the City of Hope.
The Arrow of Time. It was a paper he'd used to run back in one of his earliest lives. It served him well for his needs, and it would service him just the same now. Keeping track of current events will help him affect change in the future, while also giving an opportunity to inform the masses of recent goings-on. It gave him ample experience in talking with people in the world, often those of differing viewpoints. If it gained notoriety, he might even change a conversation with the big-shots in this stretch of the cosmos. Plus, it was a fun hobby.
None of his previous articles had garnered any traction. In fact, chances were high that they'd been wiped clean off the Medium by now. Breaking into the market is never easy; back in the day, he would simply keep note of decisive moments in history and then skew the flow of conversation to his favor on his next life.
But the Crossroads wasn't like his old world.
Chron looked over his shoulder, staring at a tied bundle of fiery red feathers placed upon a shelf. It was a Phoenix Down. He'd purchased it as a revival tool, and informed a companion of his to use it on him should he die permanently by the end of Dante's Abyss. The experiment he'd performed during the games was rather simple, really. Kill himself, or get himself killed- either would work just fine- and see if he would be reborn in his past, same as ever. All he really needed to do was die, that was the entire procedure. But he wanted to have fun with his death, as he was want to do, and he also knew that if he didn't have a proper backup plan, he would hesitate and miss out on the fun. Hence, the down on the shelf.
"Agh," Chron said aloud to himself. "By the toll of the bell... I still need to write about my experience in Dante's Abyss!"
He slapped his forehead in mild self-flagellation, before perusing his final draft again.
"Still... Odd that I would find someone that reminds me of her, here of all places."
Chron read back the words he'd typed on screen. He'd interviewed various people in Opealon, during one of his expeditions to see the various worlds, and a few of them reported a girl in orange causing trouble in the area. It was a stretch, to say the least, but he had a feeling there was more to this story.
Chron had a feeling she'd made her way here.
And if that was the case, then perhaps things would be a little bit easier for his mind.
Memories aside, the final draft was as good as done. It didn't take much longer for the Horologist to format the article and upload it to the Medium. With a full-bodied stretch and a full-bellied yawn, he got out of his chair and walked over to the shelf with the down.
Since he'd never gotten to use it, he might as well sell it. He heard the Death Games were starting up rather soon, and as usual, he'd become so absorbed in his work that he'd nearly missed the deadline. So be it. Better late than never. Though, he would have to leave soon, in order to properly register; he'd heard that they expect some preliminary fights before the games start proper, as opposed to the simple interviews he'd had to do for the Abyss.
"Better save what I've learned so far, before I go."
The shelf was adorned by a series of brown-leather books. Each was adorned by a gold symbol of a different shape, each depicting the purpose of the tome. They were temporally static data-storage devices of his own design. When you die and get reborn all the time, you're bound to forget a lot; it was important for him to create objects which allowed him to store his memories between lives so that he could retain all the information he'd learned over time.
He opened a book with a pen and paper symbol on it, and wrote the following:
- - -
Today, I published an article about a girl in an orange hoodie. It may be the Pageturner. There's more to explore here. Otherwise, my journalism is improving, slowly but surely!
- Chron Horol
- - -