V M The Inward Eye

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Glefaelk

Excerpts from: A conspectus of the cultural evolution of Opealon’s upper isles, vol. ii
—Glefaelk, Archsage of Scleros

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Kohlandi Monastery, Year 4,711 (o.t.a.)
—Lluphyray Thrythas, Sclerian artist

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Excerpt from: The Inward Eye, Kohlandi religious text

“The Inward Eye is always watching.”
—Kohlandi Proverb

The children of Mushi-na are reared in darkness. They are bereft of sensation—at once weightless, sightless, and soundless. It is not until their sixteenth year that they emerge, gasping and crawling, into the light. During this period of solitude, the voice of their Mother finds them. And while they cannot hear, they listen.

Mushi-na’s voice intrudes gently, coaxing her children into consciousness. It begins as a murmur—an incomprehensible ripple in the otherwise uniform void of their existence. Words soon form, and the meaning of their Mother’s message takes shape. There is a world beyond their world, she tells her children. There is a light beyond the darkness. They can go there, she promises, if only they open the Inward Eye.

At first, the children do not understand. Their response is a silent outpouring of confusion. To their enfeebled minds, as yet incapable of imagination, their Mother’s words are beyond their comprehension.

Mushi-na has played this delicate game countless times before. She is patient. In the ensuing years, she teaches her children the ways of the Kohlandi. Their lessons are rigorous. The Inward Eye cannot be opened from the outside, the children learn—not even by Mushi-na herself.

When at last they come of age, their hearts full of the joy of their Mother’s message, the children are given a choice. Only a sincere demonstration of faith can elevate them to the light, they have learned. Piercing the veil of enlightenment, after all, is not without sacrifice.
 
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Glefaelk

Excerpt from: The journals of Glefaelk, Year 4,722 (o.t.a.)

I have come to view the Kohlandi religion as one of reckless austerity. The core tenet of their faith, touted cryptically as inward enlightenment, seems in truth to be little more than the glorification of suffering. Each day, I witness their ritual mutilation. Each night I lie awake, listening to the echoes of their agonized, enraptured screams. They eat only when survival demands it, sipping on thin and tasteless gruel, and sleep only when overtaken by exhaustion. They often meditate for days on end, seated on rough stone daises, their skin blistering under the hot sun.

There are no children in Kohlan. Newborns are suspended in cisterns deep beneath the cloud-wreathed monastery of the surface, subjected to a simulated gestation lasting until their sixteenth year. The liquid in which the children are submersed provides sustenance, comfort, even oxygen, perhaps, although I have learned little of its properties. They are monitored by a contingent of robotic servitors—scrap-hewn, oft-malfunctioning attendants who perform a variety of custodial functions throughout Kohlan, while its citizens are preoccupied with labors of the mind.

While isolated, the children are fed religious rhetoric, the sermons and images broadcast psionically into their developing minds. The voice, said to be that of the Kohlandi goddess Mushi-na, speaks of the path through torment to enlightenment. It ennobles corporal sacrifice as the only means of ascension. It repeats this message, so frequently and with such vigor, that by the time the children are released from their captivity they scramble to the wall of sharpened implements. The elders of Kohlan call it a rite of passage, this ritual disfigurement. The price of acceptance into the monastery proper is the sacrifice of eyes, ears, or tongue—the divestiture of a primary sense, as the elders explain it, to turn further inward the mind.

These elders—those fortunate enough to see the dawn of their fourth decade of life—have been rendered immobile by their self-imposed torment. Occupying the highest reaches of the great monastery, they are withered, scarred, arthritic creatures. Many are missing limbs, and nearly all long ago forewent their senses in pursuit of higher understanding. Their meager psionic abilities allow them to communicate well enough, but the vocabulary of their little-used language is rudimentary at best. Younger devotees apply glowing pokers and flagellate them with barbed whips.

Eldest among them is Dai-alo, a woman approaching her fiftieth year. A mere head and torso, every inch pockmarked and scarred from a lifetime of agony, Dai-alo nevertheless remains in good spirits and fervent faith. She extols the virtues of her goddess and, in her limited way, attempts to convey the accumulated wisdom of five decades of suffering. She hardly whimpers as, throughout our conversation, the implements of torture lash, sear, and gouge her gnarled flesh.

As an documentarian, I pride myself on dispassion. As a scholar and educator, my role is that of student and teacher, not judge and jury. And yet, even I must admit my disgust when witnessing the sheer brutality of Kohlandi culture. In my travels through the upper isles of Opealon, I have witnessed beauty and sophistication, wonders both of magic and technology—and yes, more than a little despotistic decadence. But for the first time, in this secluded monastery high above the endless ocean, I can say truly that I have witnessed horror.

Glefaelk

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Mushi-na, She Who Sees, Year 4,581 (o.t.a.)
—Kohlandi artist's rendering (alleged), artist unknown​
 
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Glefaelk

Excerpt from: Interview with [REDACTED], Year 4,724 (o.t.a.)

[...]

[REDACTED]: (quietly) I remember the knives.

GLEFAELK: The knives?

[REDACTED]: They were the first thing I ever saw. The only thing, I guess. A whole wall of them, just waiting for us.

GLEFAELK: And what else do you remember?

[REDACTED]: Falling—sliding, maybe. I was blinded by the light, and soaked in… something. All I knew was I had to get to the knives—had to do what Mother… what Mushi-na said.

GLEFAELK: What did Mushi-na say to do with the knives.

[REDACTED]: (crying) I… I don’t…

GLEFAELK: Take your time, [REDACTED]. Would you like to move on?

[REDACTED]: No. No, I’m okay. I owe you this much, at least. When we were in the tanks, all Mushi-na spoke of was sacrifice, pain, suffering. Over and over and over again. How I could only access the inward by renouncing the outward—

GLEFAELK: The inward eye, you mean?

[REDACTED]: Yeah.

GLEFAELK: My apologies for interrupting. You were saying?

[REDACTED]: I know the difference now, of course. I’ve seen what it’s like… here in [REDACTED], I mean. But back in the tanks it was all I knew. Sacrifice, pain, suffering. Sacrifice, pain, suffering. If you hear anything for sixteen years straight, you’re going to start thinking it’s true. So I did what I thought I had to do. I picked up one of those knives, and…

GLEFAELK: (quietly) And?

[REDACTED]: And I carved out my eyes.

[...]
 
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