Board Thread:Writer's Workshop/@comment-5999967-20160610065005

This is the second in a series; the other is still up on this site, and I suggest reading that one before reading this.



 I have written the first.



 After leaving the first journal in the Library, where it is now the sole resident of the Autobiography section, I have once again put pen to paper to fill the second of these notebooks.



 Some time has passed since the first was written, time during which I have struggled with understanding the remainder of Their language, garbled and damaged as some of these manuscripts are. They, in turn, have hunted me more ruthlessly than ever, and I have had to make good use of my map to keep me alive, and I have the feeling that one of these days one of Them will find me. It is not a matter of if, it is a matter of when: therefore, I must unravel the mystery of Their race's fall before They can, well, unravel me.



 Four Bad Nights have passed in the ensuing time, enough that I have solved at least some of the puzzles that face me. I have filled the Vault with stocks both of food and knowledge, and used the pages of many other notebooks in the process, coming ever closer to discovering what happened here.



 I hear scratching at the door; I fear They have suspected I have gained access to the Vault since...



 I will not write any more.





 I have studied.



<p class="MsoNormal"> From what my research can tell me, some strange force existed at some point in this world; it shaped the actions of its residents, though not as much as technology: the ability to use Arcana, as They call it, was apparently incredibly rare, enough that those who had the ability did not have the numbers to sway the tireless course of history. However, combined with technology, Arcana users were apparently able to achieve great things, any number of which would be impossible with either alone. They raised buildings, created supercomputers, created global networks; incredible things, yet, in the process, they discovered terrible darkness, unearthed unspeakable horrors, of which I can only find occasional mention, references and general fear relayed through the pages. Fear of what, I do not know; only that it was enough that they forbid unregulated use of Arcana.

<p class="MsoNormal">

<p class="MsoNormal"> Perhaps they disturbed something that darkened their world permanently; at the moment, I cannot tell, as these books are too vague in their references to be of any help in this regard. Perhaps some of the books I left in the Cellar would assist me.

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<p class="MsoNormal"> I will not write any more.

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<p class="MsoNormal">

<p class="MsoNormal"> I have been alerted.

<p class="MsoNormal">

<p class="MsoNormal"> I am now at the fortified Rooftop; some puddles have gathered here and there, and I have attempted to keep the notebook dry, but it has been difficult.

<p class="MsoNormal">

<p class="MsoNormal"> When I arrived at the Cellar, I found the door breached and the insides ransacked; I do not know how They intuited that this was one of my outposts, but they have. The inside is looted and wrecked; there is nothing left there for me now. Thus, I have abandoned the Cellar, though I must find a third stronghold before long: having only two places to hide in times of need makes my survival instinct itch. This new event has made me nervous: where else have They tracked me?

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<p class="MsoNormal"> I will not write any more.

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<p class="MsoNormal"> I have hidden.

<p class="MsoNormal">

<p class="MsoNormal"> They have tracked me all day today, and I have spent my time running from nook to cranny in a frantic attempt to escape. They so nearly had me that I can almost feel Their claws, Their teeth...

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<p class="MsoNormal"> I am writing from the inside of a cupboard, lit only by light leaking in through small holes in the ceiling. Judging by the location of this small space, as well as the presence of a small number of pens and old, blank notebooks, this is the very same cupboard that I found refuge in some five months ago. Strange to think of how different this world seemed to me then, of how I see it now...

<p class="MsoNormal">

<p class="MsoNormal"> This means that the Tree is nearby. I will find my way there and lay low for a time. My watch tells me that it is but two days to the next Bad Night, and I have no wish to weather it in the Tree.

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<p class="MsoNormal"> I will not write any more.

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<p class="MsoNormal">

<p class="MsoNormal"> I have escaped.

<p class="MsoNormal">

<p class="MsoNormal"> After one nerve-wracking day spent in the Tree, I was able to escape to the Vault. In a sudden moment of inspiration, I coated my trail with a thin sheen of medical alcohol out of one of a few bottles that I had liberated from a small medical cabinet some time ago, when I did not fully understand the value of quick wit and vigilance over any sort of numbing of pain. The tactic seems to have worked; They have remained at the forest and have not followed me, though I expect them to fan out shortly. I am not safe, not even now.

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<p class="MsoNormal"> I will not write any more.

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<p class="MsoNormal"> I have waited.

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<p class="MsoNormal"> Tonight was the Bad Night I spoke of; Their howls, disconcerting as ever even here, in my greatest and most impenetrable stronghold, rent the night air. From Their speech, they seem to be hunting someone, and I wish them luck even as I crouch here among my books and research. As if luck has any foothold in this gutted corpse of a civilization.

<p class="MsoNormal">

<p class="MsoNormal"> I have discovered more hints of the truth in another history book: apparently, at some point, Arcana users were experimenting with some form of new technique; the book describes what the technique was meant to accomplish, but the words become confused, and much work and attempts at translation have yielded but four words: "..to pierce the barrier...". I am unsure what the "Barrier" refers to, and my confusion is further compounded by the fact that there appear to be missing pages, and many of the rest appear to have been soaked in water at some point, causing the ink to bleed and rendering the letters inscribed there-within illegible. I am... Aggravated by this turn of events.

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<p class="MsoNormal"> I will not write any more.

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<p class="MsoNormal">

<p class="MsoNormal"> I have listened.

<p class="MsoNormal">

<p class="MsoNormal"> Their hunt for this mystery person has intensified; I can hear them shouting and howling most of the time now, an unpleasant reminder of my first month here. I will not speak of that month, should I ever see another living soul for the rest of my life, but suffice to say that most of that time is cloaked with a nearly impenetrable fog of terror and fear.

<p class="MsoNormal">

<p class="MsoNormal"> I have discovered little in the time since my last entry, as the entry in that ruined science book was the closest I have come to an answer, which is almost incredible given the amount of written material I have collected here. There appears to be a cut-off of all literature at a point before some important event; a number of the newer manuscripts make reference to such an occurrence, but fail to elaborate on the details of its importance. My current workable theory is of a shutdown of all printing corporations shortly before this mystery event, or at least a suspension of printing for one reason or another, though one of the newer writings, more of a thin pamphlet or newspaper than a book, indicated the moving of literary storage to a series of central locations.

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<p class="MsoNormal"> I will not write any more.

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<p class="MsoNormal">

<p class="MsoNormal"> I have discovered.

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<p class="MsoNormal"> I have found the location of one of these central storage locations. Apparently, the dispensation system for literature was undergoing an overhaul, necessitating the abandonment of the small library that I previously stripped for its wealth of knowledge, and now have no reason to return. However, this central warehouse sounds like a defensible position located underground, which makes me suspect that somehow, the Arcana users may have anticipated some cataclysmic event, though apparently not of the magnitude that devastated this place.

<p class="MsoNormal">

<p class="MsoNormal"> Central 46, as it is referred to, is the forty-sixth in a series of fifty warehouses. I am unsure where the others are located, or even if they were built at all due to the fact that the pamphlet refers only to the location of Forty-Six, and not the locations of the other forty-nine. The distance to the entrance is not great, and I am sure that I am able to make the journey in a day or two.

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<p class="MsoNormal"> I will not write any more. <ac_metadata title="A story that I attempted to submit a year ago, providing copy for deletion appeal. Reviews would be helpful and welcome."> </ac_metadata>