Naufragium

Congrats on five years in the pit of evil. It has been excellent knowing you throughout the last few. I am very fortunate to get to roleplay with you and enact schemes, when the real world doesn't besiege me with its demons (j*b). I am looking forward to more years of paranormal bouquets. Favorite skin? Favorite husband.. And why are both green..

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A MEDITATION ON THE ‘SOULLESS’ MACHINE ♫ •─────────────────•𖥠•─────────────────• THE PAINTED HAND OF AN AUTOMATON, OUTSTRETCHED AND REACHING FOR SOMETHING BEYOND. •─────────────────•𖥠•─────────────────• W R I T T E N B Y V I N C E N T E V O N V O L K R I C H, T H E I R O N C A P T A I N P U B L I S H E D B Y T H E N O R T H E R N G E O G R A P H I C A L S O C I E T Y O N T H E 4 T H O F S U N ’ S S M I L E , 2 0 6 7 •─────────────────•𖥠•─────────────────• ── • 𖥠 • ── IN DEFENSE OF BLOOD THE SCIENCE OF THE CLOCKMAKER provides many hypotheses therein regarding the machinations of life as expressed through the machine. The most consequential of these, as presented in vol. 6 of From the Office of The Alchemist, is that through blood is the soul forever entrapped.1 If this alchemical theorem is to be assumed both veracious and accepted, then it might also elucidate previously unanswerable mysteries concerning the inner workings of the clockwork craft’s grandest pinnacle. For it is in the clockmaker’s final creation, the ‘Machine Spirit,’ that this argument finds its root. To begin, we of clockwork mind know that the vessel of the animii is, at the least, conducive to the soul in its elevated form. Recipes not to be explained here comprise this thought. The very principle of the artisan’s dream is founded, then, on the ambition of the soul's posthumous transference to the machine body. How is this to be facilitated? By means of the manipulation of the animati’s core science: Lifeblood, the source of power found within brass tubes and housings. This is completed through the injection of an additional, atypical variable into the faux venous system of the inanimate- the creator’s own blood and sanguine intervention. It is by this amalgam of nature and self that the trajectory of the anima is, presumably, bound. By no idolatrous deity’s decree, nor by any influence of enchantment, is this woven- only the science and steel of the tinkerer. Therefore, we are to draw the assumption that the soul must be linked to the true bloodstream, and in fact divinely anchored. For how else could this transference be conceivable, let alone achievable by man, and not without the influence of our Higher Creator? ── • 𖥠 • ── IN QUESTION OF STEEL IF MACHINE IS TO MIRROR MAN, how can it, then, be entirely soulless? While the ‘Machine Spirit’ and its empyrean complexity are now understood, what of the conventional, mundane automaton? Habitually spoken of by academia and populace alike as a husk without capacity for the soul, why might there be such a cavernous scientific divide between the two pivotal works of the clockmaker? This is, needless to say, by virtue of the lack of implementation of the circulatory medium into the equation. Yet it is here that the secondary argument arises: for this is not always the case. There remains now an endmost integrant to examine, if we are to continue operating under the acceptance of blood as soulbound truth. Sometimes, though not by necessity, a tinkerer may bestow upon the steel skeleton an instrument of obedience. This apparatus inflicts the inanimate with indomitable loyalty to the highest degree- absolute control over the will of imitated life, no matter its manufactured profundity. It is through this alteration to the otherwise scientifically quotidian craft of the construct that we are immediately thrust forward into a new frame of mind. Why is that, one may wonder; and the answer is simple. The augmentation of obedience is carried out, once more, on account of the craftsman’s blood. A smaller dose than that of the ‘Spirit’, yet still does it course through clockwork vein. Then, in some part, the fabrication of ferrum must also possess some fragment of soul- or rather, a hereditament of impossibility between creator and created. Now, if the construct is of calculated mind and derivative spirit, what is to separate it from man, if not metal by its lonesome? Still it can be controlled by the scientific and obsessive mind. Subsequently arises a multitude of spiraling uncertainties. If there is more equivocacy to the nature of an uninhabited machine’s vitality than previously believed, is it still virtuous to bind them in fidelity to their maker? The path to a solution is murky, bogged by belief. If the automaton possesses its sliver of true life only because of our own action, is it not then our responsibility to command it? It is, after all, not a soul of its own making- but one of extension from our own mortal coil. The impartial essence does not belong to the automaton. It belongs to the clockmaker. Is it even a soul at all? ── • 𖥠 • ── SO THEREFORE I ASK OF YOU, ONLOOKER: Are the automata completely without soul? Or is it we, who are more machine than we know? •─────────────────•𖥠•─────────────────• 1. Dame Manon Yvaine von Volkrich: From The Office of the Alchemist, vol. 6: Body, Blood & Soul; 2057. Northern Geographical Society: “But I wish to make a further argument about the nature of the blood - that it is the organ that houses the immortal soul.” [LINK] •─────────────────•𖥠•─────────────────• His Lordship, VINCENTE VON VOLKRICH Huntsmarshal of Huntertown, Former Iron Baron of Distrugestadt, Exploratory Captain of the Northern Geographical Society P U B L I S H E D U N D E R T H E A U T H O R I T Y O F T H E N G S “ A D T E R R A S N O V A S ” THE VIEWS AND INFORMATION CONTAINED WITHIN THIS DOCUMENT ARE THE SOLE RESPONSIBILITY OF ITS AUTHOR(S). THE NORTHERN GEOGRAPHICAL SOCIETY IS NOT RESPONSIBLE OR LIABLE FOR ANY CONTENTS. •─────────────────•𖥠•─────────────────•

The BARON reads of Euler blood and remembers the most mirthful man of them all.

In between all things, and in shreds of faraway madness, a once-great man suddenly recalls the finest of all feasts—shrouded beneath the shell of a turtle. He knew then that the merriest of all men was no more, and the past was forever entombed. A tear was shed, for what was left of him could still mourn. "...Euler. Take your mirth to the Skies." It was all he could muster. The final farewell from a Baron to a Duke.

plots to spread NOTHING evil and NO holiday gloom. ♫

Enoch the Enduring starts counting his coins and stacking his bread so that he might perhaps one day also acquire a fancy poster.

at the end of the day.. I guess you could say… it really did matter

A reluctant aspiring half beast-tamer half strong-man practices lifting lions!

"PREPOSTEROUS!” The so-called ‘BRUTAL BARON’ exclaims from his throne as a DISTRUGEBOT reads the missive aloud to him. The iron caricature of an angered emperor, cloaked in green. His chalice of gold and gemstones is hurled against the wall. What remains would never again dare to hold wine. Thunder crashes, and legions of strange machines begin to gather in the halls of cold stone. “We must parley with these imprudent constructs at once. They do not yet know brutality, but I assure you, I will teach them!”

"Thank the Skies she did not make me play that damned tambourine." Enoch mused to himself, having departed from the palace rather briskly once the bard's performance had concluded. To him, there was little merit to be found there elsewise. It seemed he was right, in the end.

TO THE RANGER, My name is Enoch. There is little to that name but what I have seen. A stray woodsman who knows how to live from wild to wild. With experience, the title of a survivalist, and a fighter. With desperation, a sufficient explorer and an amateur naturalist. I am efficient with the weapons of the knightly and the arms of the holy, though I will not use them as other men claim to tell or scramble to command. I wish to give the forsaken the reprieve they deserve, by the only means they know. Written through steel and fire and delivered through prayer to peace. The monsters of this world deserve rest, one way or the next. ENOCH

“The snow breaks for machines of faultless design. Iron sabatons assail the fresh stone. Steel hands illuminate dark chambers for the first time. The Baron lays claim to his fated throne.” - DISTRUGEBOT, DESIGNATION: [DISTRUGESPEARE] FROM THE ICY LABORATORIES OF DISTRUGESTADT, I, BARON DISTRUGERE, write to you with triumph. To the great relief of my many machine architects and laborers, the final rock is now in place, and my fortress is complete. DISTRUGESTADT, my great castle of clockwork. It looms steadfast against the northern ice, providing sanctuary to all who study in science or in steel and to all whose faux blood glows of luminescent green. Long have I waited for this moment. In time, the frigid howling of cold wind shall be replaced by the melodious rhythm of whirring cogs and rising smog. A great celebratory feast is to be held, prepared by the one and only STEFAN EULER, the finest cook in all of Aevos and beyond. As with all things done by DISTRUGERE, do not come foolishly believing the event to be any bore of mundane tedium. Invitations are cast to any who might find my fortress, for the gates shall never be abandoned. Machine gatekeepers need not dream, not even of clockwork sheep. Should one desire audience with DISTRUGERE, this shall be your greatest chance. If you seek me, look to the mountains of the Ailmere, where the great lake borders and rear rivers of Haense divulge. Travelers be warned, for evil things brew beneath the thick layers of ice. But fear not, weary wayfarer of the North, for the DISTRUGEBOT delivers safety through stalwart steel. My DISTRUGEBOTS shall greet all guests, and all shall be welcomed in good minded faith. Special invitations are to be sent to the members of the MIDNIGHT SUN, dispersed throughout the realm. SIGNED,