Used in the end of a message, similarly to a tone indicator
Since it's just a letter and the symbol is not helpful for search engines, I never can find it

Just another fun little story idea I had. I am still working on Humans are the violent ones but I like to bounce around and experiment with ideas to see what I really like. I also suck at writing more casual stories, as they give me severe writer's block as I try to map out how to make a scene feel genuine in my head, but I promise I'll update that soon. If you like this story and want to see more, then like and comment. I'll gladly continue this series as well.
Start of Personal Log
Humans don't like being told what to do. They don't like being commanded, put in their place, or snubbed. It was an inexorable, inalienable trait of humans, at least any noteable humans, to go against any authority that they believed was against their interests.
Humanity would not fit amongst the stars. Few ever did. It was a trait of most successful species to be willful, ambitious, and to desire more. But once they reached the stars the new (and simultaneously very old) pecking order either quashed any spirit such species had or simply eradicated them. Countless tomb worlds and diaspora served as painful reminders of what became of the nails that chose to stick out. The hammer of order would always strike. There could be no compromise, the very soul of the authority that held the Jurisdiction together relied on a show of unmatched power, or at least the illusion of item.
In reality, the Jurisdiction was an old, fat, and lazy beast. It filled its belly on the corpses of empires far and wide, and sated its bloodlust on the shattered dreams of hopeful cubs. It had every right to, for none could challenge it: there were no new frontiers to explore, nor were there any other enemies to conquer. The Milky Way, as humans had so strangely dubbed our cradle galaxy, as well as Andromeda, had long since been warred over and settled for millennia before humanity had arrived, bright-eyed and with familiar yet otherwise foolish dreams of cooperation and prosperity. The Jurisdiction did not cooperate, nor did it ensure prosperity. Oh, it claimed it did, but in reality it simply took. The rest was just the peace that came with not being the direct target of the biggest fish in the pond. The humans didn't like that, but they had no choice.
Slavery was a common tribute. The Jurisdiction had no use for other resources: it simply took. No, it wanted those who could facilitate that unequal exchange, those raised in a world where the only morality was the one set by your lord. The Jurisdiction was held together by expectations, obligations, and dury more than any kind of shared dream, so when you were ordered to take you did so without question. Humanity was new: they had no niche or value that set them apart, but they had a penchant for killing and taking, so the Jurisdiction gave them a taste of how the galaxy worked. They killed and they took. The humans didn't like that, but what choice did they have?
Humans were strange. They learned, but not in the way most species learned. Most species learned to adapt in a passive way, to adhere to the world around them. They flowed like water, moving past and around obstacles and confirming to the boxes they were assigned too. Humans didn't confirm, nor did they adapt: they made their circumstances fit their desires. They would not move around obstacles, but rather smash through them, and they refused to stay in one box for too long. The Jurisdiction merely saw them as a particularly loud nuisance, but those who faced their wrath knew better.
It is said that when a beast seeks to make an example, it shall humble its rival by killing it's cubs. Children were one of those universal constants that brought entire communities together: the Sok’klar saw their hatchlings as gifts, shaped by the fruitful currents of the universe in perfect harmony. The Yarrack saw each and every newborn whelp as an uncut gemstone, ready to be shaped into something magical. Humanity oftentimes referred to their offspring as angels, or spirits of unbridled good sent by the gods themselves. Children were seen by most of the galaxy as gifts.
The Jurisdiction saw them as a lever to inflict suffering. It had become quite effective at enacting psychological punishments on those that stood up and spoke out. You dare to disobey? You believe you can speak out? Your gifts shall be taken from you, and you shall be without joy.
Humans didn't like this, but the Jurisdiction would have their pound of flesh, and humankind would kneel. And they did. But humans were patient creatures: most species who retained that trait of willful spit also lacked patience.
I had long since become desensitized to the Jurisdiction’s actions: it was simply how the universe worked now, as if it were a constant akin to gravity. Cruelty was the unspoken rule of this seemingly unending age, where our lives never appeared to move forward or backwards, only lay dormant. The Jurisdiction had been the unyielding authority that ruled the galaxy for thousands of years, venerable yet feared all the same.
And for the longest time I was just another cog in its wheel. My name is Kalnuracht Sedjuur-Noumar VII, and was the scion of the noble house Sedjuur-Noumar. I was born into what most would describe as veiled apathy, living a life that could be attributed to the privileged class of feared scribes that enacted the will of those above. I was an administrator and nothing more. And now I am doomed to be far less than that in the eyes of my former constituents within the endless administration. I am the only scion, as is tradition, and without an heir I am the last of my house, our name to be scrubbed from the records, worthless, meaningless, and forgotten.
I am merely Kalnuracht, nothing else and nothing more. I have seen from their eyes, the eyes of the downtrodden, and it makes my crimes of association with the Jurisdiction feel all the more damning on my worthless soul. I am worthless to the world, and this is my story.
End Personal Log #1
Start of Neural Lace Narrative Log #1
They came from the black like carrion birds in the night, encircling our convoy as if it were a dying animal ready to be picked clean without remorse. There was no warning, no list of demands sent out as civilized peoples did, nor was there either any requirement for unconditional surrender nor chance to parlay, as was done so under letter of marque: this was an unmistakable call for violence and nothing else. They sought to reduce us to slag and scavenge the rest.
So, as one would expect, the entire bridge of the ship was nearing a panicked state. This was not the actions of those practicing civility, but rather the common behaviors of despoiling barbarians, the kind that tore their way through the dark reaches of the galaxy as if they owned it.
“Wayfinder, what do your probes see?” Shouted the ship’s sovereign. He was an older Kar’Rowmach, an amphibious cephalopod species with a venerable history within the Jurisdiction going back thousands of years. Normally one such as him would be above me if it weren't for the fact that I was under the authority of the Jurisdiction’s seal of office. He didn't like me very much, but most of his kind shared the same sentiment.
“All dark, honorable Sovereign: the sensor arrays are wailing but the feedback we're reviewing is beyond incomprehensible,” the wayfinder replied with a certain restrained temper in his voice. The Sok'klar wayfinder swayed gently, his tentacled limbs grasping different metallo-liquid braille output arrays, the liquid gallium flexing and reshaping unnaturally to allow him to to take in multiple different sources of sensory output at once, with the primary navigation computer plugged into the cybernetics surrounding his opaque, gelatinous head and plugging directly into his tube-shaped brain.
The Sovereign cursed in Loskat and pointed to his bridge crew while I simply sat in the back, near the Sovereign’s symbolic throne. “Prepare countermeasures and spool up the warp drive, we cannot allow the amanuensis to be taken! He carries sensitive information that only he can translate and transcribe!”
As the bridge crew nodded and began fiddling with their own systems, I preened my feathered hide anxiously. I wasn't a fighter: us nobles of the cloth were the educated minority above all else, not those who waged war or partook in hard labor. Special cybernetics in my brain allowed me to translate triple-encoded messages that usually took a ducal signet codekey or above to parse, but even without that I was a skilled mathematician and logician. I had terabytes worth of knowledge stored within the hardware installed in my head, all well protected of course, but if I were to die it would still be a waste. I could only imagine the damage any malcontenders could do with it if they were able to get their filthy hands on me.
Suddenly, the ship rocked, and the gallium overhead display began to form crescendos like I'd never seen before. “Sovereign, decks A-3 through C-12 are venting atmosphere and our coolant systems have been obliterated,” the Wayfinder spoke in an almost serene voice, as if he was completely unconcerned by current events. I knew they were simply incapable of tonal displays, but it was unnerving nonetheless. “Once we jump, we will not be able to risk another until the vacuum of the void can reduce temperatures to acceptable levels within the plasma capacitors.”
“Damn them,” the armored nautiloid hissed, his barbed feelers coiling in frustration, “May the currents take them. What are our options? what can we see? This fleet cannot fall to the void today, not with such vital cargo.” My hackles rose lightly at the Kar’Rowmach referred to me as some object rather than an esteemed amanuensis of the Jurisdiction, but I bit my forked tongue. Now was not the time to squabble with the sovereign over who was what and what titles I deserved, not while he was so desperately attempting to keep what semblance of order within his fleet that he had left.
I could not blame the crew for being panicked either: wars were practically mythologized now, having been long since rendered obsolete with the rise of the Jurisdiction, and that felt like an eternity ago. Now, either being levied into or joining a ducal naval force was simply another career, more akin to serving as an officer of the law rather than a fully fledged soldier. Minimal training was required, most of it being the technicals of one's duty rather than any kind of combat conditioning, so expecting a fleet to actually be prepared for a combat scenario in a universe where peace was the norm was laughable.
“We are practically blind, Sovereign,” stated the Sok'klar Wayfinder, “our probes are offline, and shipboard graviton displacement sensory arrays have been rendered unreliable at best.”
“What about the particle emission array? Has there been a spike in radioactivity where we were hit?”
The Wayfinder seemed to think for a second, his gelatinous form flexing and morphing a bit before answering. “Affirmative, a jump from negligible to forty billion becquerels along decks A through E-5 on our starboard side.”
“Torpedoes…” the Sovereign hissed, stroking his barbed feelers, “Human Torpedoes. Only those primitives would rely on crude nuclear warheads.” He then turned to his militant leaders on the ship. “Noddos, Rel’ads: organize your phalanxes and prepare to repel boarders. We are bound to be assailed by those rancorous primates, and I want their skulls piled at my feet if they dare set foot on our ship.”
“Your wish is our command, Sovereign,” the two militant commanders spoke as one. Noddos, a large bipedal with multiple sets of curved spines running down his back, a pair of graceful horns sprouting from his head, and multiple rows of sharp teeth in his snout, bowed first, followed by Rel’ads, a marsupial with long saberteeth and thick fur. They both must have been fierce warriors in their own right to each lead a phalanx. They wore thick, semi-powered armor and held dueling polearms alongside their usual plasma casters, and seemed completely unfazed by the situation we were in. As they stomped out of the brightly lit bridge, I let out a quiet squawk of discontentment. “Sovereign, why haven't we jumped again? We are wasting precious time.”
“I am working on it, you spineless beaurocrat!” He warbled back, his feelers tensing in anger, “besides, it's not as if you're the one who will be spilling blood today, amanuensis, so flatten your wretched beak or I shall weld it shut with a plasma torch.
I was about to reply with something indignant, but the ship rocked again, this time causing the lights to flicker and the air to become… thick. The skin under my feathers began to blister, and I became lightheaded and confused. “Seal the damnable vents, initiate radiation scrubbers, and activate secondary life support!” Shouted the Sovereign, “Their nuclear weapons are rendering the ship inhospitable!”
I coughed up magenta blood accidentally, and I could feel more seeping from under my eyes. Some of the crew was in a similar position, but others were more resistant to radiation than I. The Sok'klar seemed completely at ease as he ran his tentacles across his morphic braille arrays before calmly announcing the ship’s status. “I've regained some control over our probes: ten, twelve, and seventeen are active and fully functional, the rest are either still malfunctioning or permanently inoperable. A rapid rise in localized radiation is also interfering with the detection of graviton displacement; we can't sense photon redirection, thus readings will remain inconclusive.
“Wayfinder, damn you, get me some kind of out here! We're easy prey until we can respond in kind!”
“Negative, something has gone awry with our processing hub, I am attempting to troubleshoot-”
And with that, the Wayfinder’s bulbous head exploded in a cascade of opaque lavender blood, covering the front half of the deck crew like a morbid art piece. Some of the crew screamed and shouted in terror before removing their cranial adaptors and choosing to interact with their displays manually. Others died just as quickly, unable to unplug in time as their brain stems fried or their blood boiled. It was a horrible way to go, having your insides neutralized by your own cybernetics, so I was glad I wasn't connected to the system.
“Cybernetic warfare! All systems are to be considered compromised, switch to manual settings or you'll be killed!”
The lights in the bridge flickered again, and the displays went haywire. The bridge crew, which obviously weren't acquainted with working without being hard-linked into the mainframe, moved at a much slower pace.
“Launch missile pods A through F and set to self-target after five hundred kilometers, then rely on their ballistic coordinates to begin firing broadsides! If we can't see the humans due to their meddling, we'll just have to feel them.” Shouted the Sovereign, “and got me a detailed report on the ship’s diagnostics readings. I need to know if this flagship is still capable of escaping or if we'll have to scuttle it and retreat on another.”
“Acknowledged, Sovereign, launching now,” affirmed another deck officer as he swiped across his own gallium output array. I could hear the dull thunk, thunk, thunk of missiles pushing out of their pods before racing off to their intended targets, then the mechanical whirring as the pods rotated to be reloaded by slaves in the lower decks. I was regaining my bearings as the many horrible sensations of being overwhelmed by radiation poisoning were beginning to subside, but I still felt as if I had been microwaved. The air was stale, the crew was horribly sick as well, and even the sovereign himself seemed to be on his last leg. I was beginning to believe that I might die here.
“Sovereign, a message from the lower decks,” shouted a communications officer, his chitin scraping against itself as he turned quickly, “they're requesting reinforcements, something about being overrun.”
“Impossible,” the Sovereign hissed out in a vain attempt to exude confidence, “We must outnumber the humans, they always go for bigger targets out of arrogance.”
“I've received reports that it's not just humans: the primates seem to make up only a third or so of the assailing force, along with some Phaeldaer and Vrex.”
The commander slammed his clawed hands down on his own output array in a fit of rage, obviously overwhelmed by the circumstances, “Then this wasn't just a typical assault, but something more sinister!” The nautiloid warbled, blood seeping from his shell as the full effects of the radiation took hold, “Get Rel’ads on the line, have him divert all spare lances to the lower decks or else we'll lose the only offensive capabilities we can use.”
“Rel'ads has gone dark, Sovereign, his vitals are critical.”
“Then either get me Rel'ads tail-leader or get me Noddos!” He screamed in rage, “don't give me this nonsense! If we don't pick it up we're all going to die, is that what you want?”
“No, Sovereign, I'm simply overwhelmed-”
“We're all overwhelmed! By the tides, I'm dying of radiation poisoning you nincompoop! Get me something I can work with!”
The officer didn't even acknowledge the Sovereign after that, simply turning back to his display. Eventually, the Sovereign was able to get Noddos on the line.
“Sovereign, two thirds of my phalanxes have been decimated by combat with the primitives and the radiation, the rest are in shambles. We must retreat and fortify elsewhere!”
“Then the ship is compromised! Rel'ads is unresponsive and the lower decks are swarming with intruders. We must evacuate the amanuensis to another ship.”
Just as the Sovereign spoke, I heard several gentle thumps rattle against the bridge’s door, and it made me uneasy. Some of the bridge crew seemed to feel the same, as they looked incredibly nervous and some even drew their sidearms. Just as the sovereign turned to give further orders, the door blew inward with a deafening explosion, followed by shouting and gunfire. Several of the bridge officers were dispatched quickly, brain matter and blood splattering against the delicate electronics. Others were shot in the legs, the torso, or in any other exotic yet non-vital body parts. The humans poured in, brandishing primitive ballistic firearms and jury-rigged energy weapons while wearing scavenged, legion-grade powered armor.
The Sovereign was the next to go, but he wasn't afforded an honorable death. He was shot along the arm with a particularly potent plasma caster, burning off his clawed hand and cauterizing the wound, the acrid smell of roasting chitin filling the already hot and cramped bridge. He fell back against his output array, the gallium reaching new highs and lows as more diagnostics and casualty reports were delivered, and he clutched his stump angrily. “I'll burn every last one of you in the foundries! I'll tie you to stakes, cover you in wax and set you alight! Your screams will be broadcasted all over the galaxy!”
One human warrior stomped up and slammed the butt of his rifle into the sovereign’s face, shattering his facial plates and causing blue blood to splatter across his section of the bridge. “Shut the fuck up, you mutant lobster,” the human said before dragging him by both antennae towards the center of the bridge and receiving a stained breeching axe from one of his comrades. “Emmanuel, start recording. We need proof.”
The other human nodded and pressed a button on his armor before lifting up his gun again. The rest of the humans fanned out, holding everyone else at gunpoint. I tried to get up and sneak out, but a human grabbed me by my neck and nearly wrung it out as he forced me to my knees and pointed a sidearm to my skull. “Get down, you piece of shit, before I blow your brains out too.”
“Damnable primate,” I hissed, but he bashed me in my skull with the base of his sidearm’s grip and sent me sprawling, making my already pounding headache worse. Another human shouted at him in a language I didn't recognize, but he sounded furious. The first brought me back up to my knees again, and I complies with a hiss and a groan, blood still leaking from my eyes and mouth and my world was spinning.
The Sovereign struggled, but he was weak from the radiation poisoning and he couldn't exactly resist on account of his lost arm. The human with the breaching ax kicked the Sovereign down and forced him to kneel before lifting up the breeching ax and splitting his chitinous head down the middle with one powerful swing, sending more blood and brains across the floor. “Execution confirmed, take his antennae just in case and we've got ourselves a bounty. Now all we need is that ugly cat’s teeth and the fat hedgehog-thing’s grimy spines and we'll be in business. Although, they do have skulls… we might as well just take their heads.”
The real horror of the situation dawned on me at that moment: they were going to kill us all, or maybe worse. They mentioned a bounty for the commanders, and multiple of the higher ranking ship officers were already dead, their brains splattered against the walls or their bodies torn apart by gunfire. I wasn't dead yet, but that didn't mean much since I wasn't an immediate threat.
“Alright, round them up and bring all the grunts to the hanger bay, then kill the rest,” the leader of the humans said in such a lackadaisical manner that his complete disregard for life almost made me sick… almost. I had seen worse from the Jurisdiction before, but usually that was from me delivering some kind of ordered judgment on a world that had sinned against order. I might have simply been the messenger, but I had seen many of the outcomes. “And make sure to collect whatever proof of bounties you can, we'll need to deliver them to the office to get cashed out. Don't let this be a repeat of last time where Juarez fucking forgot to take a few heads and it ended up cutting our profits in half, the fucking retard.”
Some of the humans chuckled at that as they dragged more of the senior officers away, out of the room and into the hall,where I heard gunshots. The rest of the bridge crew froze in place, different fear instincts kicking in. The remaining Sok'klar corralled together into what seemed to be a singular, semi-congealed mass as if to try and trick the humans into believing that they were much bigger and much more threatening than they actually were. The one Thei’chi on the bridge, an ensign who had clearly thought this would be a simple mission, bore her curved fangs at the humans and growled as they approached, her hackles completely vertical and her eyes dilated. They quickly muzzled and bound her before beating her over the head with a gun stock, sending her sprawling onto the ground. Many others simply cooperated, eyes wide and yet simultaneously empty, as if they couldn't quite process that the ship had been taken and the commanding officers were being executed as the rest were escorted to the hangar.
“Get the damn messenger down to the hanger as well, we need whatever data's in his ugly lizard head, then we can decide on what to do with him.”
I spat at him in spite, as if to try and seem brave, but it was clearly an empty gesture. “You won't get anything, primate! You couldn't possibly crack the encryption!”
The human holding me seemed to wind up for another swing, but the commanding officer simply held up his hand to stop my tormentor before strolling over to me. He knelt down and removed his helmet, revealing a beige-colored face covered in scars, wiry black hair cut down to the scalp, and multiple tattoos. “You're really fucking mouthy for a hostage,” he said before punching me across my beak faster than I could register. I heard a sharp crack as his fist connected, and my head spun again as the metallic taste of blood pooled into my mouth. “I'd advise you to shut up, but I'm sure you won't listen: you aristocratic types are so full of yourselves. Maybe I should have you flogged in the public square until your vocal chords give out once we rip those cybernetics from your head, huh? How's that sound?”
“It won't matter… it won't change anything… the Jurisdiction will hunt you down.”
“Maybe, but I doubt it will happen for some time: they really suck at doing anything that requires effort, even when they're mad enough. They just keep sending their rabid lapdogs to try and smoke us out, and they always end up full of holes,” the human officer said with a smirk, his yellowish-white teeth and green eyes sending shivers down my spine as he drew his knife. “They're just horrible at their job, you know? You've all gotten so lazy and incompetent after being able to just take what you want without resistance, and now that you've met people who are angry and crazy enough to fight back you act as if we're committing some grave injustice,” he placed the knife against my throat, the flat just underneath my now bent beak, “No, we just took a few pages out of your book, ‘cept we've got standards. No kids, for one…” he seemed to look off into the distance as his sneer deepened, “but it's more than that, we don't attack the defenseless in general and we still win against you all in fair fights.”
I went to say something else snarky, but he quickly grabbed my thin tongue with his fingers and yanked it out, blood from my mouth pulling to the floor as he held the blade of his knife against it. “No no, none of that. Say one more thing and I'll cut that rancid little tongue of yours out of your mouth and feed it to you,” he hissed at me, pressing the blade down just hard enough to draw blood. “Do you know what it's like to see a planet turn into a tomb?" he asked me, gritting his teeth, “Do you know what it's like to see everything you've ever known crumble to ash and glass, all the life and the green stripped away leaving nothing but bones? I do. I've seen it happen to countless worlds, and my grandfather always told me stories of how you bastards did it to Earth. He still prays in its direction five times a day, to Mecca, but he knows the Kaaba is gone now, or maybe it's still there, buried in the bones of those who sought refuge there.”
I didn't care for the human’s nonsensical beliefs, but I did care to correct him. “I've seen it before, and I'll see it again. And so will you, it's inevitable. The Jurisdiction will always have its judgment fulfilled, there is no alternative.”
“One day, I hope we can rectify that,” he said, then he sheathed his knife and slammed my head against the metal floor with enough force to nearly knock me out. As I lost consciousness, I could hear him speak. “Take him to the Chop Doc, and make sure the cybernetics don't get damaged: they're supposedly more valuable than any bounty on this ship.”
Warning: Severe radiation poisoning detected. Flush system immediately.
Warning: Neural Lace removal detected, chance of neurological damage high. Proceeded with caution.

So I've always been of the camp that Signs and Symbols has a solution as satisfying, concrete and as hinted at in the surface story as the acrostic at the end of The Vane Sisters (where the hints are numerous and even somewhat on the nose in retrospect), and that it has not been found yet. A popular reading of the story is that there is no code to decipher, only red herrings that would lead you to think there is, thereby making the reader mirror the young boy's referential mania, but I don't buy this reading for various reasons. It's too obvious, too easy, too inelegant, and not a "a second (main) story woven into, or placed behind, the superficial semitransparent one" as Nabokov described it. So here is everything I have in the way of hints and ideas:
The 0-O confusion takes us to the letter O on a telephone dial where O is under 6 (M, N, O). Three calls make 666 (echoed by the M, N, O, almost spelling out OMEN) but the story is already filled with omens and Nabokov wouldn't have such a conventional ready-made symbol of doom be the ultimate hidden solution, especially in a story where doom isn't hidden at all. However, continuing along the number-letter pairs on a telephone dial path, if you count the syllables in the names of the fruit jellies you'll get 3,1,2,1,3. The symmetry alone marks intention, but when you check only the first letters under those numbers on a dial you get D-no letters-A-no letters-D, or DAD. Is this another message from the afterlife, (maybe along with MOM which you can also write if 6 is dialed thrice)? It's interesting that most "solved" Nabokov stories have to do with ghosts trying to contact living characters from the afterlife (The Vane Sisters, Transparent Things, Pale Fire...). But this is neither conclusive nor unique enough, nor that well hinted at since syllable counting is never mentioned and you can't spell out MOM if the third caller isn't the girl dialing 6 again.
There must somehow be a second story with "incredibly detailed information" hidden among the "phenomenal nature" and "man made objects" but excludes "real people" in the story. I think the long paragraph detailing the boy's mania must be where all the clues are, since that part is the only thing we have resembling the hints pointing out the acrostic in The Vane Sisters. Connections can indeed be made between details here and the rest of the story, like "stains" to "soiled cards" or the increasing "volubility" of wild scandal to "garrulous" high school children. That that the focus of references increase with distance also makes me think that the bulk of the code is hidden in parts that don't have to do with the boy.
It has been cleverly pointed out before that the detached observers, prejudiced witnesses, and hysterical misinterpreters can correspond to different kinds of readers or narrators. It also seems important that they are all reflectors of some kind (still pools, glass surfaces, store windows, running water... etc)
The initials of Minsk, the Revolution, Leipzig, Berlin, Leipzig seem to hint at Middle, Right, Left, Bottom, Left. I have NO idea what this is supposed to mean.
The word choices in the parents journey to and from the sanitarium is suspicious. The bird was twitching in the puddle, the father's hands twitched, it was a "soft shock" to see the girl on the bus, the thunder and foul air of the subway, the train lost its "life current." That's a lot of words that are electricity adjacent and the bird image especially evokes an electric appliance in the shower type of suicide. The focus on the umbrella and the mother searching for something to "hook her mind onto" also seem to point to some hook.
The boy's last suicide is left up in the air (pun intended). It was "a masterpiece of inventiveness", confusable with learning to fly, and had to do with tearing a hole in his world. Maybe the latter has a connection with the wallpaper he was afraid of as a child? The picture of a leafless tree with a cartwheel hanging from its branch is I believe an image meant to mirror a finger through a telephone dial.
I hope we figure this story out in my lifetime.

Hi! 👋
I need help and I also wanted to share a story or two, if that’s ok. So this is LOOONG. Please forgive any mistakes or wrong words
I’ve put the questions up top so feel free to ignore the rest. I just wanted to tell people about her.
Thank you so much in advance!
TL;DR
Part one: My beloved 98-yo Catholic grandmother in Sweden is dying, no other family member is Catholic. We don’t know what we need to do now before and after her passing.
Part two: Gran’s story and the Cardinal who Didn’t Forget.
——-
Part one
My Grandma is 98 and nearing the very end. She is a devout Catholic who converted in her 60s. No one else in the family is Catholic and there are very few Catholics in Sweden overall.
Her faith is incredibly important to her and I want to make sure she leaves the world properly from a religious standpoint.
Only I don’t know anything about it and I don’t know who to ask.
I would be so grateful for any guidance.
Questions:
1. Are there things we need to do for her from a religious perspective when the end comes? Last rituals?
Any special handling of the body?
Should we call a priest but who?

2. Swedish funerals usually don’t take place in three or four weeks after death. Is that okay?

3. Her service will be held in a Protestant church with a Protestant priest and buried in the family plot that’s there.
She has okayed this. She originally wanted to Catholic service in this particular church but it’s not allowed.
Are there any things (prayers, rituals etc) we can include to honor her faith?

4. Do I need to notify her local church? She is a member of the Secular Carmelites as well.

5a. Obituaries work a little differently in Sweden but I figured I’d ask. It’s common to include a little picture or symbol in them, everything from roses to sports team logos (yes, truly! 😂)
Most of the Catholic obituaries I see simply have a cross and . Is that the proper way to do it?

5b. Most obituaries include a quote.
Would this be appropriate?
”I am going towards you whom I have always sought, loved and always desired.”

It may sound odd I watched Sister Claire Crockett’s final vows and heard it and just knew instantly it should be in Gran’s obituary.
I haven’t been able to trace the source though.
THANK YOU! If you made it this far! —————————
Gran and the Cardinal
Now it’s story time!
Gran converted in her 60s “after a lifetime of searching” and was an eager theological correspondent.
She is a passionate fan of St John of the Cross and mysticism in general and is a member of the Secular Carmelites.
My Gran is Dutch, spent her first decade in Indonesia before coming back to Holland just in time for the German occupation.
She grew up Protestant but the war planted a seed in her mind and she set out to discover the spiritual world and learning as much as possible about every religion she could find, Taoism, Shinto, Hindu gurus, the works.
—
I asked her once what made her choose Catholicism in the end. She said that she had seen a small bookstore that interested her and unbeknownst was in a small, nondescript church.
Gran said she went in through the door and felt a “flash” or a rush or something she couldn’t quite describe and just knew. She spoke to a priest that very same day.
—-
Gran never quite lost hope that one of her children or grandchildren would convert (I was her best candidate but that has not happened. 😅)
—-
My grandmother had to stop going to Church maybe 10–15 years ago since hearing is so bad and it still grieves her.
She misses the community of the church, theological discourse, the connections she has made over the years. She felt lonely.
—
I don’t know how much the “regular Catholic” knows about different cardinals but we actually got a Swedish one, Anders Arborelius, a few years ago.
Gran knows him through the Carmelites and she has corresponded quite extensively with ”Bishop Anders”.
On one bleak day when Gran felt so along in the world, I tried to think of ways to cheer her up.
I did some googling and found an email address to the Cardinal himself and also to his secretary.
—
I wrote a long email asking of “Bishop Anders” would be willing to send her a card to remind her the church hasn’t forgotten her.
I didn’t expect an answer but later that same night, his secretary responded and it turned out she used to know my gran quite well.
The Cardinal was in Rome, she said, but he would probably look at the email when he got back.
That night (say 2AM), I got a response from the Cardinal about how well he remembers my Gran, and how much he likes and appreciates her.
A few day later, a lovely little letter with encouraging words and a blessing arrived in the mail.
One funny thing though! He had absolutely dreadful handwriting, so bad we actually send around a picture of it to family members asking them if they could decode it. 😂😂😂

The old family home stood at the edge of town, its once grand facade now weathered and worn by time. The town's whispers about the house had reached my ears many times throughout my childhood, but I had never given them much thought. Now, standing before the creaking gate that led to the overgrown path, I felt an inexplicable urge to discover the truth.
I had inherited the house after my great-uncle Nathaniel passed away, a man I barely knew but whose presence seemed to linger in every corner. The dusty heirlooms and musty bookshelves hinted at a long and storied history. It was a history I intended to uncover.
The first few days were uneventful. I spent my time clearing out cobwebs and sorting through old papers, most of which were mundane—bills, letters, old photographs. But then, tucked away in a hidden compartment of Nathaniel's desk, I found a bundle of letters tied with a faded red ribbon. The letters were old, the paper yellowed and brittle. They were addressed to my great-grandmother, Beatrice, from someone named Arthur.
The letters spoke of forbidden love, betrayal, and a pact made in desperation. Arthur's words grew increasingly frantic as he described a dark secret shared by the family—a secret that, if revealed, would bring ruin upon them all. My curiosity piqued, I read on, unable to tear myself away.
One letter in particular stood out. Dated December 3, 1923, it detailed a horrific event: a fire that had claimed the lives of several townspeople. Arthur confessed to starting the fire, claiming it was necessary to protect the family from something far worse. He mentioned a cult, dark rituals, and a promise made to an entity he referred to only as "the Shadow."
The more I read, the more I felt an unsettling presence in the house. Shadows seemed to move on their own, and whispers echoed through the halls at night. Determined to understand, I ventured into the basement, where Nathaniel's journals hinted at more hidden secrets.
The basement was damp and cold, the air thick with mildew. Shelves lined with jars of strange substances and dusty books filled the room. At the far end, behind an old trunk, I found a small door. It creaked open to reveal a narrow staircase leading further down into darkness.
With a flashlight in hand, I descended, my heart pounding in my chest. The air grew colder with each step, and a sense of dread settled over me. At the bottom, I found a chamber filled with symbols carved into the stone walls. In the center was an altar, stained with what I could only hope was old wax.
As I examined the room, I found more letters, these from Nathaniel to someone named Margaret. They described rituals performed to keep the Shadow at bay, sacrifices made to ensure the family's prosperity. Nathaniel's last entry was a chilling plea for forgiveness, confessing that he had failed to uphold the pact and that the Shadow was coming for him.
Suddenly, the flashlight flickered and went out. Panic set in as I fumbled to turn it back on. When the light returned, I saw them—figures standing in the shadows, their eyes glowing with an unnatural light. They whispered in unison, a low chant that sent shivers down my spine.
"Blood of the betrayer," they intoned. "Blood of the guilty."
I tried to run, but my legs felt like lead. The figures closed in, their hands cold as ice as they grabbed me. I struggled, but it was no use. They dragged me to the altar, their chanting growing louder.
As they forced me down, I realized the truth: my family had been protecting a dark secret for generations, a secret that had now claimed me. The last thing I saw was a figure stepping out of the shadows, its eyes filled with malevolent glee.
The pain was sudden and all-consuming. My scream echoed through the chamber, blending with the chants. And then, there was nothing but darkness.
The house stood silent once more, its secrets buried deep within its walls. The townspeople still whispered about the old family home, but no one dared to venture inside. They said the shadows moved on their own, and at night, if you listened closely, you could still hear the whispers of the past.
Years passed, and the house remained untouched, a dark mark on the edge of town. Then, one evening, a young couple, unaware of the house’s history, moved in. They had bought the property cheaply, charmed by its antique allure.
Their first night in the house was uneventful. They laughed, unpacked, and made plans to renovate. But as the clock struck midnight, the atmosphere changed. The house seemed to come alive with a malevolent energy. The husband, Peter, heard a faint whispering. At first, he dismissed it as the wind, but the whispers grew louder, forming words.
"Blood of the betrayer... Blood of the guilty..."
He followed the sound to the basement, where the narrow door stood ajar. Against his better judgment, he descended the stairs. The flashlight flickered, casting eerie shadows on the walls. The chamber at the bottom was as I had left it, but now there was something new—a fresh inscription on the altar: "He who seeks shall find."
Peter turned to leave, but the shadows moved. Figures emerged, their eyes glowing with the same unnatural light. He screamed for help, but the basement door slammed shut, trapping him inside.
Upstairs, his wife, Emily, heard his screams and rushed to the basement door, but it wouldn't budge. She pounded on it, calling his name, but the house seemed to swallow her cries. Desperation set in, and she ran to the phone, dialing the police.
The police arrived quickly, but as they approached the house, they felt an unnatural chill. Inside, they found Emily, frantic and pale. She led them to the basement, but when they opened the door, the chamber was empty. There was no sign of Peter.
Days turned into weeks, and Peter was never found. Emily moved out, leaving the house abandoned once more. The townspeople spoke of the curse, of the family’s dark past, and warned newcomers to stay away.
But the house never stayed empty for long. Curiosity drew people in, and one by one, they disappeared, claimed by the shadows. The whispers continued, a never-ending chant of betrayal and guilt.
One stormy night, a group of ghost hunters arrived, eager to uncover the house's secrets. They set up their equipment, cameras rolling, as they ventured into the basement. The air was thick with tension, the shadows seemed to watch, waiting.
As they explored the chamber, the leader of the group, Sam, found the old letters. He read them aloud, his voice trembling. The whispers grew louder, the shadows closing in.
"Blood of the betrayer... Blood of the guilty..."
The cameras captured everything—the figures emerging from the darkness, the screams, the terror. But when the footage was reviewed, all that was visible was the empty basement, silent and still. The hunters were never seen again.
Years passed, and the house remained a dark legend. No one dared to enter, the whispers and shadows a constant warning. And yet, on moonless nights, the townspeople could see faint lights flickering in the windows, hear the faint whispers carried on the wind.
It was said that the house was a gateway, a place where the past and present intertwined, where the sins of the ancestors demanded atonement. Those who entered were lost, their souls trapped in a never-ending cycle of horror.
Then, one day, a young historian named James arrived in town. He was fascinated by the stories and determined to uncover the truth. Despite the warnings, he entered the house, armed with his knowledge and a sense of purpose.
He found the letters, the journals, the hidden chamber. But as he delved deeper, he uncovered something no one had seen before—a final letter from Nathaniel, hidden behind a loose brick. It spoke of a ritual to break the curse, to free the trapped souls.
With renewed hope, James prepared for the ritual, following the instructions meticulously. As he began, the house seemed to tremble, the shadows stirring violently. The whispers grew to a deafening roar, but he pressed on.
The final step required a sacrifice, a willing soul to take the place of the cursed. As James completed the ritual, he felt a searing pain. The shadows enveloped him, but he continued to chant the final words.
Suddenly, the whispers stopped. The shadows receded, and the house fell silent. The townspeople, watching from a distance, saw the lights go out and heard a final, blood-curdling scream.
The next morning, they found the house empty. The letters and journals were gone, the chamber sealed. James was never seen again, but the curse seemed to have lifted. The house stood silent, no longer a source of fear.
Years later, the house was sold and renovated. Families moved in and out, but the dark history remained a distant memory. The whispers and shadows were gone, but on stormy nights, the faint echoes of the past could still be heard, a reminder of the darkness that once lurked within.
And so, the legend of the old family home became a story told to children, a cautionary tale of curiosity and the consequences of uncovering secrets best left buried. But some say that on the darkest nights, if you listen closely, you can still hear the faint whisper: "Blood of the betrayer... Blood of the guilty..."

1330 Terran Front Fleet Time
On the Turinika homeworld, the first signs of unrest began to manifest like a wave, The broadcast of the most esteemed Tizikikoonazikiakakiatkata, Taratanti of the roost Kazatalak, openly performing the act of Kavsa had been met with shock. The last Taratanti who had voluntarily performed Kavsa had done so in protest of the treatment of the Kulorn caste, nearly two thousand years prior. It was an ancient rite, one that signified rejection of the greatest shame. Even more shocking than the act itself was the evidence that had followed it. Visuals of species, brought into the Conclave, not as migrant workers as had been believed, but as slaves, was met with an almost immediate attempt at censorship. This attempt failed spectacularly, mostly due to those who had been tasked to censor the information not only refusing to follow the command, but openly declaring that they had been ordered to do so. A situation that was already, as the humans would say, out of hand, spiraled completely out of control. Within only twenty minutes of the ending of Tizikikoonazikiakakiatkata’s broadcast entire cities entered a state of absolute anarchy. Two planetary capitals were stormed and taken by the furious civilian population, demanding the location of those who had been enslaved. The Turinika Armada, which even then was in the middle of a training session meant to prepare the fleet to withstand the Terran Front’s assault, began to cease operations. Within the hour, the entire armada would be recalled to the turnika homeworld. Those who did not take to the streets simply stopped whatever work they were doing and went to their homes to be around their brood. Images of Tizikikoonazikiakakiatkata with his stripped wings spread wide in front of the human fleet commander were on every news fed of the Conclave, as was the sound of his thunderous voice, and the wails of despair from a turinika female that couldn’t be seen. Close ups of the human fleet commander’s face were shown, with analysts remarking on the shock, horror, and sympathy. Since the outbreak of the Seventh Orion War, the female human known as Simmons had been reported to have made several threats towards the turinika, she had quickly become seen as a warmonger, ready to take revenge against the turinika for refusing to go to war and violate their principles of pacifism. Now the images of her lunging forward to stop the violation of Tizikikoonazikiakakiatkata’s plumage, the agonized expression of her face, and the true reason for her threats against the turinika were rapidly reversing her image. On far flung deep core mining stations and agricultural stations, on deep space stations dedicated to material processing, and in other areas hidden from the sight of the normal turinikan population, overseers and taskmasters felt their hearts run cold at the knowledge that very soon, their part to play in the willful enslavement of another species would be known to the wider Conclave. As the data package transmitted alongside the broadcast were fully decompressed and the scale of the Conclave’s government’s involvement was revealed, the entirety of the Conclave itself was teetering on the verge of absolute pandemonium. The image of a member of the kolra species, from the look of it barely a hatchling, quickly was becoming the face of the entire incident. The picture was absolutely damning, and the sight of the image had sent any who saw it instantly into contorting and painful displays of shame. The young kolra was sprawled on it’s stomach, looking to the one taking it’s picture with eyes that had no life in them. It’s shell covered it’s back, and despite the age of the kolra it was already dulled and scuffed. The foot pressing down on the shell was unmistakably familiar to those who saw it, the clawed feet of a turinika. Within the hour, billions of winged figures stood in streets, the normally soft spoken and passive species demanding action, demanding justice, on the hundred worlds of the Turinika Conclave. The bulk of the Taratanti caste, most of whom had been left in the dark of the truth of the situation, quickly went public with their own declaration of outrage, and the eyes of the entire species turned inwards to the mountainous homeworld of their species.
Hakuri Watanabe looked down at his helmet before putting it on his bed, the stylized SEVEN seeming to stare at him. He sat down in his chair and picked up a small cloth from his buffing kit. No one knocked on his door, in fact, mostly he and the rest of his squad were left alone before a major operation. They were just given their time, time to mentally prepare. Some of his squad would go over their mission briefing, some, like him, would spend their time doing something to relax themselves. Hakuri always found that taking care of his suit calmed him considerably. Granted he could simply turn it over to the squads armorers to be tended to and they would do as good of a job as he could, but he preferred it to be done by his own hand. The symbol of a triangle was on his form fitting shirt, the symbol of his special operations command unit. He was known as a Myrmidon, but the official title of his unit was Section Three. He knew this, his superiors knew this, and as far as Hakuri knew, most of the Terran Front was aware of his unit’s existence, but past that, they knew very little about what he actually did. As far as his mother knew, Hakuri was a pencil pusher onboard the TFS Berlin, the troop mothership that all of his letters were sent from. He thought about writing her, but then again, he only liked to do that when he returned from a mission, not when he was expecting to go to one. If he tried to write her when he was waiting, he would just get anxious, and homesick. That wouldn’t do when he was dropping into a combat zone. That wouldn’t do at all. Hakuri instead started to buff his helmet, waiting for the word to come down which meant they were prepared to jump. A glance at the clock made him pause in his circular rotations. The clock said 1330. Operation Naked Sun was about to begin.
Tika was on his side, Kzia standing at the end of the medical bed that had been adjusted for his turinikan physiology. He felt cold in more ways than one. For his people, clothing was more of a decoration than a necessity, but without his protective plumage he felt the cold stabbing him through to his hollow bones. His diplomatic access was already gone, his privilege access revoked. He heard the broadcast for a preparation to jump, but he wasn’t truly listening. There was no question in his mind he had made the right decision. There was no question at all. One of the humans, a nurse, came to his side and gently laid a heavy blanket over him. The human’s hand lingered on his trembling body for a few moments before it was removed, and Tika glanced in their direction. The female was one of the ones who had responded first to the call for medical service for him, had heard what had happened and why. Tika had gotten very used to being glared at on this ship. He was hated, and he knew it. He knew he had deserved it. He was a party to the vral’s enslavement of the humans, the chua, and far too many others. When he had come to Thermopylae station, he had not even given that fact a single thought. He was born into power, being of the Taratanti. He belonged to the most powerful species and government in the entire quadrant of the galaxy. His people, while mighty, did not seek to use it. To him, they had simply been above it all. When the vral had approached him with the offer to sell captured species at first TIka had wanted to reject it out of hand, but a few had told him to go through with the sale. Such was the nature of this galaxy, or so he had believed. The weak were at the whims of the strong, and one’s place in the galaxy was determined only by the power they could wield. The turinika were not nearly the first to have taken a species and used it for slave labor, and while Tika did not approve of the deal, he had not fought it either. As he looked back to the wall, he remembered what the humans had taught him these last days. When he had arrived in Thermopylae he had assumed he would find the chua species to have been at the very least regulated to a subservient role, if not outright enslaved. Finding them sharing power was a curiosity. He had expected to be treated with all the honor and dignity that his station demanded, that the power of his government demanded. Fleet Marshal Simmons had disabused him of that, and had left him humiliated and shamed. As he had laid in the dark as Simmons had declared the Seventh Orion War, covered in his own filth, feeling as if at any moment he was going to be killed he knew true fear and horrific uncertainty for the first time in his life. He had never faced these emotions, these sensations before. He had always been in power. He had stood with the full might of the Turinika Conclave behind him. He had never known anything other than the superior position. Now, as he lay in the hospital bed, staring at the wall, he was ashamed of how arrogant, how blind, and how short sighted he had been. After he had risen from his own filth, he had desperately tried to convince his leadership of the strength of the Terran Front, how it matched or eclipsed their own. The Conclave was not the unchallenged power in the quadrant anymore. The terrans, the human and chua, had somehow defied fate. They had not fallen to the vral after ninety years of near constant conflict, and now if Tika was right they had come out of it nightmarishly stronger than before. Tika had actually begged to be heard by his superiors, and he had never come close to that once in his life. The chua homeworld however, had fully broken him. If he had not been on the Antares, had not been humbled beforehand, he knew that he would have just clapped his hands together and said that it was delightful. As the transmission from the chua homeworld had come in, and the rescue effort had begun, he could only wallow in his own shame. He had profited directly from the chua’s suffering, the human’s suffering. Again he had tried, and failed, to convince his people, and again he had failed. Being on the Antares, for him, was torture. The lights were too dim, every human and chua looked at him with nothing more than loathing and contempt, his entire worldview had been shattered from the way he viewed the galaxy to his own place in it. Every time he closed his eyes he saw the shadow of Simmons standing over him, her voice cold with a lethal rage, hearing her voice echo in his mind, seeing the glint from flashes of light shining in her eyes. ‘We Know.’ echoed in his mind in his sleep, the voice of the terrifying Fleet Marshal transforming into the sound of a vengeful god demanding compliance and promising retribution. Then he had watched the humans and chua, who he knew were preparing to go to war with his people, celebrating the return of the shesvie. Once more he had expected them to be integrated into the Terran Front, but as soon as he learned Simmons offer to them, and what it had entailed, he had been called to his room to answer the latest message from his people. Once again, his people had doubled down, the knowledge of the enslavement of the humans had been suppressed, and once more Tika found himself, and his people, standing against a Terran Front that had every justification to declare war, to right the wrongs that had been done to them. All the while, he knew something else. He knew that, after everything he had seen, that his people would lose. The turinika had not been to war for nearly two thousand years. His people were not ready for what the Terran Front could do, and after seeing what they had done to the vral so far, he knew his people were not ready for what the Terran Front would do. He was afraid of the dark. Tika was absolutely terrified of it now, because now he knew the monsters were real. Simmons had shown him that, but the humans, the chua, they were not the monsters. He was. He had refused to be one any more. He had announced his intentions to his staff, who had squalled in rejection, all but three. Kzia was the first to step to his side, Kikumot and Tziki had stepped forward as well. Never, in his most nightmarish dreams, did he ever think that he would stand in front of Simmons and voluntarily have his plumage stripped from him, performing the act of Kasva. He never thought that his staff would have ever compiled and transmitted the data package they had sent. He had never thought that he would betray his people, if only to save them. Simmons had changed that, the humans had changed that. He knew the terror of the dark, he knew fear for his people’s safety, he understood the horror of war, and for the first time in his long life he could truly look back at every interaction he had had, with every species, that had asked for help in their struggle for survival against the vral and truly understand their fear and desperation. Now he lay, his plumage stripped from him, his station revoked, his status removed, surrounded by a people who despised him. He wouldn’t have it any other way now. He knew that they would listen now, if not to him, then to the civilian masses of the Conclave that would not stand for what they had done. He prayed to the Great Mother often now, shivering in the dim light, hoping that it would be enough. He had been wrong, and in his error he had sullied his own people. He had made them complicit. Even now, he did not know how they would ever be forgiven, because right now he wasn’t quite sure he could ever forgive himself. As he heard the broadcast calling out on the ship, announcing one minute to jump, he felt a hand on his side, and looked up to the human nurse. She was smiling at him. Not a smile born of malice, or anger, but a genuine smile. She patted his side lightly, then turned to walk out of the room. For not even the twentieth time since he had come onboard Thermopylae, he was mystified by these people.
The bridge of the Dhampir was thrumming with music and the vibrations of the reactor and Conrad leaned forward in his chair mount, his eyes almost feral as he looked at the empty space that was the mandeville point. He was positively chomping at the bit. Batz was positively roaring the lyrics to the song that was blaring over the ships speakers. Rev and Dev sat side by side in their mounts, throwing their hands up in time with the pounding bass beat of the sound. Towns was the only one besides Conrad that was quiet, both of them looking towards the mandeville point with complete impatience. Conrad felt like jumping from his skin. Fidget, well, fidgetted, holding his hands over his headset and listening as if he were trying to hear secret messages in the music. They were ready, their pulses were racing. The crew of the Dhampir was positively vibrating. Conrad looked to the shipboard clock, seeing 1330 displayed, and his head snapped to Fidget, waiting for the word. They were going to run, they were going to chase, they were going to hunt.
Vicky sat back, looking towards Jess and Kukat as they slept. Jess was in her chair, Kukat in her medical bed. Vicky glanced back at the block print on the paper and read it for the fifth time. She read the individual lines, one at a time, cursing their existence. After reading through the message printed she let her hand hang again. Kukat would be released from medical tomorrow, and both her and Jess still thought they would be boarding the Thumper to join the Vellacore once more. Jess had talked non-stop about her quarters on the Vellacore the past few days, how she just wanted to be back in her room. Kukat was equally excited. Only Vicky didn’t share their excitement. They didn’t know yet. They didn’t know about their battlefield promotions, they didn’t know about their reassignments, they didn’t know the days of them working together were functionally over. Vicky looked down at her hand holding the paper again, and felt like crumpling it. She had lost her crew. She had lost them not due to negligence, or time, she had lost them to fame. Kukat was to be promoted to ensign, and was to be the sensor officer on the destroyer Hadrian, Jess was getting the same promotion, her station on the cruiser Victorious. Vicky? She was the sparkling new commanding officer of a destroyer that was arriving at Thermopylae in two days, the Quarrel. She never wanted this. She had turned down promotion after promotion that would take her from the cockpit of the Thumper, away from Kukat, away from Jess. She wanted to serve in this war in her own way, as a pilot, with the two who had made her life so enjoyable. Now though, they were to be split up, and there was nothing she could do about it. These promotions hadn’t come from simple seniority, they had come from High Command, as had the orders. Tomorrow, when Kukat was released, they would be ushered into the hanger bay of the Barrowmore. They would all three be awarded the Star of Terra, then they would be reassigned. Tonight was the last night they would all be together. Vicky wanted to wake them up, she wanted to tell them, to give them a chance to process it. As she looked to Kukat and Jess she couldn’t bring herself to do it. She held up the letter again, reading the first few lines, then she felt the sting of tears in the corners of her eyes. She looked away, her heart panging with sadness, and stared at the wall. The clock read 1330.
Corporal Brandy was sitting on the small rack, with Janet Shippen sitting between his legs using his thighs as armrests. They were both dressed for the first time in the last few hours, both of them staring at the clock. This close to the reactors they could feel them beginning to spool up for the trip through hyperspace. When the news of the operation had come down they had elected to spend as much time together as possible, which Brandy had enjoyed to no end, and he had made sure Janet had as well. Brandy had even taken some time to reach out to his sister Victoria, a rarity for them both, as since they were children they were often barely able to speak to each other simply due to schedules. He had even told her about Janet, and although he hadn’t gotten a response from his sister yet he already knew what she would say. Janet nestled back against him, but he could feel her body was stiff. Neither of them knew what the next few months were going to hold. Their time together might be constricted, in fact, this might be the last few moments they were together for quite awhile. Brandy’s Ghouls were specialists, ship boarders. Chances are he was going to be extremely busy, as was she. He didn’t quite know how he felt about Janet, but he did know that beyond a shadow of a doubt he didn’t want to be away from her. Judging from how she was acting, she felt the same as him, conflicted about her relationship with him, but not wanting to be apart. He knew what he needed to tell her, that he had to get up, that he had to leave. The Ghouls were going to be assembled at 1345, ready to board. Her unit was going to be prepared at the same time, to begin taking on salvage. Her hands were like clamps on his legs, and from how tense she was, he wasn’t going to get up until she was good and ready. The clock on the wall switched to 1330. He stared at the clock, feeling like the clock was mocking him, when suddenly Janet leaned up and turned. Her hands took hold of his shoulders and she threw her body against his, her lips finding his own. Her arms wrapped around her frame and he tightened his grasp on her.
Simmons spread her hands over the panel in front of her, looking at the table. Seven points connected the recently reclaimed chua space to what was former Shesvie territory, and beyond that, the heart of the Vral Empire. Her lip curled in a wicked smile, On the digital display of the table the hyperspace lanes, and more importantly, the avenues of attack her fleet was preparing to take. She held out her hand, all five fingers splayed over the lanes, envisioning the war as it stood now. The war to come. Seven hyperspace lanes, seven systems, branching out into sixteen, branching out again to another twenty. The Antares herself was going to link up with the Barraki, and was set to simply plough through the next five systems to do so. Slowly she tightened her hand into a fist as she looked along the hyperspace lanes, seeing task forces lined up and ready to jump. Drones had already been sent through. The vral had forces along the border, but nothing that could withstand what was to come. Her fleet was ready. She was ready. The Seventh Orion War was at the end of it’s first month, and had taken back six systems. The first moves of Operation Naked Sun would double that and exceed it, then double it again. She had already given her speech, her task force commanders were ready. High Command had taken it’s time making this decision, and while she had railed against the delay that didn’t matter now. All along the front, individual task forces were joined into larger fleets, ready to jump into the next system and eliminate any vral defenses, but unlike now, they simply would not wait. Naked Sun was to be a lightning strike to cut off as much of the Vral Empire as possible, to deny them their own space, to imprison them on their own worlds. Task Forces were designed around three types of vessels combinations, Lighthammer Task Forces were comprised of corvettes and fast destroyers, the fastest vessels in the fleet, meant to take systems quickly, to devastate unprotected infrastructure, and to eliminate light resistance. Simply put, they were going to swarm into vral space, determine pockets of resistance, and move on. They were going to rip entire sections of vral space from them, calling in other task groups if needed. Thunder task groups were the primary capital fleets, meant to be sent into those pockets of resistance, and neutralizing them, joining with the Lighthammer groups if needed. The cruisers, carriers, battleships, they all belonged to these task forces. Her own task force was called the Nova task force, and it comprised only the Antares and it’s sizable fleet escort. Simmons glanced up at the clock, the time was 1329. She breathed in slowly, then unbidden the thought came to her head and she looked to the report from the two habitable planets that had been scanned by the drone cutters, the information having been relayed to her almost twenty minutes prior. She was not worried about the ground campaign, in fact a reserve fleet from Thermopylae would be the ones to escort the landing ships from planet to planet that her fleet left behind in it’s wake, isolated and defenseless from the wider Vral Empire. Fleet escorting was no longer her job, protecting ground invasions were no longer her job. Simmons was positively growling now, as her only job was to take her fleet and use it to rip the vral out of the stars. Still, the thought nagged at her. On both of the planets that her fleet was set to overrun, there were Vral ships in orbit. On the first, there was evidence that the Vral had been bombarding a small area of the surface, extremely similar in size to the hole that now existed on Zvitia, the planet that even now was being integrated into the Terran Front. In the second system it showed Vral ships in orbit, but whatever they were doing during the time they had taken the scans, whatever they were covering up, they didn’t seem to have gotten to it yet. On the radiological scan of the planet a massive bloom of electromagnetic energy painted a broad region of the planet blistering white. She had sent the images back to Earth, back to High Command, but no one seemed to know what was happening. The one thing that every analyst agreed on so far that was that whatever the blooms represented, it meant nothing good. She took another long look at the radiological scan, seeing the intensity of the radiation, and her lip curled in a snarl. She couldn’t think about that right now, but orders had already been given to notify her the moment that they had taken a planet that still bore the radiation signal. The vral were being damned fastidious about it though. She pulled her thoughts away from it, looking back to the hyperspace lanes. The slow grin entered her features again. She glanced at the clock. 1330. Her hand took hold of the receiver next to her station and she pressed the transmission stud, knowing that Hazard had already opened a channel to the wider fleet.
“Commence.”

That’s all it was. A game.
Something my friends and I used to play during the summer when we had nothing better to do. I never expected that it would get so out of hand.
I never expected it to come back long after recovery.
To anyone reading, please don’t do what I did.
I’m putting this out there to warn people.
On that warm summer evening, we played the role of Pandora.
Except, the monsters we released were far worse than what’s told in stories.
Because stories end.
And this doesn’t.
I still remember the date. July 16, 2013. I was an upcoming senior in high school while the others were getting prepared for their freshman year of college, raving on about their majors, life plans, dorms, you get the point. The summer had been bittersweet as those months would be the last I’d see them for a while. Because of this, Anthony, Lola, Eliza, and I would spend the bulk of our time together going to festivals and various camping trips, trying to make the most out of the summer while we could. On that day, the day I wish I could forget, Eliza had run late to one of our hangouts at my place. This was odd since as an Ivy league student, she was usually early or right on time to these kind of things. Half past three, we heard her knocking on my door rapidly, which was also out of character considering that she was usually the calm one in our group. A bit worried, I hurried down the stairs with Anthony and Lola following close behind, expecting Eliza to be in hysterics due to her frantic behavior. When I opened the door, however, there she was with a bright smile on her face, her red hair getting in the way of her eyes, which were a dark green shade. She pushed her hair out of her face with one hand and held a brown box in the other, and she was bouncing up and down as she usually does when she’s about to talk about something exciting.
“You’ll never believe what I found.” Eliza’s voice could barely hold her impatience as she stepped inside and kicked her shoes off once she crossed over my threshold.
“What’s up with you today?” Anthony questioned, looking more confused than concerned now.
“I’ll show you guys in a minute. Can we go up to your room, Felix?” Eliza looked over at me with her trademark smile, knowing damn well we were all too curious to just leave that box unopened. Without a word, I led the group up to my room and shut the door after everyone had walked in. Anthony took his usual spot on my beanbag and unzipped his hoodie, which had the MSM logo sprawled across the front in big red letters. He adjusted his dark rimmed glasses and took on his usual stoic expression. Lola wore a dark blue FIT shirt, which she revealed more of when she moved her locs over her shoulder as she sat on my desk chair and wheeled over to us. As she did, the various necklaces she wore clinked against each other. Eliza herself was the smartest out of the group, and probably in the whole school as well. She had gotten accepted into multiple prestigious schools, but ultimately settled for Harvard to pursue a degree in some obscure philanthropic career. Unlike Anthony and Lola, Eliza wore her regular outfit –usually a white tank top and jeans– and sat on my bed with the box in her lap. I took a seat next to her to get a closer look.
“So what’d you find?” The others moved closer.
“Something we probably haven’t thought about for a really long time. Do you guys remember that one game we used to play in middle school? The one we made after Felix joined our class?” Eliza looked at our puzzled faces to see if we had connected the dots, but her clue didn’t seem to strike any of us with familiarity.
“After Felix joined? Didn’t we just hang out or something that weekend?” Anthony questioned.
“We did, but there was something else,” Eliza raised an eyebrow, “you guys seriously don’t remember?”
At that moment, I saw Lola’s eyes light up and a thin smile grew on her lips, something she always did whenever she was able to figure something out.
“You mean that little map game we played? Where we would go out to the woods and explore?”
Both Anthony and I seemed to have remembered as well with the mention of a ‘map game.’ I chimed in, “ yeah I remember! Every once in a while when we were all bored, we’d pick a random spot on a map to go to and explore there for a bit, right? When did we stop doing that anyways? I remember really enjoying it.”
“Well life happens,” Eliza responded to me, “but I was thinking of things to do for the rest of the summer when I suddenly remembered that game! That’s why I was so late for our meetup today, I was looking through my attic for this.” Eliza shook the box slightly and a couple things clattered around inside.
“There’s no way.” Anthony sounded like he was in disbelief.
“You mean…?” Lola sat forward in the chair. Eliza smirked, her adventurous nature creeping out as realization swept over us like a wave.
“Mhm! I found the map we used to use as well as the things we collected from our little escapades.” With that, Eliza opened the box, revealing a folded piece of paper and various trinkets scattered over the bottom of the capsule. Lola squealed with excitement and immediately snatched the box from Eliza, who simply chuckled and leaned back on the bed.
“No way! Everything’s still in here!” Lola digged through the box and placed whatever objects she found across the blanket. Anthony got up and sat at the foot of my bed, to observe our findings more closely. There was a piece of some clay pottery, some rusty springs and scraps of metal, an old digital camera, and some other random stuff I can’t recall to memory right now. Anthony picked up a spring and turned it in his palm.
“Shit man, this is from that abandoned junkyard we found in 8th grade…that feels like such a long time ago now.”
I examined the piece of pottery with Eliza looking over my shoulder. Lola picked up the digital camera.
“Do you remember where this came from?” I turned to Eliza and held up my discovery.
“No clue,” she shrugged. It must have been a while ago if even she didn’t remember. I turned the piece over and grew curious when I saw weird symbols inscribed on the inside of it. I squinted a bit, trying to discern some sort of pattern within the scribbles.
I turned to Eliza again, “hey, what do you think-”
“OH MY GOD GUYS IT STILL WORKS!” Lola’s voice went up a whole octave as she motioned to us.
The rest of us looked up as she turned the camera to face us. There were various photos we went through. All of us at lakes, museums, exploring the woods; everything we did from 7th grade until my freshman year seemed to be documented. The last photo was arguable the best and msot bittersweet. It was a picture of the whole group from a while ago. We were sitting at Eliza’s dinner table with a giant chocolate cake on the middle of it adorned with two candles shaped like the numbers one and five. Eliza was talking to me in the photo. Her hair was even more red at the time and she wore it in a braid. I looked about the same in the photo as I did then, with light brown hair, blue eyes, and freckles scattered all over my body and face. I was smiling sheepishly at Eliza. I now knew why Anthony said it was obvious I had a crush on her in 8th grade. Lola went through the most changes out of all of us. At the time in the photo, she had her hair straightened and side-swept, with a bright pink streak in her bangs. She wore clunky jewlery and a frilly skirt underneath a long tank top, leaning over the table to cut another slice of cake. All of us had birthday hats on except for Anthony, who kept his sitting on the table. He held up a peace sign staring straight into the camera with a stoic expression. He looked like a statue compared to the rest of us, who were laughing and smiling. You could tell he was having fun, though.
“Well don’t you look like a ray of sunshine,” Lola snickered as Anthony shot her a dirty look.
“At least I didn’t go through some weird scene phase in freshman year,” He smiled and watched Lola’s face, knowing she was blushing despite her dark skin which made it practically invisible. I let a laugh slip out, but quickly stifled it knowing that if I kept going it would mean death. Lola side-eyed me and continued, “I was using my creative liberty to experiment with my options as an artist,” she said with an overly-posh accent that made Eliza laugh.
“Yeah Anthony, don’t be such a downer,” Eliza teased. Anthony simply rolled his eyes and suppressed a smile to pretend like he was mad at all of us. He looked into the box and picked up the paper we left, unfolding it with a hint of excitement and curiosity. When he looked at it, only two words came out of his mouth.
“Holy shit.”
“What, what is it?” Lola tried to look at the other side of the paper, but Anthony quickly held it out of her view.
“What if I didn’t want to show you?” A smile crept onto his face. This was one of those rare moments where he’d be in the moos to joke around with us.
“Don’t be a dick bro,” I said, laughing as I went to grab for the paper. Anthony just held it up in the air and pushed me off of him and I landed on my floor. While he was distracted, though, Eliza took her chance and snatched the paper right out of his hand.
“You boys need to learn to be nice,” she warned in her jokingly stern voice as she unfolded the paper and spread it out onto my bed. We all leaned over to look.
It was a map of a couple towns including ours. There were around ten small star stickers placed on different areas on the map near the streets the four of us lived in. On the top of the map, a couple words were scrawled in black sharpie; “Pick a Place!” I could see everyone’s faces light up.
“Oh my god it’s our map!” Lola shouted and pointed to one of the stars near her street, “this was where we found that old junkyard right?”
Eliza smiled, “I remember that. It feels like such a long time ago now.” She pointed to another star, “and this is where we found that lake we made a hideout of. I still remember swimming in there in 8th grade…”
The four of us reminisced for a while, talking about where we had gone and what we did there, and how impressive it was that we didn’t get tetanus from that junkyard. After nearly an hour of conversation, Eliza asked something that made all of us stop.
“So how about it guys? Do you want to do one last round before the summer ends?”
The rest of us looked around at each other. It was clear we all wanted to do it. Eliza seemed to catch on and she nodded.
“Who wants to pick where we go?”
“How about you do the honors?” Lola suggested, motioning towards the map. “You’re the one that brought this stuff in anyways.”
Eliza raised her eyebrow but didn’t object. Without a word, she examined the map for a few minutes, then placed her finger on one spot a bit far from my house.
“How about here?”
“You think we can make it that far?” Anthony asked.
“Well, we can drive now so why not?”
“You sure there’s some type of trail we can drive on? That spot looks pretty deep in the woods”
“We can find a path to drive on for a bit then walk the rest of the way. C’mon guys, this is probably our last chance to do something like this! Felix, you can drive right?”
Eliza and the rest turned to me with a hopeful expression. I had to comply.
“Sure. No big deal, right?”
All three of them cheered and high fived each other, looking pretty excited to go on one last adventure.
“So when do we leave?” I questioned.
Eliza flashed that smile again, “right now.”
“Right now?!”
“Hell yeah,” Lola chimed in. “It shouldn’t take that long, right?”
“I guess…” Even then I felt uneasy about the whole thing. I didn’t feel prepared enough to go on some random trip into the woods. I needed to pack food, water, flashlights, I had no idea how long this was going to take. Little did I know that those things would be the least of my worries a couple hours from then. I wish I could go back and convince my 17-year-old self that it wasn’t worth it, that I should just convince my friends to stay and talk for the rest of the day. I wish Eliza had never remembered that stupid game. In a way, I’m almost mad at her for what happened, but I know it wasn’t anyones fault. We just wanted to have fun. I wish we could’ve just had fun. But God had a different plan for us. One that made me think Satan himself devised it instead. On July 16, 2013, Anthony He, Lola Smith, Eliza Landserson, and Felix Johanson went on an adventure that none of them were ready for.
Author's Note:
If you just read all of that then thank you so so so much for doing so! I'm a rookie writer, so feel free to comment any constructive criticism you might have if you have actual writing experience! This is the first silly little story I'm posting here, so I hope you enjoyed :)

Abstract
The following is derived as the formula for the Egyptian cosmos:

• 𓊖 = Ⓣ^C / (𓅃⋅𓃀)

Verified by the value of the earth’s 🌍 circumference reported to Aristotle (2280A), by “mathematicians“, a science Aristotle says was invented in Egypt; experimentally calculated by Eratosthenes (2210A); decoded as 360 x 1111 stades by Warren (42A); EAN decoded as omicron (ομικρον) [360] x iota (ιωτα) [1111] by Thims (7 Feb A68); and HieroTypes reduced as: ◯^W ⋅ X = ⨂ » 𓊖 by Thims (18 May A69).
Overview
The following is:

#	Circumference 🌍	Person
1.	τετταράκοντα [40] μυριάδας [10,000]	Aristotle (2280A)
2.	40 x 10,000
3.	M x 𓂭
4.	Δ x 𓆐
	Y x 𓆼
5.	400,000 stadia
6.	400,000 🏟️
7.	400,000 [600 👣]
8.	400,000 [600 𓃀]
9.	400,000 [X𓃀]
10.	252,000 stades	Eratosthenes (2210A)
11.	360 x 1,111 stades	Warren (42A)
12.	399,960 stades	Warren (42A)
13.	[ομικρον] x [ιωτα]	Thims (7 Feb A68)
14.	OW x IW x [X𓃀]
15.	◯W x 𓅃W x [X𓃀]
16.	◯W⋅𓅃W⋅[X𓃀]
17.	𓊖⋅𓅃⋅𓃀	Thims (18 May A69)
18.	239,976,000 feet	Egyptians (Aristotle)
19.	151,200,000 feet	Eratosthenes
20.	131,482,560 feet	Modern value

Whence, we have:

• Ⓣ^C = 𓊖⋅𓅃⋅𓃀

Dividing through, we get:

• 𓊖 = Ⓣ^C / (𓅃⋅𓃀)

A ΕΑΝ formula for the Egyptian cosmos (κοσμος) [600]!
Circle-X symbol 𓊖 [O49]?
In step #17, I have merged omicron (ομικρον) [360] symbol ◯ with the chi (X) = 600 symbol, to make the circle-X (⨂) symbol 𓊖 [O49], which is in the names of many Egyptian city or nome names, e.g. Heliopolis, as follows:

• ◯^W ⋅ X = ⨂ » 𓊖
• 360 ⋅ 600 = ⨂ » 𓊖
• 216,000 = ⨂ » 𓊖

In other words, I am conjecturing that the chi X is merged into or inside of the ◯ circle, to form, similar to what Plato speaks about, the Egyptian circle-X or cosmos birth symbol 𓊖 [O49].
We also note:

• 216,000 = ⨂ » 𓊖
• 216,000 = 216 ⋅ 1,000
• 216,000 = 216 ⋅ 𓆼
• 216,000 = {επιμιχια} ⋅ 1,000

Where epimixia {επιμιχια} [216] meaning: “intercourse“ (Barry, A44) or “admixture”, which seems to make sense, meaning that the phoenix 🐦‍🔥 egg 🥚, formed by Ptah, had to have been made or seeded by “intercourse”, meaning the new cosmos was born from an admixture of sexual genomes 🧬, or something along these lines.
Keys

• Ⓣ^C = circumference of earth 🌍 on an Egypto-Greek T-O map.
• W (superscript) means “word value”, e.g. ◯^W = 360, the word value of omicron (ομικρον), or 𓅃^{W =} 1111, the word value of iota (ιωτα).
• Stadion (ΣΤΑΔΙΟΝ) {neutral} or stadia (ΣΤΑΔΙΑ) {genitive} = 600 feet 👣, the length of one Greek stadium.
• 🏟️ = stadium emoji; used as icon for the Greek stadia.
• 𓆼 = 1,000 in Egyptian numerals.
• 𓂭 = 10,000 in Egyptian numerals.
• 𓆐 = 100,000 in Egyptian numerals.
• Δ = 4 in Greek numerals.
• M = 40 in Greek numerals.
• Y = 400 in Greek numerals.
• X = Chi, 24th letter, letter value: 600.
• x = multiplication symbol.
• (dot) ⋅ = alternative multiplication symbol.
• 𓃀 [D58] = one foot 🦶or 16 digits on the Cubit.
• 𓅃 [G5] = Horus falcon, 10th unit on most Cubit rules, and letter-number 10 (𐤉) on the Phoenician alphabet; used as pre-Iota (I) LunarScript symbol, i.e. 10th Greek letter.

Quotes

“Mathematicians who calculate the size of the earth's 🌍 circumference Ⓣ arrive at the figure 400,000 stades.”
— Aristotle (2280A/-325), On the Heavens (Περί Ουρανού) (translator: J.L. Stocks) (§2.14:298a15)

Posts

• 111 ordering of the alphabet
• Omicron [360] ◯ x iota [1111] = T-O map Ⓣ circumference [400,000]!
• Type (etymology): the “form” of a letter
• Stadium 🏟️, from Greek stadion (σταδιον) [635], secret name: sthenaros (σθεναρος), meaning: strong, mighty; robust; intense violent. Length: 600 Greek feet, based on chi (χ), value: 600, secret name: cosmos (κοσμος). Earth 🌎 circumference = 400,000 stadiums 🏟️ (Aristotle, 435A/22870A)

References

• Aristotle (2280A/-325). On the Heavens (Περί Ουρανού) (translator: J.L. Stocks) (§2.14:298a15). Publisher.
• Warren, Charles. (42A/1913), The Early Weights and Measures of Mankind (pgs. 48-49). Publisher.

Just another fun little story idea I had. I am still working on Humans are the violent ones but I like to bounce around and experiment with ideas to see what I really like. I also suck at writing more casual stories, as they give me severe writer's block as I try to map out how to make a scene feel genuine in my head, but I promise I'll update that soon. If you like this story and want to see more, then like and comment. I'll gladly continue this series as well.
Start of Personal Log
Humans don't like being told what to do. They don't like being commanded, put in their place, or snubbed. It was an inexorable, inalienable trait of humans, at least any noteable humans, to go against any authority that they believed was against their interests.
Humanity would not fit amongst the stars. Few ever did. It was a trait of most successful species to be willful, ambitious, and to desire more. But once they reached the stars the new (and simultaneously very old) pecking order either quashed any spirit such species had or simply eradicated them. Countless tomb worlds and diaspora served as painful reminders of what became of the nails that chose to stick out. The hammer of order would always strike. There could be no compromise, the very soul of the authority that held the Jurisdiction together relied on a show of unmatched power, or at least the illusion of item.
In reality, the Jurisdiction was an old, fat, and lazy beast. It filled its belly on the corpses of empires far and wide, and sated its bloodlust on the shattered dreams of hopeful cubs. It had every right to, for none could challenge it: there were no new frontiers to explore, nor were there any other enemies to conquer. The Milky Way, as humans had so strangely dubbed our cradle galaxy, as well as Andromeda, had long since been warred over and settled for millennia before humanity had arrived, bright-eyed and with familiar yet otherwise foolish dreams of cooperation and prosperity. The Jurisdiction did not cooperate, nor did it ensure prosperity. Oh, it claimed it did, but in reality it simply took. The rest was just the peace that came with not being the direct target of the biggest fish in the pond. The humans didn't like that, but they had no choice.
Slavery was a common tribute. The Jurisdiction had no use for other resources: it simply took. No, it wanted those who could facilitate that unequal exchange, those raised in a world where the only morality was the one set by your lord. The Jurisdiction was held together by expectations, obligations, and dury more than any kind of shared dream, so when you were ordered to take you did so without question. Humanity was new: they had no niche or value that set them apart, but they had a penchant for killing and taking, so the Jurisdiction gave them a taste of how the galaxy worked. They killed and they took. The humans didn't like that, but what choice did they have?
Humans were strange. They learned, but not in the way most species learned. Most species learned to adapt in a passive way, to adhere to the world around them. They flowed like water, moving past and around obstacles and confirming to the boxes they were assigned too. Humans didn't confirm, nor did they adapt: they made their circumstances fit their desires. They would not move around obstacles, but rather smash through them, and they refused to stay in one box for too long. The Jurisdiction merely saw them as a particularly loud nuisance, but those who faced their wrath knew better.
It is said that when a beast seeks to make an example, it shall humble its rival by killing it's cubs. Children were one of those universal constants that brought entire communities together: the Sok’klar saw their hatchlings as gifts, shaped by the fruitful currents of the universe in perfect harmony. The Yarrack saw each and every newborn whelp as an uncut gemstone, ready to be shaped into something magical. Humanity oftentimes referred to their offspring as angels, or spirits of unbridled good sent by the gods themselves. Children were seen by most of the galaxy as gifts.
The Jurisdiction saw them as a lever to inflict suffering. It had become quite effective at enacting psychological punishments on those that stood up and spoke out. You dare to disobey? You believe you can speak out? Your gifts shall be taken from you, and you shall be without joy.
Humans didn't like this, but the Jurisdiction would have their pound of flesh, and humankind would kneel. And they did. But humans were patient creatures: most species who retained that trait of willful spit also lacked patience.
I had long since become desensitized to the Jurisdiction’s actions: it was simply how the universe worked now, as if it were a constant akin to gravity. Cruelty was the unspoken rule of this seemingly unending age, where our lives never appeared to move forward or backwards, only lay dormant. The Jurisdiction had been the unyielding authority that ruled the galaxy for thousands of years, venerable yet feared all the same.
And for the longest time I was just another cog in its wheel. My name is Kalnuracht Sedjuur-Noumar VII, and was the scion of the noble house Sedjuur-Noumar. I was born into what most would describe as veiled apathy, living a life that could be attributed to the privileged class of feared scribes that enacted the will of those above. I was an administrator and nothing more. And now I am doomed to be far less than that in the eyes of my former constituents within the endless administration. I am the only scion, as is tradition, and without an heir I am the last of my house, our name to be scrubbed from the records, worthless, meaningless, and forgotten.
I am merely Kalnuracht, nothing else and nothing more. I have seen from their eyes, the eyes of the downtrodden, and it makes my crimes of association with the Jurisdiction feel all the more damning on my worthless soul. I am worthless to the world, and this is my story.
End Personal Log #1
Start of Neural Lace Narrative Log #1
They came from the black like carrion birds in the night, encircling our convoy as if it were a dying animal ready to be picked clean without remorse. There was no warning, no list of demands sent out as civilized peoples did, nor was there either any requirement for unconditional surrender nor chance to parlay, as was done so under letter of marque: this was an unmistakable call for violence and nothing else. They sought to reduce us to slag and scavenge the rest.
So, as one would expect, the entire bridge of the ship was nearing a panicked state. This was not the actions of those practicing civility, but rather the common behaviors of despoiling barbarians, the kind that tore their way through the dark reaches of the galaxy as if they owned it.
“Wayfinder, what do your probes see?” Shouted the ship’s sovereign. He was an older Kar’Rowmach, an amphibious cephalopod species with a venerable history within the Jurisdiction going back thousands of years. Normally one such as him would be above me if it weren't for the fact that I was under the authority of the Jurisdiction’s seal of office. He didn't like me very much, but most of his kind shared the same sentiment.
“All dark, honorable Sovereign: the sensor arrays are wailing but the feedback we're reviewing is beyond incomprehensible,” the wayfinder replied with a certain restrained temper in his voice. The Sok'klar wayfinder swayed gently, his tentacled limbs grasping different metallo-liquid braille output arrays, the liquid gallium flexing and reshaping unnaturally to allow him to to take in multiple different sources of sensory output at once, with the primary navigation computer plugged into the cybernetics surrounding his opaque, gelatinous head and plugging directly into his tube-shaped brain.
The Sovereign cursed in Loskat and pointed to his bridge crew while I simply sat in the back, near the Sovereign’s symbolic throne. “Prepare countermeasures and spool up the warp drive, we cannot allow the amanuensis to be taken! He carries sensitive information that only he can translate and transcribe!”
As the bridge crew nodded and began fiddling with their own systems, I preened my feathered hide anxiously. I wasn't a fighter: us nobles of the cloth were the educated minority above all else, not those who waged war or partook in hard labor. Special cybernetics in my brain allowed me to translate triple-encoded messages that usually took a ducal signet codekey or above to parse, but even without that I was a skilled mathematician and logician. I had terabytes worth of knowledge stored within the hardware installed in my head, all well protected of course, but if I were to die it would still be a waste. I could only imagine the damage any malcontenders could do with it if they were able to get their filthy hands on me.
Suddenly, the ship rocked, and the gallium overhead display began to form crescendos like I'd never seen before. “Sovereign, decks A-3 through C-12 are venting atmosphere and our coolant systems have been obliterated,” the Wayfinder spoke in an almost serene voice, as if he was completely unconcerned by current events. I knew they were simply incapable of tonal displays, but it was unnerving nonetheless. “Once we jump, we will not be able to risk another until the vacuum of the void can reduce temperatures to acceptable levels within the plasma capacitors.”
“Damn them,” the armored nautiloid hissed, his barbed feelers coiling in frustration, “May the currents take them. What are our options? what can we see? This fleet cannot fall to the void today, not with such vital cargo.” My hackles rose lightly at the Kar’Rowmach referred to me as some object rather than an esteemed amanuensis of the Jurisdiction, but I bit my forked tongue. Now was not the time to squabble with the sovereign over who was what and what titles I deserved, not while he was so desperately attempting to keep what semblance of order within his fleet that he had left.
I could not blame the crew for being panicked either: wars were practically mythologized now, having been long since rendered obsolete with the rise of the Jurisdiction, and that felt like an eternity ago. Now, either being levied into or joining a ducal naval force was simply another career, more akin to serving as an officer of the law rather than a fully fledged soldier. Minimal training was required, most of it being the technicals of one's duty rather than any kind of combat conditioning, so expecting a fleet to actually be prepared for a combat scenario in a universe where peace was the norm was laughable.
“We are practically blind, Sovereign,” stated the Sok'klar Wayfinder, “our probes are offline, and shipboard graviton displacement sensory arrays have been rendered unreliable at best.”
“What about the particle emission array? Has there been a spike in radioactivity where we were hit?”
The Wayfinder seemed to think for a second, his gelatinous form flexing and morphing a bit before answering. “Affirmative, a jump from negligible to forty billion becquerels along decks A through E-5 on our starboard side.”
“Torpedoes…” the Sovereign hissed, stroking his barbed feelers, “Human Torpedoes. Only those primitives would rely on crude nuclear warheads.” He then turned to his militant leaders on the ship. “Noddos, Rel’ads: organize your phalanxes and prepare to repel boarders. We are bound to be assailed by those rancorous primates, and I want their skulls piled at my feet if they dare set foot on our ship.”
“Your wish is our command, Sovereign,” the two militant commanders spoke as one. Noddos, a large bipedal with multiple sets of curved spines running down his back, a pair of graceful horns sprouting from his head, and multiple rows of sharp teeth in his snout, bowed first, followed by Rel’ads, a marsupial with long saberteeth and thick fur. They both must have been fierce warriors in their own right to each lead a phalanx. They wore thick, semi-powered armor and held dueling polearms alongside their usual plasma casters, and seemed completely unfazed by the situation we were in. As they stomped out of the brightly lit bridge, I let out a quiet squawk of discontentment. “Sovereign, why haven't we jumped again? We are wasting precious time.”
“I am working on it, you spineless beaurocrat!” He warbled back, his feelers tensing in anger, “besides, it's not as if you're the one who will be spilling blood today, amanuensis, so flatten your wretched beak or I shall weld it shut with a plasma torch.
I was about to reply with something indignant, but the ship rocked again, this time causing the lights to flicker and the air to become… thick. The skin under my feathers began to blister, and I became lightheaded and confused. “Seal the damnable vents, initiate radiation scrubbers, and activate secondary life support!” Shouted the Sovereign, “Their nuclear weapons are rendering the ship inhospitable!”
I coughed up magenta blood accidentally, and I could feel more seeping from under my eyes. Some of the crew was in a similar position, but others were more resistant to radiation than I. The Sok'klar seemed completely at ease as he ran his tentacles across his morphic braille arrays before calmly announcing the ship’s status. “I've regained some control over our probes: ten, twelve, and seventeen are active and fully functional, the rest are either still malfunctioning or permanently inoperable. A rapid rise in localized radiation is also interfering with the detection of graviton displacement; we can't sense photon redirection, thus readings will remain inconclusive.
“Wayfinder, damn you, get me some kind of out here! We're easy prey until we can respond in kind!”
“Negative, something has gone awry with our processing hub, I am attempting to troubleshoot-”
And with that, the Wayfinder’s bulbous head exploded in a cascade of opaque lavender blood, covering the front half of the deck crew like a morbid art piece. Some of the crew screamed and shouted in terror before removing their cranial adaptors and choosing to interact with their displays manually. Others died just as quickly, unable to unplug in time as their brain stems fried or their blood boiled. It was a horrible way to go, having your insides neutralized by your own cybernetics, so I was glad I wasn't connected to the system.
“Cybernetic warfare! All systems are to be considered compromised, switch to manual settings or you'll be killed!”
The lights in the bridge flickered again, and the displays went haywire. The bridge crew, which obviously weren't acquainted with working without being hard-linked into the mainframe, moved at a much slower pace.
“Launch missile pods A through F and set to self-target after five hundred kilometers, then rely on their ballistic coordinates to begin firing broadsides! If we can't see the humans due to their meddling, we'll just have to feel them.” Shouted the Sovereign, “and got me a detailed report on the ship’s diagnostics readings. I need to know if this flagship is still capable of escaping or if we'll have to scuttle it and retreat on another.”
“Acknowledged, Sovereign, launching now,” affirmed another deck officer as he swiped across his own gallium output array. I could hear the dull thunk, thunk, thunk of missiles pushing out of their pods before racing off to their intended targets, then the mechanical whirring as the pods rotated to be reloaded by slaves in the lower decks. I was regaining my bearings as the many horrible sensations of being overwhelmed by radiation poisoning were beginning to subside, but I still felt as if I had been microwaved. The air was stale, the crew was horribly sick as well, and even the sovereign himself seemed to be on his last leg. I was beginning to believe that I might die here.
“Sovereign, a message from the lower decks,” shouted a communications officer, his chitin scraping against itself as he turned quickly, “they're requesting reinforcements, something about being overrun.”
“Impossible,” the Sovereign hissed out in a vain attempt to exude confidence, “We must outnumber the humans, they always go for bigger targets out of arrogance.”
“I've received reports that it's not just humans: the primates seem to make up only a third or so of the assailing force, along with some Phaeldaer and Vrex.”
The commander slammed his clawed hands down on his own output array in a fit of rage, obviously overwhelmed by the circumstances, “Then this wasn't just a typical assault, but something more sinister!” The nautiloid warbled, blood seeping from his shell as the full effects of the radiation took hold, “Get Rel’ads on the line, have him divert all spare lances to the lower decks or else we'll lose the only offensive capabilities we can use.”
“Rel'ads has gone dark, Sovereign, his vitals are critical.”
“Then either get me Rel'ads tail-leader or get me Noddos!” He screamed in rage, “don't give me this nonsense! If we don't pick it up we're all going to die, is that what you want?”
“No, Sovereign, I'm simply overwhelmed-”
“We're all overwhelmed! By the tides, I'm dying of radiation poisoning you nincompoop! Get me something I can work with!”
The officer didn't even acknowledge the Sovereign after that, simply turning back to his display. Eventually, the Sovereign was able to get Noddos on the line.
“Sovereign, two thirds of my phalanxes have been decimated by combat with the primitives and the radiation, the rest are in shambles. We must retreat and fortify elsewhere!”
“Then the ship is compromised! Rel'ads is unresponsive and the lower decks are swarming with intruders. We must evacuate the amanuensis to another ship.”
Just as the Sovereign spoke, I heard several gentle thumps rattle against the bridge’s door, and it made me uneasy. Some of the bridge crew seemed to feel the same, as they looked incredibly nervous and some even drew their sidearms. Just as the sovereign turned to give further orders, the door blew inward with a deafening explosion, followed by shouting and gunfire. Several of the bridge officers were dispatched quickly, brain matter and blood splattering against the delicate electronics. Others were shot in the legs, the torso, or in any other exotic yet non-vital body parts. The humans poured in, brandishing primitive ballistic firearms and jury-rigged energy weapons while wearing scavenged, legion-grade powered armor.
The Sovereign was the next to go, but he wasn't afforded an honorable death. He was shot along the arm with a particularly potent plasma caster, burning off his clawed hand and cauterizing the wound, the acrid smell of roasting chitin filling the already hot and cramped bridge. He fell back against his output array, the gallium reaching new highs and lows as more diagnostics and casualty reports were delivered, and he clutched his stump angrily. “I'll burn every last one of you in the foundries! I'll tie you to stakes, cover you in wax and set you alight! Your screams will be broadcasted all over the galaxy!”
One human warrior stomped up and slammed the butt of his rifle into the sovereign’s face, shattering his facial plates and causing blue blood to splatter across his section of the bridge. “Shut the fuck up, you mutant lobster,” the human said before dragging him by both antennae towards the center of the bridge and receiving a stained breeching axe from one of his comrades. “Emmanuel, start recording. We need proof.”
The other human nodded and pressed a button on his armor before lifting up his gun again. The rest of the humans fanned out, holding everyone else at gunpoint. I tried to get up and sneak out, but a human grabbed me by my neck and nearly wrung it out as he forced me to my knees and pointed a sidearm to my skull. “Get down, you piece of shit, before I blow your brains out too.”
“Damnable primate,” I hissed, but he bashed me in my skull with the base of his sidearm’s grip and sent me sprawling, making my already pounding headache worse. Another human shouted at him in a language I didn't recognize, but he sounded furious. The first brought me back up to my knees again, and I complies with a hiss and a groan, blood still leaking from my eyes and mouth and my world was spinning.
The Sovereign struggled, but he was weak from the radiation poisoning and he couldn't exactly resist on account of his lost arm. The human with the breaching ax kicked the Sovereign down and forced him to kneel before lifting up the breeching ax and splitting his chitinous head down the middle with one powerful swing, sending more blood and brains across the floor. “Execution confirmed, take his antennae just in case and we've got ourselves a bounty. Now all we need is that ugly cat’s teeth and the fat hedgehog-thing’s grimy spines and we'll be in business. Although, they do have skulls… we might as well just take their heads.”
The real horror of the situation dawned on me at that moment: they were going to kill us all, or maybe worse. They mentioned a bounty for the commanders, and multiple of the higher ranking ship officers were already dead, their brains splattered against the walls or their bodies torn apart by gunfire. I wasn't dead yet, but that didn't mean much since I wasn't an immediate threat.
“Alright, round them up and bring all the grunts to the hanger bay, then kill the rest,” the leader of the humans said in such a lackadaisical manner that his complete disregard for life almost made me sick… almost. I had seen worse from the Jurisdiction before, but usually that was from me delivering some kind of ordered judgment on a world that had sinned against order. I might have simply been the messenger, but I had seen many of the outcomes. “And make sure to collect whatever proof of bounties you can, we'll need to deliver them to the office to get cashed out. Don't let this be a repeat of last time where Juarez fucking forgot to take a few heads and it ended up cutting our profits in half, the fucking retard.”
Some of the humans chuckled at that as they dragged more of the senior officers away, out of the room and into the hall,where I heard gunshots. The rest of the bridge crew froze in place, different fear instincts kicking in. The remaining Sok'klar corralled together into what seemed to be a singular, semi-congealed mass as if to try and trick the humans into believing that they were much bigger and much more threatening than they actually were. The one Thei’chi on the bridge, an ensign who had clearly thought this would be a simple mission, bore her curved fangs at the humans and growled as they approached, her hackles completely vertical and her eyes dilated. They quickly muzzled and bound her before beating her over the head with a gun stock, sending her sprawling onto the ground. Many others simply cooperated, eyes wide and yet simultaneously empty, as if they couldn't quite process that the ship had been taken and the commanding officers were being executed as the rest were escorted to the hangar.
“Get the damn messenger down to the hanger as well, we need whatever data's in his ugly lizard head, then we can decide on what to do with him.”
I spat at him in spite, as if to try and seem brave, but it was clearly an empty gesture. “You won't get anything, primate! You couldn't possibly crack the encryption!”
The human holding me seemed to wind up for another swing, but the commanding officer simply held up his hand to stop my tormentor before strolling over to me. He knelt down and removed his helmet, revealing a beige-colored face covered in scars, wiry black hair cut down to the scalp, and multiple tattoos. “You're really fucking mouthy for a hostage,” he said before punching me across my beak faster than I could register. I heard a sharp crack as his fist connected, and my head spun again as the metallic taste of blood pooled into my mouth. “I'd advise you to shut up, but I'm sure you won't listen: you aristocratic types are so full of yourselves. Maybe I should have you flogged in the public square until your vocal chords give out once we rip those cybernetics from your head, huh? How's that sound?”
“It won't matter… it won't change anything… the Jurisdiction will hunt you down.”
“Maybe, but I doubt it will happen for some time: they really suck at doing anything that requires effort, even when they're mad enough. They just keep sending their rabid lapdogs to try and smoke us out, and they always end up full of holes,” the human officer said with a smirk, his yellowish-white teeth and green eyes sending shivers down my spine as he drew his knife. “They're just horrible at their job, you know? You've all gotten so lazy and incompetent after being able to just take what you want without resistance, and now that you've met people who are angry and crazy enough to fight back you act as if we're committing some grave injustice,” he placed the knife against my throat, the flat just underneath my now bent beak, “No, we just took a few pages out of your book, ‘cept we've got standards. No kids, for one…” he seemed to look off into the distance as his sneer deepened, “but it's more than that, we don't attack the defenseless in general and we still win against you all in fair fights.”
I went to say something else snarky, but he quickly grabbed my thin tongue with his fingers and yanked it out, blood from my mouth pulling to the floor as he held the blade of his knife against it. “No no, none of that. Say one more thing and I'll cut that rancid little tongue of yours out of your mouth and feed it to you,” he hissed at me, pressing the blade down just hard enough to draw blood. “Do you know what it's like to see a planet turn into a tomb?" he asked me, gritting his teeth, “Do you know what it's like to see everything you've ever known crumble to ash and glass, all the life and the green stripped away leaving nothing but bones? I do. I've seen it happen to countless worlds, and my grandfather always told me stories of how you bastards did it to Earth. He still prays in its direction five times a day, to Mecca, but he knows the Kaaba is gone now, or maybe it's still there, buried in the bones of those who sought refuge there.”
I didn't care for the human’s nonsensical beliefs, but I did care to correct him. “I've seen it before, and I'll see it again. And so will you, it's inevitable. The Jurisdiction will always have its judgment fulfilled, there is no alternative.”
“One day, I hope we can rectify that,” he said, then he sheathed his knife and slammed my head against the metal floor with enough force to nearly knock me out. As I lost consciousness, I could hear him speak. “Take him to the Chop Doc, and make sure the cybernetics don't get damaged: they're supposedly more valuable than any bounty on this ship.”
Warning: Severe radiation poisoning detected. Flush system immediately.
Warning: Neural Lace removal detected, chance of neurological damage high. Proceeded with caution.

Hey everyone,
I've recently stumbled upon some mind-blowing information that has led me to believe that the Louisiana Purchase was orchestrated by aliens. Yep, you read that right—extraterrestrials may have played a crucial role in one of the most significant land deals in history. And guess what? All the evidence is being hidden at Area 51.
Here's what I found:

1. Napoleon's Sudden Change of Heart: Historians have long wondered why Napoleon suddenly decided to sell the Louisiana Territory for such a low price. What if he wasn't acting alone? There are rumors that Napoleon had a mysterious encounter before the sale. Some sources suggest he was visited by strange, otherworldly beings who convinced him to make the deal.
2. Lewis and Clark's Expedition: The famous expedition has always been shrouded in mystery. Recently declassified documents hint at the possibility that Lewis and Clark encountered alien technology during their journey. Their detailed maps and sudden ability to navigate the uncharted territory could be attributed to extraterrestrial guidance.
3. Ancient Alien Artifacts: There have been reports of strange artifacts found in the Louisiana Territory, dating back to the early 1800s. These artifacts, made of unknown materials and inscribed with bizarre symbols, are believed to be of alien origin. Conveniently, these items have been confiscated and stored at—you guessed it—Area 51.
4. Thomas Jefferson's Secret Correspondence: Hidden letters between Thomas Jefferson and his close confidants reveal cryptic references to "visitors" and "gifts from the stars." Jefferson's fascination with the cosmos is well-documented, but these letters suggest he may have had knowledge of extraterrestrial involvement in the purchase.
5. Area 51's Hidden Archives: Insiders claim that Area 51 houses a vast archive of documents and artifacts related to alien activities on Earth. Among these, there are said to be detailed records of alien negotiations that influenced major historical events, including the Louisiana Purchase. Why else would the government go to such lengths to keep Area 51 so heavily guarded and secretive?

Why isn't this common knowledge? The government doesn't want us to know that aliens have been meddling in human affairs for centuries. They fear mass hysteria, loss of control, and the collapse of societal structures. By keeping the truth hidden, they maintain their power and keep us in the dark.
It's time we demand transparency. The truth is out there, and it's being kept from us. We need to uncover the secrets hidden at Area 51 and reveal the true history of the Louisiana Purchase and other pivotal events in our past.
Stay curious, stay skeptical, and don't let the truth be buried!
👽🔍 #AlienConspiracy #LouisianaPurchase #Area51 #HiddenHistory

The phrase Royal Priesthood will be familiar to scholars who have studied the concept of priest kingship. The word royal derives from the Latin Regalis meaning to rule. Originally this meant ’to apply a rule’, meaning to be able to measure, observe and thus divine and understand the hidden span or workings of matter. In this sense a ruler was one who was born with the ability to measure and hence understand the hidden workings of the Cosmos. Here we have a direct reference to derkesthai. Hence the regalis was the derkesthai and the derkesthai was the Dragon King. The condition of being royal in the accepted sense is derived from being born into a royal family, clan, race (species) or tribe. Contextually and originally this phrase could only have been used in connextion with the Davidic concept of royalty passed through the blood as the ’holy spirit’ (genetic inheritance) of the gods: Mana, Maia or Maja (Maga or Magi, Magha, Maxa: greatness). 

https://chipstero7.wordpress.com/2023/05/24/is-baphomet-an-esoteric-representation-of-jesus-christ/
Quote from my article that discusses this (20% of 100%):
Baphomet is a symbol that has generated intrigue and controversy throughout history. It’s associated with occultism, mystery traditions, and the Knights Templar. While its origins and meanings are subject to interpretation, some individuals have proposed intriguing parallels between Baphomet and Christ. A notable parallel lie in their association with duality. Baphomet’s depicted as androgynous in nature and represents the equilibration of opposites and the integration of masculine and feminine energies. Christ is likewise depicted (especially in paintings) as androgynous and in ancient text is sometimes described as a merging of the male and the female. Drawing from the insights of the 15th-century book ‘Book of the Holy Treaty’, historian Leah De Vun describes the text as saying that Christ and Mary were originally a unified entity — an alchemical hermaphrodite. Describing the text — De Vun characterizes Christ as the “ultimate hermaphrodite, a unity of contrary parts, the human and the divine, the male and the female”. This idea of Christ as a hermaphrodite finds support in the writings of early Christian theologian Hippolytus, who, like the Ophites, considered Christ to be of dual genders.¹ Artistic representations of Christ, such as the painting “The Lamentation around the remains of Christ”, underscore this idea, showing Christ with female breasts akin to Baphomet. Some propose that the name “Jesus Christ” could represent the merging of two distinct entities or names into one. This idea is bolstered by the identification of “Jesus” as an ancient name for Isis, referred to as “Esus” in hieroglyphic inscriptions,² and “Christ” as a name historically associated with Osiris (see the book ‘Christ in Egypt: The Horus-Jesus Connection’). Within this framework, Isis and Osiris serve as possible precursors for the Biblical figures Mary and Christ.
This union or merging of Mary and Christ into a hermaphrodite like Baphomet represent twin souls becoming one and the accomplishment of the Philosopher’s Stone. The Philosopher’s Stone represents the alchemical process of inner transformation, leading to the ultimate goal of Divine Union. Divine Union refers to a spiritual state of unity and connection with the divine or higher consciousness. In essence, it refers to the coming together of twin souls, similar to how Christ merges with Mary or how Osiris merges with Isis. According to Manly Palmer Hall, in his book ‘Initiates of the Flame’, the “marriage of the Sun and Moon” represents the accomplishment of the Philosopher’s Stone. For the ancient Egyptians, the Moon represented Isis and the Sun represented Osiris and their union created Horus who was the fusion of both his parents and a divine hermaphrodite. In his book ‘Gods Wear Spandex’, Chris Knowles says: “The Chemical Wedding referred to the work of the alchemists, who sought to marry the masculine and feminine properties of creation and produce the Royal Hermaphrodite, which some historians have linked to Harpocrates (Younger Horus)”. In the ancient mysteries, the ultimate aim of the philosophers was not to transform lead chemically into gold, but transform man and woman into the divine hermaphrodite, merging the opposites; the male and the female. This is ultimately what Baphomet represents. It represents the idea that true spiritual enlightenment and wholeness come from embracing and integrating both the masculine and feminine aspects of creation. This union of opposites is seen as a path to spiritual balance and ultimate transcendence. This integration of the male and female is also represented by Rebis, which is a 15th-century figure used to symbolize the Magnum Opus or Great Work.
The connections between Christ and Baphomet are not widely recognized or agreed upon, but esoteric interpretations have been proposed. For example, in his book ‘Baphomet of Éliphas Lévi’, Abraxas Aletheia argues that Baphomet is an esoteric symbol of Christ, saying: “Contrary to popular belief, Baphomet is an image of an esoteric Jesus Christ created from a composite of alchemical, Kabbalistic and Christian symbols”. One such connection symbolically between Baphomet and Christ can be found in Baphomet’s caducous which matches the Christogram which is a monogram or combination of letters that forms an abbreviation for Christ’s name. One of Baphomet’s most recognizable symbols is the pentagram emblazoned on its forehead. The pentagram is commonly associated with Christ. In Christian tradition, the pentagram is seen as a symbolic connection to the five wounds of Christ. In certain esoteric traditions, the pentagram has been linked to the planet Venus, called the Morning Star or the Evening Star, depending on its appearance in the sky. This is of relevance, because Christ describes himself as the bright Morning Star in the Book of Revelation (22:16). One of the earliest connections between Baphomet and Christ can be found in the mythology surrounding the Knights Templar, a medieval Christian military order. Some have suggested that the Baphomet head that the Knights Templars venerated was the head of Christ. In her book ‘The Templars: The Secret History Revealed’, Barbara Frale says: “The last point raised in the indictment against the Templars concerned the secret veneration of an idol in the shape of a bearded head. There is clear evidence of the existence of image of Christ in the religious life of the order, as well as a mysterious cult devoted to the Sacred Blood”. Frale’s essentially suggesting that the Baphomet head was that of Christ. This same idea was the subject of the book ‘The Head of God: The Lost Treasure of the Templars’, by Keith Laidler.

Platform(s): Web browser
Genre: 2D Exploration with a focus on 2D Point and Click Puzzle (with a tone of horror)
Estimated year of release: 2012-2019
Graphics/art style: Dark and mysterious. Art style wasn't pixelated. It was fairly detailed to where I could clearly make out the character's facial expression and approximate age.
Notable characters: You control a teenage girl with orange/red hair wearing a white robe with modern shoes (she has a nonplussed look on her face). She was the only character featured in the demo.
Notable gameplay mechanics: Story is you are taking part in a type of trial imposed on you by your religious community (most likely a cult). If you can't complete it, its implied you'll die.
During gameplay, you are confined to a small room with a door (elevator maybe) leading up, a puzzle in the center, and a dooelevator leading down to the next level. When near the puzzle, you would interact with it and the screen would change to zoom in on it; from there, you used the mouse. I believe the puzzles were a type of sliding puzzle, where there were crisscrossing tracks (think train tracks, but indented) you could move the circular pieces with a symbol on them along the tracks and match them up with other symbols. I feel like I'm missing a crucial detail with the mechanics as the puzzles could be fairly difficult. The puzzles had a gold hue to them.
On the ground, you can find documents talking about various things, like letters of support addressed to previous trial takers and notes from trial takers (it's implied that the trial might be rigged to silence some people). There would be collectables on the ground and laying on top of the puzzles that you can just click to collect (it hints that these can lead to an escape from the cult). One of the collectibles you'd often find was red, maybe a gem or feather?
At one point, one of the puzzles has a piece of paper on it saying the puzzle is broken and you can go to the next floor. If you tear off the paper, it reveals the puzzle can be completed and doing this can aid you in escaping the cult.
Other details:
The game was a free demo for a full game that was either already out or would be out soon (I can't remember where it was going to be sold though). I believe I played the demo on a game site like Newgrounds, Kongregate, etc, though I tried looking on Newgrounds and couldn't find it.

This post contains spoilers from CS1-Reverie, including Reverie’s post-game content.
Disclaimer: The analysis portion of the Background section contains discussion of mental illness. I am not an expert in mental health, or any health field for that matter. I’m just a guy applying his own perception, lived experiences, and surface-level knowledge to interpreting Rean’s arc. I probably don’t even need to be making this disclaimer, but I felt like it.
Last year, I made this post asking how the members of this sub felt about Cold Steel’s protagonist: the one and only Rean Schwarzer. I was pleasantly surprised by the amount of engagement it got, as well as the diversity of opinion expressed in the comments. There were those who loved him, those who were neutral on him, and a few who just couldn’t stand him. At the time, I had just finished CS2, so there was a ton about Rean I wasn’t privy to. However, now that I’ve played Reverie and am fully caught up with the first half of the series, I have a much fuller picture of him. Since so many of you were kind enough to offer up your takes on Rean back then, I figured I’d express my own thoughts on him in the form of a proper analysis. Without further ado, let’s begin!

Background

Rean Schwarzer (born Rean Osborne) is the main protagonist of Trails of Cold Steel I, II, III, and IV, as well as one of the three main protagonists of Trails into Reverie. He was born in S.1187 to Erebonian commoners Brigadier General Giliath and Kasia Osborne. Rean’s father was a brilliant leader and strategist, but his commoner status made him an enemy of the military’s nobles. This led to Giliath’s home being attacked by jaegers when Rean was five, resulting in Kasia’s death and Rean’s heart being punctured by shrapnel. In a desperate bid to save his son’s life, Giliath made a deal with Ishmelga, the Ebon Knight, to become its Awakener and used its power to transplant his own heart into Rean’s body. Due to his deal with Ishmelga, Giliath was forced to give up custody of Rean, entrusting him to the care of Baron Teo Schwarzer. As a result, “Rean Osborne,” the son of a commoner military officer, became “Rean Schwarzer,” the adopted son of a minor noble family.
Although Rean’s new family was loving and supportive, his new life was not without struggle. The boy’s sudden, mysterious appearance in the Schwarzer household made the family - particularly Teo - the subject of gossip and controversy among other nobles. Some believed Rean was Teo’s illegitimate child, while others openly lambasted Teo for his willingness to potentially allow a commoner into the nobility’s ranks. Teo essentially became an outcast among his noble peers, his family’s name tarnished by rumor. Rean, for his part, came to believe he was at fault for this situation, and the subsequent guilt would plague him for many years.
Rean’s self-worth was further challenged by another, more personal problem that arose during his childhood. At age nine, Rean watched an unknown monster attack his younger sister, Elise, and the stress caused an innate “ogre power” within him to manifest. Rean fell into a blind rage, savagely killing the monster. When he returned to his senses, Rean was traumatized by the scene he had left behind, and by the discovery of this new, violent side of him he could not control.
Two years later, Rean became an apprentice of the legendary swordsman Yun Ka-fai, founder of the Eight Leaves One Blade school, hoping to learn how to control his ogre powers. Despite showing great promise as a swordsman, Rean was unable to develop control over his ogre power, and Yun was eventually forced to cut short Rean’s training for unrelated reasons. Although the beginner-rank Rean continued to train on his own, the damage to his psyche was too deep-seated for him to fix alone. He believed he was nothing but a burden and a monster, undeserving of love or happiness. This guilt and self-loathing spurred him to always put others’ needs and well-being above his own, believing himself less important than anyone else. This self-sacrificial behavior became a recurring problem for Rean over the course of his adolescence and early adulthood.
In S.1204, at age 17, Rean enrolled at the prestigious Thors Military Academy in eastern Erebonia. He, along with eight others, became part of Class VII, Thors’s first socially integrated graduating class. Although he still struggled with low self-worth, Rean thrived in this new environment, quickly befriending his classmates and discovering his natural-born ability as a leader. By this time, Rean’s real father, Giliath Osborne, had become Chancellor of Erebonia and was being targeted for death by the Imperial Liberation Front - an anti-Osborne terrorist group. The ILF was a recurring presence in Class VII’s lives during their first school year, and the two groups clashed frequently. At the end of the year, Rean’s life took a dramatic turn when he unexpectedly became the Awakener for the Divine Knight Valimar before watching the ILF - led by his friend Crow Armbrust - seemingly assassinate Osborne and spark a nationwide civil war. Thors came under siege by Crow shortly thereafter, and in the chaos, Rean was forcibly separated from his classmates.
One month later, Rean awoke in the Eisengard Mountain Range outside his adopted hometown, Ymir. Now armed with Valimar’s power, Rean rendezvoused with his family and set out to reunite Class VII. Although he succeeded, Rean was later captured by the Noble Alliance and was held captive alongside Erebonian princess Alfin Reise Arnor. With Alfin’s encouragement, Rean freed the two of them using his ogre powers and rejoined Class VII onboard the imperial family’s airship Courageous. Thanks to Alfin and his bond with his classmates, Rean learned to stop fearing his ogre powers and started opening up more to those closest to him. Using the Courageous, Class VII successfully led a mission to retake Thors before ultimately confronting the Noble Alliance’s leader, Duke Cayenne, and stopping his plan to use the Infernal Castle to win the war. At the same time, new drama entered Rean’s life: Shortly after stopping Duke Cayenne’s plan, Crow unexpectedly died and Osborne was revealed to still be alive - and Rean’s real father. Rean, for his part, was formally recognized by the imperial government for his role in ending the war and became a national hero. This was, however, merely a ploy to pressure Rean into obeying Osborne’s wishes, and it succeeded, as Rean subsequently became an operative in Erebonia’s conquest of Crossbell. It was during this time that he became acquainted with Crossbell Special Support Section leader Lloyd Bannings.After Crossbell’s annexation, Rean fought in the Northern War, which resulted in Erebonia annexing North Ambria. He partook in the siege of Haliask, where he fought archaisms using Valimar. During this stretch of the war, Rean lost control of his ogre powers and was rendered unconscious for three days. As a result, he once again lost faith in his ability to control himself, and swore off the use of his ogre power.
In April S.1206, roughly 1.5 years after the civil war’s end, Rean started a job as instructor of a “new Class VII” at Thors’s new branch campus in western Erebonia. At the branch campus, Rean bonded with his students and fellow faculty while also taking on assignments from the imperial government. It was also during this time that Osborne’s plan to trigger the Great Twilight started unfolding, causing Rean, his students, and his comrades to regularly butt heads with jaegers, Ouroboros, and powerful cryptids. Ultimately, however, Osborne outmaneuvered all attempts by Rean, Olivert, and others to stop him; the Courageous was destroyed by a bomb with Olivert still onboard, Rean’s forces were spread thin through various battles, and Rean himself was forced to watch as Millium Orion was killed and turned into a Sword of the End. Finally at his wit’s end, Rean suffered a mental breakdown and was consumed by his ogre powers, causing him to violently trigger the Great Twilight himself before being taken captive by Osborne and Ishmelga.
After a short period of captivity, Rean was freed by Class VII and their allies. He, along with the SSS and the Liberl Bracer Guild, declined to become part of Musse Egret’s Operation Mille Mirage, instead choosing to oppose Osborne their own way. Rean, as Valimar’s Awakener, decided to partake in the Rivalries to reform the Great One, in hopes of defeating Ishmelga’s curse. He gradually defeated and absorbed power from the other Awakeners until, finally, during Operation Jormungandr, he defeated Osborne and Ishmelga, becoming the pilot of a corrupted Great One. It is at this time when two different futures unfolded: In one, Rean flew the Great One beyond Zemuria’s atmosphere to remove Ishmelga from the continent. In the other, Rean used the power of the Holy Beast of Earth to give Ishmelga’s curse a corporeal form, allowing him and his friends to destroy it. It was this latter future that became Zemuria’s reality, while the former remained hypothetical and unrealized.
Many months after Ishmelga’s defeat, in S.1207, Rean became involved in the incident involving Crossbell and Elysium. While combating enemy forces in the Nord Highlands, Rean started undergoing assimilation with Ishmelga-Rean, an alternate version of himself created by Elysium based on the unrealized timeline from when Ishmelga was first beaten. Later, during the final confrontation with Ishmelga-Rean, the real Rean saw visions of his other self’s sacrifice and finally grasped the devastating effects his past martyr-like behavior had on those he loved. He vowed to make a change before eliminating Ishmelga-Rean, stopping the assimilation.
Sometime after the clash with Elysium, Rean visited Longlai in eastern Calvard with his family, secretly hoping to track down Yun while there. Instead, he encountered members of the Ikaruga jaeger corps, who informed him that Yun was not in Longlai before departing. Rean has since contented himself with his current life as a Thors instructor, sensing that the next incident to befall Zemuria will involve not him, but an entirely different group of heroes.
Analysis: From even a cursory glance at Rean’s story, it is clear he endured much distress and trauma at a young age, and in my view, the result was deep-seated mental illness - namely depression. I am not a psychologist, but I would wager that the violent manner in which his five year-old self lost his home, his mother, and, almost, his own life, was horrific enough for his mind to block all memory of that period as a defense mechanism. This would help explain how Rean did not remember his real parentage until his encounter with Osborne in CS2 jogged his memory. Further stressing Rean were the controversies surrounding his adoption, which were not at all his fault but still interpreted as such by him, and the sudden, gory manner in which he learned of his ogre power. With such a potent combination of stressors burdening his young mind, it is no surprise to me that it took Rean such a long time to overcome his feelings of guilt and worthlessness. He was saddled with depression during the most formative period of his life, and like any mental illness, depression cannot be overcome with just one or two instances of positive reinforcement. It is often something people have to live with for many years, with periods of relative difficulty and relative ease. Looking at it this way, it makes sense for Rean’s arc to have taken as long as it did.
Side note: Obviously, Rean’s story is not the most realistic depiction of depression in fiction, but the manner in which it unfolds and is presented is still enough for me to take it seriously as a journey of struggling with mental health. When Rean receives support or encouragement from his friends and family, it helps in the short-term, but does little to erode the larger problem because that simply isn’t enough. Further, Rean’s progress is not linear, but is marked with occasional setbacks: In CS2, he finally learns to stop fearing his ogre power, but in CS3, we see that he is still vulnerable to losing control of it, and he does so during the Northern War and in the finale of that game. He receives a pendant (“meds?”) and training (“therapy?”) to control said power in CS3, but he still struggles with it. In CS4’s “bad” ending, even after everything he has gone through, Rean falls back into his old habits of self-sacrifice, because that’s how “baked-in” his problems are; he doesn’t even see the issue because he’s lived that way for so long. It is CS3’s finale that is the most striking part of Rean’s journey to me: In my eyes, it is the same as Rean having a mental breakdown, too overcome by his own emotional turmoil to control himself. He becomes consumed by his own demons, literally and figuratively, and it takes the collective effort of his loved ones in CS4 to bring him back to stability.
It is also fitting that Rean’s big turning point - the moment in Reverie where he sees the pain his martyr-esque behavior causes others - is as dramatic as the instances that facilitated Rean’s internal struggle to begin with. What I particularly appreciate about this chunk of Rean’s arc is that it is presented as Rean finally realizing the change he needs to make, rather than him being instantly cured of his ailments. It is simply him resolving to change his outlook on himself and his relationships, and that feels more grounded to me than any alternative route the writers could have taken.

Personality

Rean is a kind, courageous, selfless individual who greatly cares about those around him. Despite his own low self-esteem, he is a gifted speaker and possesses the spirit of a natural-born leader. It is this charisma that quickly made him the de facto leader of Class VII, as he often served as an intermediary for the interpersonal clashes between his other classmates (see: Machias/Jusis and Fie/Laura). He often goes out of his way to help his peers solve problems or make their lives easier. This behavior is propelled by his own feelings of worthlessness, which causes his generosity to often escalate to self-sacrificial activity. On the occasions when Rean is unable to help someone, he often feels guilty, even if the problem at hand was not his fault or was out of his control (examples include his inability to stop Vulcan and Crow from dying in CS2).
Rean is also extraordinarily perceptive thanks to his Unclouded Eye technique, which he learned from Yun Ka-fai. This allows him to set aside any preconceived notions or prejudices he may have and accurately discern a person’s true nature. His training also allows him to notice things others may not, such as objects moving at high speed or unseen people/creatures in his vicinity. At the same time, there are things he struggles to pick up on, namely when it comes to others’ feelings regarding him. Rean often fumbles when it comes to romantic/intimate interactions with the girls in his life, either unintentionally flustering them or failing to understand how deep their feelings run. Rean also fails to understand how his martyr behavior hurts those he cares about, despite numerous incidents ending with people refusing to abandon him and calling him out for perceived recklessness.
Analysis: One thing I’ve always appreciated about Rean is that, despite his serious personal problems, he never comes off as whiny, annoying, cringe, etc. He knows how to compartmentalize and portray an air of confidence and amicability; I would attribute this to his noble upbringing, as we see similar behavior in other noble characters like Laura and Jusis. His natural ability as a speaker and leader are reminiscent of Osborne’s, as is his penchant for self-sacrificial behavior; Osborne was, after all, willing to bond with Ishmelga, literally give his heart to his son, and turn himself into a villain for the sake of his people.
There are considerable differences between Rean and the three protagonists who preceded him. He is almost the antithesis of Estelle: She is lively, spontaneous, and unafraid to open up to others emotionally, Rean is more reserved and measured, and is initially guarded, though he does learn to express himself over time. While he does share similar backstory details to Kevin, their outward personalities are starkly different, with Kevin being suave and laid-back and Rean being more serious and passive. As for Lloyd, while Rean does share his kindness, perception, and leadership ability, the two do have their differences as well. Lloyd’s arc is about starting from nothing and overcoming barriers, gaining strength along the way. He is driven by a commitment to justice and a zealous patriotic spirit. Rean, on the other hand, starts out with great power at a young age but struggles to control it, making his journey more internal and personal than Lloyd’s. Additionally, his fighting spirit comes not from burning passion, but from steely nerve and trust in his companions. And, of course, he is not morally gray like his successor, Van.

Relationships

Due to the sheer number of people Rean becomes involved with, I will only address his more notable relationships. Many will be in clusters, with only a select few individuals receiving their own entries.

• Old Class VII: Old Class VII is Rean’s core friend group through the entire Cold Steel arc. They are the ones who fight by his side during the arc’s major events, including the Erebonian civil war, the Great Twilight, and more. Although Emma Millstein was class president during their student years, Rean gradually becomes Old Class VII’s’ de facto leader in the field due to his good rapport with all its members and his role in helping them bond with each other. By the end of CS1, he is very much the proverbial glue that holds Old Class VII together, and Rean executes this role flawlessly in CS2 by bringing their scattered members back together again. Despite his love for his classmates, Rean largely hesitates to seek them out for emotional support due to his low self-worth, and it isn’t until he sees their heartbroken reactions to his “death” in Reverie when he realizes how much he means to them.
• New Class VII: Rean is New Class VII’s teacher at Thors’s branch campus starting in CS3. Over the course of the game and its sequels, he forms a unique bond with each of his five students: A father-like figure for Altina, a tough-love mentor for Ash, a source of confidence for Kurt, a role model for Juna and… uh… maybe I shouldn’t discuss Musse. Anyway, the wisdom Rean imparts on New Class VII helps them all mature into capable young adults, particularly Juna, who essentially fills Rean’s shoes in CS4 Chapter 1 and leads the charge to rescue him from Osborne.
• Schwarzer family: Rean’s adopted parents and sister. Rean cares deeply about the Schwarzers, to the point where seeing them being physically threatened causes his ogre powers to manifest uncontrollably in CS1-2. At the same time, despite having the Schwarzer’s unconditional love and support, Rean feels like a significant burden to them for much of his young life, particularly to Teo. This matter is eventually settled by the end of CS2. There is also the matter of Elise, his younger sister, who develops feelings for him as they age (writing that did not sit well with me at all, but the show must go on…). Rean, for his part, is exceptionally protective of Elise until she finally rebuffs this part of him in Reverie, arguing that she is strong enough to take care of herself.
• Crow Armbrust: If any one member of Class VII, new or old, deserves an individual mention, it is unquestionably Crow. Crow and Rean share a unique, dynamic relationship that evolves considerably over the four Cold Steel games. In the beginning, Crow is Rean’s rival and superior in many ways. He is older, more cunning, and a stronger Awakener than Rean (at least when piloting Ordine). But over time, Rean gains strength and confidence, which allows him to beat Crow in CS2, and then defeat him again in CS4, at which point he essentially becomes Crow's lord and retainer by sparing his life.
  • The two are very much foils for one another, with similarities and differences: Both are young men who are descended from political leaders (who were themselves bitter enemies). Both are Awakeners guided by witches - Crow by the mighty Vita and Rean by the fledgling Emma and Celine. At the same time they are almost total opposites as people, with Crow being cocky, deceptive, and rebellious, while Rean is modest, honest, and upstanding. Even their hair colors contrast! In that sense, Crow also serves as a benchmark for Rean's growth, as their relationship roles essentially switch in CS4, with Rean gaining dominance over Crow.
• Yun Ka-fai: Because there is still much mystery surrounding Yun Ka-fai, it is difficult to dissect him in the context of this write-up. However, we do know that Rean was Yun's last discipline - the last of four. Rean also receives correspondence from Yun at various points in the story, largely to give life updates and confer higher ranks onto Rean (Is this the Trails equivalent of Zoom classes? No, wait, they have actual tech for that…). From the content of his letters, Yun seems to think highly of Rean as both a person and a swordsman. Despite not being present for Rean's final few years of training, Yun understands Rean's journey intimately, to the point where he feels comfortable making Rean a Divine Blade through a proxy in CS4. This begs questions: How does Yun know so much? Does he possess some form of the Unclouded Eye that lets him detect such things in his students? Is he basically Yoda? Or is someone watching Rean on Yun's behalf? Furthermore, in his letter to Rean in CS3, he says he will impart his final teachings onto Rean “when” they meet again. This might be reading too much into it, but Yun seems quite confident he will see Rean again. My guess is that Yun has something planned, if not for Rean, then for all of his disciples. And I suspect that that plan was part of why Yun chose to promote Rean to Divine Blade when he did. The timing, right before the final battle at the Duatha de Danann, is too convenient for me to ignore. Either Yun wanted to help Rean reach peak form in time, or he had some other motive. Or both.
• Giliath Osborne: Osborne is Rean's biological father. Despite coming off as callous at first, it becomes clear in CS4 and Reverie that Osborne truly loved his son and was willing to sacrifice everything for him, including his heart (literally) and his humanity. Rean inherited a number of traits from Osborne, including his charisma, leadership ability, flawed selflessness, and strength of spirit. The two share an innate need to put others’ happiness over their own, albeit for different reasons, and both suffered in silence for years because of it. This is part of why, despite having the same goal, Rean and Osborne both fought each other with all they had during the final Rivalry: Neither wanted to see the other inherit the curse's full power, Osborne because he didn't want to see Rean suffer any longer and Rean because he essentially accepted that he was the curse's Sacrifice. After CS4, Rean learns more about Osborne's inner thoughts and motives, developing a deep admiration for his father and a desire to make his sacrifice worthwhile.
• Lloyd Bannings: Lloyd and Rean are quite comparable. They are the main protagonists of their respective arcs, both are leaders in their own right, both embody aspects of the “dense male protagonist” trope, and both are overall kind, perceptive (outside of romance), overall heroic young men. But like Crow, Lloyd is a foil for Rean, and this is apparent from their very first meeting, in CS2's Divertissement. Lloyd and Rean's circumstances were polar opposites: Lloyd was a vigilante, relegated to the shadows, with only a skeleton crew for support, while Rean was an Erebonian national hero with a Divine Knight and the full power of his country behind him. At the same time, Rean had no agency during this time, as he had been manipulated by Osborne into accepting such status and becoming part of a reprehensible operation. Lloyd, on the other hand, was a free agent, uncompromising in his ideals and fighting tirelessly for true justice. In short, Lloyd was powerless but free, while Rean was powerful but trapped. In that moment, it is obvious that Rean respected Lloyd's convictions and may have even envied him. Fortunately for the two, they find themselves on the same side in CS4 and a proper friendship between the two forms.
• Patrick Hyarms: Patrick and Rean’s relationship had an uneasy start. Although Patrick initially tried to ingratiate himself with Rean, he was rebuffed due to his elitist attitude towards commoners and other non-nobles. Patrick was quick to change his disposition towards Rean, treating him with disgust due to his unknown origins and lack of noble blood. After being humiliated by Rean and the other non-noble men of Class VII, Patrick starts to reassess his mindset and eventually becomes more accepting of non-nobles. This, in turn, leads to Rean and Patrick becoming friends, and in CS3, the two are shown to be trusted partners in certain areas. The friendship is somewhat complicated by Patrick’s romantic interest in Elise, of whom Rean is especially protective.

Future

As a main series protagonist, Rean is basically guaranteed to return in a future game. Whether or not he will be playable or have a significant role in said game is difficult to ascertain, but given his lengthy period of stardom in the Cold Steel games and Trails’s treatment of other past protagonists, my guess is that he will take more of a side role. Since Rean was looking for Yun Ka-fai after Reverie, and Yun is set to appear in Kai no Kiseki, I wouldn’t be surprised to see Rean in that game at all - at least in flashback form. Failing that, Rean will surely appear in or close to the series finale. Of this I am certain.

Misc. Notes/Commentary

• Funnily enough, Rean’s final struggle with his powers in CS3-4 reminds me somewhat of the finale of Steven Universe Future, which similarly ends with the protagonist losing control of his powers and turning into a raging monster. It is only through the love and reassurance of Steven’s friends and family that he is able to return to normal, and like Rean, he is not necessarily “cured” of anything; he simply has a newfound resolve to get better.
• For those curious: I did not include discussion of Rean’s “harem” in this analysis because I do not see it as a core part of his character. The dating sim aspect of the Cold Steel games is just a silly fanservice gimmick and has no bearing on Rean’s growth or development. While it might have indirectly limited the interpersonal relationships the female characters of CS could form with other males, it did not have a similar effect on Rean.
  • Ftr, I romanced Alisa in CS2 and Sara in CS4.
• Rean’s two big “power of friendship” moments in the series - unlocking Spirit Unification in CS2’s Intermission and snapping out of his ogre rage in CS4’s Fragments chapter - both involve him being faced with a golden crystal which symbolizes his many loving relationships. This is a minor detail, but I do appreciate the parallels at work here.