aaku

The Cell

Mon, 18 Jan 2010 21:26:46 -0500

4215 Fre 41 (Memoirs and Reflections | by Aubsoluone Jikro 89th)

A sister. The cold flesh. Birthed and on the table glowing in an effusive, self-contained bulbous cobweb of light, pulsating white, then blue, white, then blue …

This is the first memory of life. The decanter spilling her across the table, she breathes and tries to understand life, immediately she is a cold wet slimy puppet; in days a beautiful baby; in months a crawling sentient being; and in years a fellow worker in the hull, a friend.

She grows and learns to know and understand like I the laws of our very finite world: the size of only 10,500 cabinets interconnected like tunnels or stitched together with walls beat open to form small quarters - sleeping rooms, mess rooms, equipment access closets …

We are here floating to our lineage’s death. Marooned in a seemingly infinite vacuum of space.

2945 Jyr 33 (Recollections of the meteor field incident | Eschenon Rik 1st)

My age is 23 years and 17 months, I believe. There should be others here to talk with and help with my duties in the hull, but I am alone. I am literate but could not gauge the degree of my intellectual achievements good or bad having no living, non-artificial intellectual peer to compare myself to. I can read at a rate of 3,000 words a minute and can record approximately 1,000 words every five minutes, or 200 words a minute on average. None of the literature I’ve read in the library affirms my reading and writing capabilities as either success or failure in an intellectual endeavor.

I only have one endeavor in life. To activate the embryo cells and begin decanting members of my genetic family and race and preserve what little I remember of the spoken language and culture from my brief three years of contact with living members of my genetic family and race.

The ship was traveling through what I now believe to be a meteor field. Comm system was the first to be disabled by impact and if there were any transmissions they were not recorded in the library. I have already consumed the entirety of the library. I have memorized nearly on quarter of it as well. There are no traces of any trasmission.

(The written literature in the library’s hull was of one differing from my family’s spoken tongue. The remaining two drones on board were programmed to speak my native tongue, so I spoke that bastardized perhaps with the vocabulary I absorbed most through reading rather than dim, shallow interactive with the emotionless, persona-less machines.)

It was one of 10,000 cells, each the size of 1/40 of our home planet’s moon, in network of self-sustained micro-orbitals. 10,000 feet from my head, is the curved wall of the main reactor, a the concetric hollow of a large sphere dumping oxygen and nitrogen through the system, its center, our spinning hull, with it tunnels and rooms wrapped around the inside of the ring to produce gravity.

Based on the number of years that have passed, I can only assume that our cell was not only damaged but detached from the main ship and launched off into open space. I am at least tens of light years away from any solar system that would have any planets, and those planets would not be life-sustaining from my projections. The cell is traveling close to 60,000 kilometers per hour through natural momentum. Based on the design requirements of the cell, I believe that it may last from 500 to a maximum of 2,000 years. Of course that could be made drastically short by collision with a dense cloud of space dust or a meteor collision.

They say there is a time of trauma in everyone’s life. Trauma always produces potent memories, and a young age can provide a level of persistent lucidity in recollection otherwise impossible in such a young age. For me that age was 3, and 1 month, I believe. I was considered slower than the others, my genetic siblings, sister and brothers and had not yet been trained in writing or reading. I was expected to be a laborer on the hull. The methren (our genetic aunts) followed us toddlers, three aged three there were. (We talked in a soft, rolling tongue in Illenish, a language that have developed in 2367 - a strangely accented derivative of Chinese with vocabulary heavily borrowed from Icelandic. The language developed over the years after China’s RMT corporation bought and inhabited the island nation. Or so the articles from history I have access to so document. There is not a tremendous body of literature devoted to this cultural subject.)

I remember the methren Lucinia who adopted me spiritually. I remember her name from my deep love for her and my memories of watching her die. The walls of the escape vestibule crushing her body and eyes showing an expression of horror as the life was squeezed out of here. There was a millisecond expression of her mind shouting “I love you” before the frozen pupils evoked only the hollowed sign of death. And then she was entirely consumed, crushed and hidden behind folding metal walls.

The others had been hurled out of the damaged escape vestibule, thrown violently into the thick nitrogen gases of the reactor and splattered against the opposing wall, the kernel of the micro-orbital.

Everyone had died. I was the last human survivor on cell AF1416.

Were it not for AD4, I would have died there; drowning any logic or clear reasoning in tears and screaming fits as I stared out a small intact polymer window peering out into the reactor. I only remember clouds of blood and imagined my sisters and brothers alive in the spinning mist of dark red blood. I was deluded in my horror by hallucinations of other methren nearby holding my fragile body there in the bubble formed in the collapse.

I didn’t realize a small crawl space with light trickling in immediately behind me until I heard a nursery song and a voice effecting a methren whose name I have forgotten:

”Rik, rik, trick a trick” It sang in a soft voice perfectly emulating the methren. I lay there and fell asleep for what seemed like a long time - for how long I cannot be sure. I cannot remember the dream exactly but I know I had vivid and fantastic dreams trying to comfort my traumatized mind. I do remember waking with the false illusion that I was crawling up a bunker ladder, a feat I had never really managed but tried and failed many times.

AD4 was singing again. Some nursery song about climbing and falling. ”Be brave and climb.” And then I crawled toward what I though was a methren singing to me; my eyes were still swollen from crying. The last memory I have was after coming into the full light of hallway into which I had been summoned; the horrific moment of realizing it was AD4 emulating the methren. I had convinced myself, wrongly, that the drone was going to kill me and throw me into the reactor with the rest; or at least crush me somehow. I erupted into fitful sobbing again and stared back at the faceless drone which floated back from me playing a soft nursery song to calm my troubled self.

From there I have no recollections until the age of 3 years and 10 months, I think, when AD4 had taught me basic writing, the alphabet, the concept of colors. It spoke in its affected robotic voice after failing to convince me of its humanness. I often wonder if I spoke to an outsider, they would confuse me for an android? There is no way of telling.

I am the third generation of the cell, we were commissioned as miners to be used in later parts of the main ship’s voyage. Now I am only racing time to make others to live in the little amount of time left. 0 generations? 1 generation? 2 generations? 100 generations? 1,000 generations?

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Competitor Research in Global Markets

Fri, 15 Jan 2010 12:26:47 -0500

Image by mastaschmue via Flickr

Competitive website analysis can be tricky for global markets. Take the stats for Baidu.com, the leading search engine in China, from Quantcast which is logically not representative of global traffic (including China) to the site; only an estimated 848K per month (compare that to US Google traffic of 146M). Of course those are hits mostly Chinese expatriots and non-resident visitors.

The magic of quantcast.com, compete.com estimates [1] is simply getting scrubbed datasets from some ISPs. Therefore they can be drastically inaccurate due to natural anomalies such as a large majority of traffic falling outside of available data samples.

Quantcast only provides statistics for US markets; I wish I had a market research consultant sitting next to me now to suggest similar competitor research tools.

There are a host of these sites (basically great marketing planning software with many features free from the bat) which are incredibly great for domestic companies researching other sites with a strong presence in the US markets.

I don’t see many with sites which offer estimation of non-US markets. I’ll try completing a survey for my own purposes to hone in on options for researching some Asian, European and South American regions. Anybody know of other companies such as Quantcast offering statistics on non-US traffic?

[1] Quantcast and other similar companies do provide direct measurement to webmasters via javascript tracking codes.

Baidu Inc Shares Rise After Google Decided To Pull Out of China Markets (BIDU, GOOG) (benzinga.com)

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Competitor Research in Global Markets

Fri, 15 Jan 2010 11:53:30 -0500

Quantcast only provides statistics for US markets; I wish I had a market research consultant sitting next to me now to suggest similar competitor research tools.

[1] Quantcast and other similar companies do provide direct measurement to webmasters via javascript tracking codes.

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11 Eidon 29108.2 - The Plains

Thu, 10 Dec 2009 17:42:00 -0500

They stood over the plain troks below them from the narrow grated service ledge protruding to west from under the cylindrical rails of telldron track; Kwatsura held his balance standing with spine angled back towards the tracks and clenched calves pressing against the rails.

If someone punched me now, I’d follow the force back, catch my heels on the western rail and the east one with my wrist, pull myself up and pinch the eastern rail between my bicep and elbow.

The rusted ladder controls box had rusted hinges and wouldn’t budge even after several tight fisted bashes over its top or lower lip. The Ysemilian traveler was returning now to the car to get a hinge, perhaps, leaving Kwatsura with one of the Rsolan men who had neglected his advice before the crash.

Fecking lil’ sheit, you and your other lil’ Rsolan buddy. Told you the theng was fecked. Never trost Rsolan departure gear - I need to remind myself this. You ship shit out the city, your molded lil’ trinkets of creed and your vehicles.

We do reserve more resources for our Intraurbans; Rsolan lives are after all most important by our belief, but I wouldn’t so pompously doubt the quality even of our lesser wares in comparison to your crude ware and creations in villages and cities of the vulgar continent; all Rsolan property is treated with premium care in comparison even in the least immaculate of such treatments there. What happened now was not by fault of poor bearings, as you so suggested with your feeble attempts at true analysis of the situation, and what happened could not be so easily predicted as the first sign of its occurrence was only when the accident was upon us; and no, you cannot even suggest the “bumps” you spoke of where symptoms leading up to the accident - all bumps and turbulence are normal during any long distance telldron travel between cities on the continent; this first significant bump we encountered was a faulted lip installation in need of repair - and outside limits of Rsolan infrastructure requirements of course; and the second, or the crash, let’s say was a major charge lip misalignment which sent an force outside the force tolerance for the left wheels. It’s really a simple matter of engineering, continent man.

Look, meht, naught really impressed with yer lil’ erudite speech. Just go piss yer meat on someone else. Kinda groggy an’ sheit.

Well, very well. I’m used to illogical continent folk like yourself.

Of course, Kwatsura could elaborate with more logic and detail as to why the Rsolan’s theory was entirely bogus; he spoke in his dialect and avoiding any revelation of his profession to the Rsolan’s to amuse himself with the arrogance they showed to a plain man of the continent. After the accident, Kwatsura considered the possibility of a defect with the charger lip as often happens in longer interurban lines, but then after inspecting the last pass with a set of binoculars, he noted there was nil potential of a lip defect; the seam of the charger lip weld was fresh in place and the warp between connections typical of an orruminae charger lip was well within allowed engineering tolerances. From these details; one could only conclude this was a default of the telldron car itself and not the track installation. A proper post-mortem analysis of the telldron’s carcase would reveal more, when cracking open unscathed wheels and examining the bearings which where rusted frozen to the inside. While he knew these details he didn’t bother wasting energy in describing these to the Rsolans who would only think up yet another irrational counterpoint to his reasoned and substantiated arguments, and it made little difference as the notes would be recorded and transmitted to Kforretc and surrounding libraries and heeded with greater influence than these two average Rsolan men could ever hope to procure.

Move over! Going to hit it. Only less than an hure and four decums to get the bastard off the tracks.

The Ysemilian man had arrived back and held a heavy telldron car support beam in his hand; the beam was nearly the same height as the towering man. He sent the blunt end of the pole smack down across the temple of the ladder box and the door flew off in Kwatsura’s direction, clanking against the track beam and then bouncing back in air towards the west. They watched as the door fluttered down through the turbulence of air in the high atmosphere and then disappeared from sight before falling into the earth far below. The Ysemilian pulled a lever from the box and set it midway; generally enough to support any man falling at an acceptable pace to reach the ground just under two or three decums, depending on his weight. As agreed, Kwatsura would go down first to collect the ends of rope; then the other passengers would follow behind leaving just the sullen Rsolan man and the Ysmilian to clean up the bits after the car had been dislodged and pulled from the tracks; after the car was pulled they would have one decum at most to run down the service ledge and escape on the roped ladder before the next telldron came whirring by. Kwatsura stretched his torso down clasping the telldron rail with two hands and then, dangling there, pulled the tip of the ladder towards his body when he released one hand to pivot his core using the gravity and then grab the top of the ladder. He released his right hand now from the rail and clutched the top of the ladder with both hands; his body swung now to the east and under the tracks. He hung there for a minute a human pendulum swinging east, then west, east, then west …

Ready fellow? The Ysemilian asked in gruff voice, preparing to pull the lever towards his belly.

Ready.

Kwatsura fell down in a sharp jolt after the lever detatched itself from an outer gear supporting the ladder and then began his steady journey. He heard the humming and continuing squeak of a pulley to the south of his downward launch and observed the thin rope sliding up; at the bottom of the rope an emergency counterweight (in the event of a gear failing) was being lifted from the desert floor as he descended. The weight was a net of rocks and appeared an tiny black spec from where he fell. The fall was a small journey in itself; as he fell the sound of the squeaking pulley grew fainter and fainter and then disappeared altogether, replaced by the faint, almost invisible sound of the small wind stirring the plains below or occasionally funneling into the cave of an ear. He accelerated and now the only sound was his body falling to the earth below; he used the sound of the relative wind pressing up against his body to determine his velocity influenced both by gravity and the line of rope now stretching a half trok west of the track by dent of the westward winds pushing him; and then based on his calculation of his current velocity he prepared himself to take a jump, tumble and roll across the ground to absorb the impact of the swift landing; much like an emergency hang glider landing, but without a wind sail around his back. Kwatsura had not miscalculated his weight for the ladder control settings, but rather lied to the Ysemilian with a lower body weight in order to speed up the fall and save time for pulling the telldron down - the most urgent matter at hand. At the beginning of the fall, the earth hurling towards him was so distant as to appear motionless - its form a haze of color patches and spots of green and yellow, foliage and rock scattered across the plain but indiscernible as such. Now the once flat blur of landscape came into form, revealing it’s dimensions of low rolling dirt hills and trees casting shadows across limestone boulders towering over the earth.

Feck, coming in fast. Ready to jump.

His body came down at angle from the momentum gained by the lateral winds and so just fifteen feet above the earth he jumped off the rope into a clear spot of land and rolled up a large plume of dust hovering and then dispersing with a sheet of wind pulling it up into the atmosphere into tiny clouds fading as they traveled away. His face and clothes were now covered in an even, thin layer of fine brown earth. He picked himself up and rubbed the dirt from his brow to prevent stinging his eyes with beads of sweat rolling down from under his cap and picking up blots of dust and pollen.

Now the tedious business. Finding the end of those feckin’ ropes.

Kwatsura pulled his binoculars to his eyes and looked up and eastwards, focusing on the telldron’s corpse and the ends of rope tied across the base of it’s right hip; he following the veins of rope dancing in the wind down half a trok where they began dispersing and tried to calculate the one with the closest trajectory to the earth. It was guess work based on summing the locations of rope over time changing with the pulsation of wind. The ropes were anchored with weights to prevent them from dragging too far across the earth with the wind; nonetheless, the trek to gather them would generally be at least three treks in total, a half hure’s walk or more.

Fecking wind. Let’s see. The middle rope probably to the west and further north. Only two of the seven appear to be south, so might as well head in that direction.

Kwatsura threw down a smoke signal bomb which erupted a bright orange cloud moving to the west and then headed northwest; within seconds the ladder jolted up, reeling back now as the men above noticed the signal and released a large counterweight to pull the ladder back into a massive skein at the top; and then two decums later the the line was two troks behind him, though many troks above. Kwatsura heard the netted counterweight crash below, though didn’t look back to see the screen of dust it produced. Five decums later he had gathered the last end of rope about two troks south of the crash point. All of the passengers, excepting the Ysemilian and the Rsolan who stayed above to clear the last bits of wreckage, were now below gathered in a small cluster and looking about aimlessly or staring up above to the almost invisible line produced by the telldron tracks cutting through the dusty blue pool of sky and rays of sun cutting through the air from the east. Kwatsura shouted to catch their attention: To your south, time to pull!

The crowd deliberated for a moment, and then four women and two men walked in his direction. Kwatsura also walked north to speed up the process and meet them halfway in just two minutes.

Okay, so I’ll distribute these by color. We’ll talk north a few troks until we’re in line with the telldron and then spread out in sequence until we’re each about a quarter trok apart each before pulling. Let’s hurry now, next telldron will be coming soon.

The group of seven then walked at a fast pace towards the north passing some of the passengers who were sitting down on the earth now or pulling goods out of their rucksacks and scattering blankets, lamps, food and other ware to last them the two duns they’d likely have to wait until the repair and rescue men from the south who had received Kwatsura’s transmissions would arrive. In a decum, Kwatsura and the others carrying an end of rope arrived in line with the wrecked corpse above.

Okay, I’ll move to the south. You. Follow me and stay a quarter trok behind. And you behind him and the same - keep a quarter trok from him. And you behind him, same. You, middle. Other three, opposite directions from us to the north and keep the same distance from each other until you last man is a quarter trok behind the other. I’ll shout when we’ve completed the span.

Most were familiar with the drill, making impatient nods as Kwatsura spoke and pointedLet’s move!They dispersed now with Kwatsura taking the lead to the south and in just less than a decum he stopped and shouted. Halt!

He waited for each person top stop, looking down the line.

On my count, we turn to the west and run, don’t drop your line! And pull with all your might when it gets taut! Three! Two! One!

They began running for nearly half a decum, a few troks to the west now; all of the lines became taught; they grunted as they heaved their end of the rope, trying to pry the telldron from the tracks. The men above noticed the increasing tautness and gave the car a shove from it’s left side. Then, within two minutes the car’s belly was dislodged from the tracks and tipped fully over to the west, hurling towards the earth. The air roared as it fell and the earth shook violently as it plummeted down with an explosion of dirt and branches from a small tree that collapsed from the fall.

Kwatsura looked up to the tracks with his binoculars to observe the two men now clearing the remaining pieces: a few wheels cracked into chunks and a support beam that had been dislodged from the impact. He looked to the north and zoomed in several treks to see the hull of an approaching telldron, then south back to the two men anove; one man was stooped down and holding the rail, checking for vibrations; he leaped up waving his arms and apparently shouting at the other (though Kwatsura of course couldn’t hear them from so far to be sure). They ran south along the narrow service ledge, pulled themselves down on the rope ladder one after the other and released the lever. Kwatsura followed them down with his eyes for a few seconds and then moved the lenses back up to see the car fly by in a blur of light.

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The Plains

Tue, 08 Dec 2009 12:52:05 -0500

Kwatsura stood back as Ysmelro drove the long hammer down, busting the calcified hinges clear off the ladder box; the metal plate of the busted door fell off and drifted down for several seconds, disappearing from sight before landing in the soft dirt of the plain below them.

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11 Eidon 29108 - The Plains

Sat, 05 Dec 2009 17:00:00 -0500

Light was barely awakening over the horizon as the telldron slid down over the plains through the dull of the night’s ending. Kwatsura leaned against the car’s dorsal rail gazing towards a small white grain of light being crushed under the dark sky and the exhausts and dust smoldering the lower atmosphere of the continent.

Beginning interim transmissions. Only a few hures ago there was Rsola, a massive shell swallowing my existence and now only a grain of sand melting out of view. The telldron build out took three decums. Naught Behd, neh. Islrinea saw me at the depature on South Edge. Me arms a legs are exhausted from the ladder pulley system, South Edge was yet another massive high tower, particularly apt for the long telldron ride. Didn’t take any notes from there, third time seeing that departure … nothing had happened. She’ll be applying for the egress visa; and if all goes smoothly I’ll be meeting her in the next cities and negotiating with some grundas her access to Fgord library transmissions as well. Didn’t see Gsorn again. Nor the chiefs. Spent the last few days eating, talking. No rote. Nothing noteworthy of transmission, neh. Ride is a bit peculiar, failing sparking orruminae installments passing down over the first south west hip, then again with the third hip after. Car seemed to be leaning more to the east than normal, perhaps some bearings were in need of replacement. Damned egresss lines can have sheit part… Fecki-

«cszhhhhhhhhhhh-cszhhhhhhhhhh-shhhhh»

The jolt of the car bouncing over a orruminae charger lip knocked Kwatsura crashing onto his back towards the car’s anterior hull; the transmission was interrupted as the ring flew off his finger from the abrupt force. He scrambled to his knees and retrieved the instrument which was glowing dim now under a sleeping passenger’s bench. Fecking sheit. Two Rsolan men stood against the back wall with countenances revealing only a slight hint of concern from the bounce. Kwatsura addressed them in a loud voice emphasizing the direness he considered of the situation and to counter their arrogance:

Turo-hu. Bsalin-alins cul-fsoran. Something’s up with the bearings.

Ksaalll. Rsola-tu, Rsola-tu. Haha, they’re are Rsolan-made pal.

Ksal, Kslau, wu-trols dsin-dsin consolr-hu. Yes, no worries my little continent friend.

Wu-dsan dsan, cul-fsoran-hu! cul-Telldron rislora trel-trel. Fsonasl dsin sentril-hu. Don’t be foolish. Telldron’s been riding rough. Stand in the center!

Dsellll …

Kwatsura almost gave up trying to convince them and stood alone now in the center of the car looking forward across advancing tracks. Oh sheit, fecking massive lip is approaching fast. Feck! Before Kwatsura even thought to grab a brake lever, the lip was upon them and jolting the car with even more ferocity than the one just before. A shower of white sparks covered the view of the open doors and plated windows.

Garsorllllll!

One of the Rsolan men shouted curses, trying to brace his balance as his torso fell forward to the east; the platform of the car sank below their feet as the left wheels busted out from under them sending the belly of the hull scraping across the metal tracks.

Feck! Woken up nows! Fecking things boosted, everyone on the fecking west side of the car or sheits gonna fecking fall off. To death! Feck! Someone! brakes!

Kwatsura spouted out random directives in a maddened fluster, pulled some passengers asleep and even threw some drunk men like sandbags to the west side of the telldron where they crashed into a painful awakening. The Rsolan pair had engaged the brakes and the car came grinding to a halt three thousand feet or so above the Plains and still five longs from the terminal station. The careful application of brakes and shifting of the car’s weight to the west had spared the lot from hurling to their deaths into the soft dirt so many troks below them.

Feck, feck. Neht panicking. Transmitting events to the terminal now.

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11 Eidon 29074 - Rsola - East Edge Descent

Fri, 04 Dec 2009 16:34:00 -0500

Kwatsura stood at the ledge atop the mid section of East Edge looking eastward toward a white sand plain baking in the late afternoon sun. Islrinea followed him shortly behind, repelling on the common rope against the slick walls gripping the peak. She jumped down the final four feet alighting on the ledge directly left of her grunda and then spoke with a voice oscillating in volume between deep cycles of breathing:

We’ll repel a tenth of a trok down onto that buttress. Not meant for pedestrians, so we’ll just have to take care in crossing to the connecting high tower. Let’s skip climbing again up that one. Peak has only been surfaced, nothing notable there.

That’s fine by me.

Well, should we continue the trek then?

Not waiting for an answer, Isrlinea lowered her body again with feet pressed against the wall and repelled down onto the edge of the buttress. Kwatsura followed immediately after her.

The overpass only provided only enough room for two feet side by side with knees clasped together. Kwatsura looked down at the bustling metropolis, those below still flecks of dust and the Rsolans higher on the ambulatory hills now tiny white worms needling their way up and down the walkways, in and out mouths pouring into apartments, telldron stations, dinner dins and drinking spots; Kwatsura saw most of the forms moving down towards the east, likely a migration of laborers making their way to the two chronologists current destination. Construction was to be in full swing there in just two duns.

A factory in the north had begun operation since early afternoon and yellow wisps of vapor now floated by, makeshift clouds of emission veiling the city of shell through random intervals.

Kwatsura imagined himself of lesser balance and plummeting off the edge of the long buttress; to fly through a yellow cloud of soap vapor and then gutted through the invisible web of support cables strewn between the towers. He almost felt himself suspended in a melancholy purgatory lasting a half eternity along the narrow stretch of the thin passage floating over the city. Thirty more troks of the ninety. Soon. Neh. Dammit. Don’t think the the dun will land us at the western periphery as I’d hoped.

The visiting chronologist marveled over Isrlinea’s balancing skill and rapid, meticulously executed steps and she prodded forward, often taking the lead by nearly half a trok before Kwatsura would have to prod his tip-toeing pace to gain speed and gradually catch up with her form shrinking in the distance along the straight line of the buttress’s top, glowing now like a slick line of floss in the sun.

In just less than four hures they arrived at the end of the buttress and took a late supper there at the lift point which received its end.

Isrlinea spoke after washing the last bits of a supper of dried fruit with glass of licorice water:

Well, visitor. We have two choices at this point. We can head on in the twilight darkness and try to make it to the western terminal or just lodge here for the night. You decide. If we decide to go on, I can’t imagine not taking a telldron for at least half the way. Which means we’ll have to carry sufficient rocks to that point.

Kwastura continued chewing on the dried fruits and a bowl of toasted purple froslr seeds and then finished his champing with a swig of milk spirited with a mash of liquors, the distillations of pomace burning through the veins lining the inner membranes of his cheeks. He took a deep breath.

I suppose we can lodge. Guess I am a regular bookie, neh? Feck whot eh hike! Toired so much to not b’able e’en spake proper outside meh dialect, neh?

Hah, yes; charming. Good then, I’m not up for a journey through the dark anyhow. It will be better to chronicle tomorrow in broad daylight as well - we should reach the western periphery before mid afternoon, taking some sliding roofs along the way.

Good. So we going to lodge up here against the wall of the ingress or find some hrot down below.

They do have some makeshift hrots at the bottom of the mid section, but I suppose those are filling up rapidly as the laborers arrive. Might as well just sleep up here.

The two then sat for about an hure in silence, legs folded over the ledge of the lift point and looking town into the city shifting colors as the sunlight faded to darkness and orrumniae lamps began bursting into white flame thousands of feet below along the lines of supper lounges and drinking spots now opening for business. Rsola now looked like a mineral-rich rock wet from sea water and scintillating softly in the moonlight.

Kwatsura, I will just be forthright with you now. My intentions are very much now to make you a gropsa mine. Would you oblige? This will help me attain a Rsolan egress visa so I can do some chronicles in Fporta then Fgorn.

Oh sheit! Haha, course that would piss the sheit out of your grand uncle! He’ll think you some nasty slogging tamarin of the city!

I know. And that matters little too me. He has no power over the issuing of egress visas. Seriously, would you make me a tropsa? I can register the tighter grunda relation in Fgord which will allow us to exchange transmissions directly. I can even route some transmissions there to Kforretc using an opsa relation alias, neh?

Shore. Feck, ward getz out would make a small chronologist like mehself fecking legend. Eskrian man cracks open some Rsolan clam. Fecking headline on Kforretc.

The two laughed at this. They carried themselves back near the cauldron pipe ingress to rest against in the wall. The stared out through the ban of open night reveling the massive tower of East edge and the sky now revealing stars and constellations in the firmament, the primordial inkwell of the cosmos. Were it not for the tower obstructing the view, Kwatsura could have imagined them in a cave atop some distant, mountainous wilder. The spot was nearly silent, so many troks about the city’s heart.

She we consecrate it then?

Continent men never fail in such direct vulgarity. Already cut, so sure. But you have to promise to meet me in Urslan over the next few duns. I’ll know that’s you next stop and I’ll heading there before Fporta and need you help making acquaintances with another chronologist I’ll need to make grundas with for my studies.

Shore, naught a problem my lady.

Kwatsura pulled a stick and a small pouch of csoma from his coat pocket. Islrinea leaned now against him, her breasts pressed against his right side and head angled to his neck. She lifted her left hand to light the stick with a ring torch.

Thanks.

Kwatsura inhaled a puff and passed the stick to her. She drew a deep puff of blue red smoke and exhaled the fog, watching the lilliputian cloud flutter lazily to into turbulent eddies of air collecting between the floor and low flat ceiling of the lift point. He slid the アークover his left finger watching the thick lines glowing blue across the radius of his anterior forearm, under the mesh gray shirt (a visitor’s garb he had worn under his coat for the day) and up the side of his neck.

Transmitting rote? Isrlinea spoke in soft mumbles, now half asleep on Kwatsura’s shoulder.

Yes, hopefully a few bits on the East Edge climb.

They continued in silence for three decums as Kwatsura replayed the rote, drained the arc of power and then offed the device to being falling asleep in the thickening starlight. Islrenea was now in a deep slumber, arms clasped about his waist.

Feck, another long trek tomorrow.

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(via heavyhearts)

Fri, 04 Dec 2009 13:57:26 -0500

(via heavyhearts)

The structure was supported only by translucent metal sheets,...

Fri, 04 Dec 2009 13:53:00 -0500

The structure was supported only by translucent metal sheets, clear but warped in twirls as to make Rsola’s sections of relative yonder appear a blurring mass, details obscured by turbulent heat - one might even wrongly guess

Photo credit: seier+seier+seier

I was the last to pull my torso up onto the crown’s...

Fri, 04 Dec 2009 13:50:00 -0500

I was the last to pull my torso up onto the crown’s surface to bask in the unshaded sunlight glowing from above; now a deep yellow bud of fire.

Clipped Wing (via Helga’s Lobster Stew)

Hot Chip

Fri, 04 Dec 2009 13:39:37 -0500

I noticed above me the risen ambulatories with harmonically diverging paths, spreading apart and providing buttress to the massive trunk of East Edge. A giant frond of some majestic fern sprouting from Rsola’s core.

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11 Eidon 29069 - Rsola - East Edge Tower Hike

Fri, 04 Dec 2009 13:31:00 -0500

Awoke expected time. Ceiling unlit looked like the pit of a narrow clay pottery. Blinding white lights of the Rolan walls in unimpeded sunlight now. Clouds had cleared, factories were at rest. A perfect day to observe and chronicle. Neh, naught behd.

Isrlinea wore ivrosian plates over her shins - a safeguard perhaps for the steeper bits of the day’s East Edge climb. She wore the same white vest from night before - neh, of course, not carrying luggage or the like. She carried a small water bottle with her which she used to wash the residuals of yesterday’s iris dying before we departed into the white light.

Meh clothes had dried into their regular juicy Eisen leather form after hanging em in the humidor closet for the seven hures or so.

The walkout to the ambulatories: terraces were filled with “creed”-ens throwing soaps or ceremonial pits dug into segments of the walkways; each by necessity assigned an insignia signifying an individual owner, a creed master; some stripped naked, or in pants bathing in ceremonial sodas or beer to wash aways yesterday’s efrassian to be covered again with a thin layer of the pollen dusted into the air of intersecting courtyard mazes.

Gsorn met us for breakfast, a few shots of Fgordian licorice milk, canned. Enough energy to continue at an only subtly rising pace across the connected row of ambulatories, through long sunlit alleyways, across a few narrow railed pedestrian bridges or wide buttresses paved atop with a frictional spattering of crushed shell and chunks of ivrosian rock.

Turns out Islrinea had miscalculated or plans had changed. A few troks before the main wall of East Edge slid into open view.

(In this early part of the day’s trek, I discerned a now a more interesting feature of Rsolan’s ambulatories and how they’ve devised the lifting “hills” while maximizing distribution of sunlight into the city’s gut. Hexagonal pieces of the walkways literally peeled up, like dried snake skin being shed from the city; then clumped in groups of five, I’d assume. I noticed this directly as we passed through the triangular hole between two of them to meet Gsorn and only walked a mere few feet less of a trok before escaping a deep penumbra of shadow into blazing white light again - just as the rest of Rsola was. I noticed above me the risen ambulatories with harmonically diverging paths, spreading apart and providing buttress to the massive trunk of East Edge. A giant frond of some majestic fern sprouting from Rsola’s core. The sides, flanks of apartments and drinking spots of the rising passageways and courtyards were covered in large angled ivrosian plates and sparkled fiercely like the girdle of some carved white gem. The structure was supported only by translucent metal sheets, clear but warped in twirls as to make Rsola’s sections of relative yonder appear a blurring mass, details obscured by turbulent heat - one might even wrongly guess.)

We had returned to the triangle’s mouth and walked close to halfway when the main wall of east edge appeared. Gsorn’s friends (two of them) had met us and as I stated Isrlinea had miscalculated; one was not the fellow from the drinking spot night before. The two yet unacquainted had separate, more important agendas carrying on about the day’s tunings and tests in Rsolan. Perhaps they assumed I wasn’t capable of eavesdropping, not that it mattered much in these circumstances.

The last segment of the buttress cum ambulatory stretch ended now near the end of East Edge’s juggernautian base. We rested for an mid morn’s dinner of dried sprouts and hot milk with some kind of thick red pollen mixed in. They all seemed to laugh at my loose fitting leather garb and continent-man’s Eisen skinned canteen. They of course wore specially crafted climbing gear, blue rubber grip sandals fitting like gloves to unsocked feet and waist harnesses attached to narrow rucksacks hugging their bare backs closely. They were shirtless, covered in a power sparkling blue, red or orange to yellow depending on the angle of the sun when it hit them. They wore slender black pants approaching the knees and meeting the ivrosian shin plates at their tops. Rsolans dressed synchronously for any planned event. I imagined Isrlinea kept her vest on as some odd form of humility before a visitor who usually misinterprets the Rsolan customs. Rsolans are perhaps the most peculiar folk of the continent; maybe with exclusion of the Kforretc chiefs, of course.

We filled our sacks with ovralian stones, headed up the flights of stairs following the lower half of the mid section. We rested for a few minutes midway and dumped the shining black stones across the white boards of the lift point’s terrace floor. The ringed section cut a groove into the tower’s belly. We sat their in the shade drinking water and then got ready to lift and pulley the large nets filled with ovralian and feed them in to the cauldron ingress conveyors dividing the terrace into warped trapezoids. It took us seven decums to lift the last two of which I took some time to fulfill my chronologist duties and monitor the feeding of rocks into the cauldron drop pipe. They fell down the long thick pipe forming the towers core and spattered into smaller shards as they fell into the reservoir container. Every six duns this would be half full, enough for a release if emergency dictated, after which it would then be ready for simulating burning for other contingencies or a complete drop into the system constructed under the dead caldera resting beneath the city, their centers concentric.
The initial drop was somewhat impressive, the rocks began glowing yellow halfway down. The pipe was laced with replenishing coats of Opser oil to trigger the chemical reactions maximizing the break up of the hard stones as they crashed into the mountainous reservoir below.

Rsolan engineering is quite impressive. Bot how they really accomplish this fecking tower is soch a short teme, neh?

The rest of mid tower was ladders, these would be converted to pullers in several days, but weren’t completed, perhaps out of convenience (neh?), in time for my visit. I was honestly near exhaustion. Lucky we didn’t have to pull more rocks. Isrlinea said some less fit Rsolans might take two the three duns to reach the top, so making the trek for little over half of dunlight would be a feat.

The high section was the most challenging. Ladder installations hadn’t even begun, so we had to climb up the wall plates. I indeed felt under-equipped for the climb, clutching on to the narrow ledges of ivrosian plate walls, crimping toes now bared on any available foot hold: the tops of transmission discs, handles on repair cabinet doors, another ledge, whatever. The peek felt particularly precarious as I glanced down, now thousands of feet above the humming cycles at the floor of the cities. Human beings and bikes were no more discernible than flickers of light in efrassian dust. The tracks had not been connected either. I felt like we were sitting in some distant isolated cave with clear walls built in a mountain of sky. I observed Gsorn and his two grundas pulling Rsolan-made instruments from their capes now untied; they had laced them closed and tied long, thin ropes to rings in the bottom of their pant legs; then pulled them up when we reached the top. I was the last to pull my torso up onto the crown’s surface to bask in the unshaded sunlight glowing from above; now a deep yellow bud of fire.

The ejector pad was nice piece of work. The buffer car carrier hadn’t been built out yet. But I noted the large screw holes on the west of the platform which made the trajectory of the tracks to the east. I looked down and the nearest hight tower, ninety troks and forty feet, roughly. The top was surfaced and nearing completion like the current one. Just below the peek of East Edge’s mid section I noticed a buttress connecting the two. We would use that to continue the trek and observe each tower along the periphery of the telldron spiral and end at the west of Rsola.

Powers fading, feck. End transmission.

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Flickr Color Search for "Aaku" Images

Thu, 03 Dec 2009 13:42:16 -0500

via aaku.tumblr.com

I’ve been using http://labs.ideeinc.com/multicolr/ to try and match images from the creative commons with segments of aaku. Sometimes with good results, other times not so great. Hopefully they’ll form a whole that provides a good visual summary of the chapters.

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His blinking revealed eyelids that were painted a deep black,...

Thu, 03 Dec 2009 10:24:00 -0500

His blinking revealed eyelids that were painted a deep black, catching a blue shimmer from the drinking spot’s ceiling lamps.

Aquarium (via Brandon Cirillo)

11 Eidon 29065 - Rsola - East Irdon High Tower - A Drinking Spot

Thu, 03 Dec 2009 10:13:00 -0500

White flashes of dim white light from the narrow windows hugging the ceiling of the drinking spot behind the main bar pushed thick rays of light across the room. The drinking spot was mostly full. Kwatsura and Isrlinea occupied two hugra cushions in the center of the room around an empty bowl sinking into the floor and filled with ash wet from spilled drinks and pipe liquor. They sat on the floor, legs crossed, opposite each other and between two vacant cushions. The main bar’s counter was filled with seven Rsolan contemporaries, all men, each squatted atop some stool or leaning against the table’s edge with slicked white coats scratching or hovering about the dusted black floor which was mostly invisible in the dim light.

Any grundas? Intergrundas?

Kwatsura noticed his guide staring staring towards the bar where the attendant with hair coated in a plastic white jell produced bubbling blue elixirs, shiny thimbles of cups rimmed with sticky brown liquids, dried red and yellow vegetables, csoma flowers, disposable csoma sticks and the like you would expect in any Rsolan drinking spot.

No grundas here. Two of the men I know, you might almost call them intergrundas. Gsorn and Fstorag. The tallest is Gsorn, a telldron mechanic. On his left, Fstorag; not sure what his profession is; a mechanic too of some sorts; likely an intergrunda since they’re usually keen on telldron buildouts like the current project. So I haven’t told you but they’ll be two of three joining us tomorrow on the trek out to East Edge. We’ll survey the buildout start and parts ejector which is complete enough to make notes on. The ongoing work as you know is interim connectors and stations falling down through first three lower high towers and then a long series of mids, then a line of low ones, spiraling out to the west end terminal station. We should be able to end the trek there. The terminal is quite impressive, right at the western periphery overlooking a ninety foot embankment of lava rock. Feels almost like you’re outside the city. You nearly would be if it wasn’t for the customs watchtower on either end of the terminal’s platform.

Sounds like an impressive deal, and quite a trek indeed as you suggested earlier.

Yes, don’t worry too much though as there are several make shift connectors, some walkable buttresses connecting towers and such. I honestly haven’t mapped out the trek out exactly, but I thing we’ll make provisions for the journey when needed.

Kwatsura nodded. He let himself fall back in the cushion and took pause to let his eyes wander around the drinking spot’s interior, the cliques of young Rsolan men and women. The men with their thin black hair dropping down over shoulders plated with embellishments of shell and chipped plates of unrefined ivrosian stones; they always seemed to dominate the conversations around them, jabbering in a collectively unintelligible humming mass. The drowning noise of the Rsolan tongues made it impossible to eavesdrop on any particular conversation but still as easy as ever to watch with penetrating observation and grok the intricacies of the Rsolan way. Kwatsura watched now two women at a table near his sitting place. They sat back against raised chairs with callous faces, taking occasional drags from a colored csoma stick, spitting out puffs of alternating yellow, blue or green vapor. Their hair was tied up around the back top of their skull caps like most Rsolan women, the tangles of jet black hair interspersed with purple and white diamonds, fragments of shell and glistening silver white power. They spoke nil words as the three other men argued about a topic Kwatsura only guessed to be centered on some shampoo, gleaming an occasional word shouted loud enough to hop like a spasmodic fish out of the pond of sound filling the room. One of the women eyed Kwatsura. He was a conspicuous specimen in the spot, wearing the sojourner’s grey garbs and with knotted brown hair hovering above his shoulders and clumped together like wet wheat chaff. The attention was only momentary; she returned her gaze on the table and then her friend, taking another short drag from the stick.

Isrilnea gestured to a waiter who acquiesced and approached.

Ysella ysella. What will it be?

Ru fsola csoma-hu. Fu wassr-hu. Desf rsinni-rsinni-hu alur. Loose csmoa, blue-leaf-grade. Some water also. And add to that whatever the visitor would like.

Fu Ysella. Tura Rsolan-kse? And for you sir? Do you speak Rsolan?

Je Tura. Slicono wassr-hu. Yes I speak it. I’ll have some licorice water.

Je cul-csolanee, cul-csolanee. The waiter mumbled heading back to the main bar. Kwatsura noticed Gsorn and Fstorag pushing themselves away from the bar and then Isrilnea motioning in their direction. Isrilnea raised herself from her pillow and sat directly next to Kwatsura on his left, stretching her right arm directly below his mid back.

Heh, they’ll think you’re my tropsa sitting like that.

Isrilnea laughed. Feck if they do, most Rsolans think I’ve been corrupted by outsiders anyways. Piety for the edict isn’t my daily agenda. She spoke with humor, injecting inflections from Kwatsura’s dialect to coincide with her persona as she suggested.

Gsorn wore subtle cheek plates which extended only about an inch from behind the ridge of his ears on each side of his powdered white face. His blinking revealed eyelids that where painted a deep black, catching a blue shimmer from the drinking spot’s ceiling lamps. Fstorag was nondescript, an anonymous Rsolan from all appearances with the usual cheek plates and plain ivrosian carapace. The two sat opposite each other and flanking Kwatsura and Isrilnea. They did not make any salutation. Kwatsura was used to the occasional habit of social aloofness amongst younger Rsolans but he wondered if this instance was due rather to some awkward sentiments stemming from Isrilnea’s sitting so close to a visitor. Gsorn lit the end of his packed csoma stick with a ring torch and then addressed Kwatsura:

So tomorrow we take you to East Edge eh? Can you climb?

Of course.

Well, my expectation would be that most chronologists can’t climb much. In particular such a high riser as East Edge. Sorry not offend or anything. I’m a telldron engineer, so I work with hands all day. Especially working mostly on buildout part ejectors; climb about ten towers in a dun I’d say; particularly of late, with the ongoing construction of the new intraurban. You know East Edge is the third highest tower in Rsola?

Didn’t know it’s ranking exactly, though yes I know it’s a high one. Will be the highest telldron boarding station and judging by the height I don’t expect that many starting boarders will make it on a day.

Yes indeed. The other two towers can hardly even count, being unclimbable perforated exhaust pipes from some soap factories. Climate control mechanisms, the like. I think you’ll be impressed by this high tower, eh … what’s your name?

Kwatsura.

Yes, Kwatsura. You’ll be impressed by this one. Just to brief you on the physical demands of the trek up East Edge if you haven’t studied the transmissions. It would be about 150 flights of stairs to the lower rim if we were starting from the base. We’ll be starting midway of the lower section though arriving on a inter-district terrace that climbs gradually on the walk there. So expect about 100 flights. At the time we’ll likely rest a bit for dinner and then head up 50 flights of ladders near the peek. We’ll have to climb from there on narrow slabs of wall - they haven’t installed ladders there yet. And then you two can wind your way back to wherever. Us two will have to camp out there for the remainder of the night to fine tune and run some more tests on the ejector installation.

Sounds like something I can manage. Kwatsura had already read the details on East Edge Tower and its divisions; flights of stairs, ladders, transmission disc installations on the second mid high section, the core rock drop, the high mid accumulation chamber, the mantel base, part loading hearths, the core parts transport, the nine ejection activation slabs gripping the peak, et cetera.

Well good then, meht. We can’t carry you on our shoulders for the narrow climb, so I hope for your own sake you can manage.

The waiter from before arrived behind the two engineers and placed a small table with a curved base into the empty fire pit. He nodded to Isrilnea and hurried back to the waiter’s room to fetch another order.

The table was draped in a black cloth, it’s top arranged with an open tin of plush csoma flower and glasses of water. Kwatsura grabbed two pinches of the csoma, stuffed it into the open end of csoma stick and sparked the end with small candle from the table. He passed the stick to Isrilnea as a courtesy. She smiled accepting the offer. Thanks. Kwatsura produced another stick for himself from the chest pocket he had prepared back in his evening’s hrot.

Srul Isrilnea, I’m surprised you haven’t gone out to catch a cab at this time, living on the other end of Rsola. Cul-fsul ndins-ndins. Gsorn spoke in a deep voice, a tone bordering condescending.

If I take leave to home this evening, that will delay our departure which ideally would be early: a few hures only from now. So my intent is to lodge in a vacant hrot above and we’ll keep to schedule. A long trek tomorrow.

Well yes, indeed. I’m sure the visiting chronologist will need to take more rests than you own. Being a country man from the plains, not used to the perilous tower hikes through Rsola.

Kwatsura kept an aloof distance from the conversation, letting the rank of strong csoma smoke amble out his nostrils. He let his concentration get washed in the thickening intoxication induced by the rising vapor of burning blue csoma petals. In less the 2 decums of the hure, he would fall asleep unintentionally and then awaken an hure later when the conversations between Isrilena and the two compatriots shifted back to a lisping Rsolan chatter; the last words of the evening as Gsorn and Fstorag lifted themselves and disappeared from the den’s mouth and back into the dim night circuit opening, illuminated now by murmuring orruminae bulbs hanging under the surrounding terraces. Isrilnea tried to lift Kwatsura from behind to lead him back to the hrut. His senses and energy had mostly returned as he reached for the near empty glass of licorice water which he downed to receive a sobering pulse through his temple cores.

They walked back up through the spiraling steps overlooking the now almost empty circuit; mostly a few bike cabbies buzzing with tires cutting through rain back to their stations. The dourpour had ended, but the streets were still glowing from the downpour and the air was drowned in a noxious, sweet and salty mist. Isrilnea followed Kwatsura into the hrot motel’s open entrance up the three flights of ladders to his small hrot. She followed him into the dwelling and peered out the skull-sized bubble of a window toward the glowing green lights of a series of apartment dwellings winding around the base of the south east tower like a thick vein of ivy.

Mind if I just sleep here on the floor? We’ve only 3 hures before waking again. Dressed of course, don’t gather the wrong interpretation of my staying here.

Haha, of course not. Too tired from the day’s traveling to rub about all night with a strange woman anyways. Though he knew in a moment if she had offered such, he would partake after maybe a glass of some hot licorice milk to wake his spirits; she was a Rsolan, and of seemingly good character, and that would be a rare experience for any outsider, or to a mere chronologist even more so.

Kwatsura leaned back against the side wall of the hrot next to the chest where he had placed his canteen and a rucksack filled with measuring apparatuses, arc adapters and sundry instruments a chronologist of his sort would travel with. He produced the canteen from the chest and took a long guzzle, wetting his throat some for a good few hures rest.

Water?

No thanks, I’ve had enough libations downstairs. I’ll just take some covering if you have any.

Kwatsura lifted a long grey Hruslan fur blanket from the chest; there was only one but he feigned not noticing this fact and threw the covering at her her feet. She was barefooted as she had been throughout the day. Most of the rain had washed of the skin powder from her feet leaving only a slight, scintillating residual of its particles. Her back was now pressed against the wall underneath the window, her knees up against her breasts clasped together by two arms. She changed now to a supine position (back still facing the wall) and covered her form up to the neck with the soft blanket.

Kwatsura took another sip from the canteen and stared at the ceiling. The hrot was shaped like a deep liquor glass turned upside down on a table and with it’s stem broken off. The floor was it’s maximal periphery wide enough only for two grown men to stand apart with arms stretched. The ceiling of the lodging tapered to a small curved bowl which reflect small pink slivers of light curling at their ends, nebulous tendrils of light slowly shifting forms across the wall. He watched the subtle interplay of light across the ceiling’s tapering, lowered his mid back between wall and a small pillow pinched against the chest, and then closed his eyes to let the weariness pull him back into a deep slumber.

Photo credit: (leunix)

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Swedish Whisky Dr.Whisky: Malt Mission 2009 #371

Tue, 01 Dec 2009 17:37:20 -0500

Swedish Whisky

Dr.Whisky: Malt Mission 2009 #371

In less than five minutes he arrived back at the entrance and...

Tue, 01 Dec 2009 16:46:00 -0500

In less than five minutes he arrived back at the entrance and followed Isrilnea down a set of spiral of steps and through an open mouth swallowing the two into a bustling den of some anonymous drinking spot.

Ghosts in Triumph Arch (via Amir K.)

A slicked white, metallic awning covered the walk, its roof...

Tue, 01 Dec 2009 16:43:00 -0500

A slicked white, metallic awning covered the walk, its roof angle back and catching a waterfall of rain poured against the tower’s ivrosian chest plates.

Photo Credit: Amir K.

11 Eidon 29064 - Rsola - East Irdon High Tower

Tue, 01 Dec 2009 16:35:00 -0500

Kwatsura and Isrilnea stood over the EIHT circuit on the terrace walk raised 20 feet over and encircling the high tower at its base. A slicked white, metallic awning covered the walk, its roof angle back and catching a waterfall of rain poured against the tower’s ivrosian chest plates. A current of motor bikes flowed across the one-way transit, wheels cutting through a sweltering of piling rain that rushed forward and down grooves, cutting through lanes and dropping into Rsola’s belly. A loud roar (shhhhhhhhh) drowned the sounds of the atmosphere or muttering voices of the other terrace pedestrians, passers by. The riders and passengers looked like a swarm of robot moths, their slicked white, black and gray rain tunics fluttering in the rush of air and rain drops: the flow of traffic had emerged only 3000 feet or so from the north mid tower’s bridge raising the transit over itself in tunnel after describing a loop around the north east mid tower; it plummeted south in a blur of vibrating tunics for another 5000 feet to the south east mid tower, dipping down again and curling itself around the building, under itself again in a 200 foot tunnel and then a long 7000 foot curve around the periphery of the central high tower or Rsolan’s east districts. In total, the flow of the circuit described a D spun over on its axis and with laced edges at the head and foot of the glyph’s spine. In the laced curves at the spine’s edges, and in intervals across the abdomen, narrow alleyways connected other circuits, and so the flow of traffic moved through the vast shell metropolis.

We’re grundas. Isrilnea spoke in a soft voice only faintly audible to Kwatsura under the roar of wet traffic. Her hands were clasped over the rail and gaze still fixed upon the circuit.

Kwatsura glanced to his left to the young Rsolan woman close to his age - he guessed maybe a year younger or older; he hadn’t received these bits in the last Kforretc transmission. He observed the ruddy brown of the Eisen leather of his coat reflected in a soft blur in her white vest; the glowing white was tied in the middle, swelling a line of cleavage between her petite breasts.

I should have guessed you’re a chronologist. That would only make sense for a creedless Rsolan, neh?

Well, doesn’t it still strike you particularly odd for a Rsolan woman to engage in such matters?

Not really.

Why? You seem to meet any seemingly unusual circumstance as is if it were expected, natural or just entirely in its place. I don’t really get you there.

Well it is. That is just my honest word. I read a lot on social matters, market opinions, etc. I’m not only a bookie around infrastructure alone. Infrastructure is just the only necessary bits I need to collect. You know, neh? Met with some Yreskians at the terminal you know talking all sorts of vulgarity on Rsolan women. There are a lot of preconceptions amongst folk of the continent on Rsolan women which I don’t normally find to be true except on some usual matters, like sharing skin, neh?

Isrilnea laughed; her orchid irises interacting with chemicals from the soap-laden mist from splattered rain were shifting now to a soft green or grey, tiny explosions of dust rising from a murky sea bed.

Well that’s one part of the reason why my grand uncle paired me with you as a guide. He figured it was time you establish a grunda in Rsola. There’s not much on my files in the Kforretc library. Most of what you can find is in the Rsola registers only. So I’ll tell you some more. Certainly I’ve piqued your curiosity some on my person, not being authorized for Rsola transmissions, no?

Well, yes there, course.

My area of focus has been in social matters, mostly brand evolution and devlolution with creeds and their objects. I would consider that primarily a internal concern for Rsola in the next few thousand duns or so but it shall become more a external concern after that with the export trends as they are now. So naturally I’ve kept my chronicles locked in the Rsola registers only. I want them to reach a point of equilibrium before organizing and removing the untruths or redundancies and finally transmitting to Kforretc central. I know of course reading the Kforretc transmission much about yourself. But let’s walk towards your resting spot for tonight and you can tell me your own story.

Kwatsura obliged the suggestion and the two headed south along the terrace walk at an ambling pace.

Well of course you know I’m in infrastructure. And you know I can be a real piss sheit to your grand uncle and colleagues on matters of project scope and labor allocations, or some of the disturbing trends there. Nothing official to stir any resentment between my city’s chiefs and there’s, just enough yelping at their angles to make em piss on meat. And I’m of minority opinion amongst like chronologists, except for one grunda who mostly follows with me my lines - or sometimes I follow his.

This is where my grand uncle would wish I tried at convincing you that your prophecies of Rsola’s future and its impact on the 20 Eidon reserves are silly. I’m not sure I entirely disbelieve them though.

Really?

Oh, there, now you’re surprised. I’ve read all of your infrastructure chronicles on Rsola and some other related works, Kwatsura. Being a Rsolan and not a stupid one, I know these observations in my own rote, first hand as a\ Rsolan breathing these airs and treading the streets each day. I’m afraid to record these thoughts directly in Rsola. If I had, I would never had chance to meet you or much less be your appointed and ordained guide as I am today. This was my plan. From two suns ago. It was I who prodded Slotragahna to let me be your guide and consider prospects of being grundas now. Slotragahna thinks of me as a lesser chronologist, as he should, for I have reserved many publications to attain this usually, but not in these circumstances, unfavorable disposition from him. That was my plan, and like any good chronologist a plan can be trivially made into reality, neh?

Kwatstura was surprised by Isrilnea’s injection of his dialect towards to the end of her words. They walked on for a few seconds of silence. Kwatsura was considering how to continue the conversation or rather prod her to continue her monologue as he was more interested now in adding to rote every bit he could on this woman.

How many times have you been outside of Rsola?

Only once, when I was three, I don’t even remember it. Oh, you’re surprised at this bit as well?

Well with your style of dress, or lack of style there, I could only assume it was some outside influence. Maybe Fgord or some place I might have assumed.

Yeah, right a carefree Fgord immigrant, like I would have ever moved back to Rsola then. Have you any other nosy questions of me, like how many gropsas I have? Oh I’ll tell you everything. Five but only two active. All Rsolan of course, as your lot says: Rsolan Woman, Rsolan Man. But I will leave Rsola, to finish some last bits of my initial chronicles to begin transmitting to the Kforretc.

They reached the end of the D’s spine. The terrace walk forked in two directions: one to the left across a bridge connecting the high tower with the south east mid tower’s base terrace and another sloping down and parallel with the lower subterranean line of the circuit curling back around the high tower wall to the west.

This is where you can sleep Kwatsura.

Isrilnea gestured with her left hand to the doorless entrance of the high tower’s hip staring down the terrace bridge. The entrance led up into a glass enclosed honey comb of small alternating one a two person hrots. A series of ladders connected the layers of common vestibules, glowing gray rings of a passages behind the narrow and angled doors concealing each hrot’s resting hearth from the floor’s entry corridor and the bubbled window often in a small corner or at room’s center at a shoulder or neck’s height.

I’ll wait for you here if you want to go down to a drinking spot for the evening. Some more light and regular Rsolans there. Fancy, might even be one of my grundas there. No telling.

Kwatsura nodded and disappeared into the honey comb’s mouth, then up three flights of ladders to find a vacant hrot where he left his damp coat and changed into some grey courtesy garbs left in the corner chest - the usual wear for a sojourner a day or so into their visit. Ahhh, feck, no tunic. Feck it.

In less than five minutes he arrived back at the entrance and followed Isrilnea down a set of spiral of steps and through an open mouth swallowing the two into a bustling den of some anonymous drinking spot.

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slashTHREE - SteamPunk Artpack XII - artworks on the Behance...

Mon, 30 Nov 2009 12:12:36 -0500

slashTHREE - SteamPunk Artpack XII - artworks on the Behance Network