Adventurers

Character	Race	Class	Description
Heinrik	Human	Magic-user level 1	Muscular mage with short blonde hair and piercing blue eyes.
Kho Rimbo	Human	Magic-user level 3	A knife throwing wizard extraordinaire. Covered in ritual knife scars. Cuts himself whilst casting. Prone to being sarcastic.

Maggotfeast

“Would you like to play a game?”

Old Crus tantalised Kho Rimbo and Heinrik.

Two junior magic-users have been serving him for several seasons now. They did so in return for access to his magical library and tutoring.

Although moving and speaking at glacial speed, Old Crus had meticulous notes and quite a gift for mentoring. And so they toiled under him.

Both jumped at the opportunity to have some fun time instead.

Here is how it went, in their own words.

Kho Rimbo's retelling

Written by Kho Rimbo's player.

Kho Rimbo and Heinrik found themselves in a yawning cavern, still, silent, and dark.

Before them a great granite door. The way forward was obvious, the means of advancing less so. Three words adorned the door in relief, the language unknown until the application of a charm of translation cast from Kho Rimbo's repertoire of spells.

Errukiz.

Ezdrubal.

Elomcwe.

No amount of thoughtful chin scratching triggered any ideas in Kho's usually keen mind. It was Heinrik who solved the quandary.

“Anagram” he chirped up.

“Elomcwe is an anagram of welcome”

“Aha!” exclaimed Kho, feeling more than a little stupid.

“I wondered when you would get it.” Heinrik replied with a quizzically raised eyebrow that Kho pretended to ignore.

Once the letters were depressed, in the correct order, the door began to vibrate and rumble before it slowly sank into the floor. It was no ordinary portal, rather a ten-by-ten block of solid stone. The silence of the cavern was shattered by a cacophony of moaning and wailing from beyond the door, it seemed that all the damned souls of hell awaited them within.

They peered over the stone into a chamber constructed of lurid green veined marble, four black pillars marked with strange symbols bisected the room, beyond that Kho's lanterns meagre light was swallowed by pitch dark that echoed with anguish.

“You go first” the pair said in unison, both smiled grimly, and then entered together.

The black pillars were first examined with extreme caution, and then with frustration. Each bore a perplexing symbol, each one different, no amount of pondering could draw any conclusion to their meaning.

When they passed the the columns the great stone block trundled back into position, blocking, literally, any chance to return that way. On the blocks inner surface another symbol was revealed that corresponded with one of the markings on the pillars.

More perplexed procrastination followed until they gave up on the symbols and concluded it prudent to move on into the wailing chamber and see what their light revealed.

Three pools were discovered, each evenly spaced and spanning the the length of the long hall. They brimmed with clear liquid, possibly water, probably acid suspected Kho, as they were bedded with a jumble of bones bleached like fine china.

Pensively they passed the pools on the southern side, ears rang with the cries of the damned and both expected the touch of bony fingers at any moment, but they proceeded without incident.

The long pools ended at another pool, this one square and pitch black, beyond hung a great bronze bell.

First the pool, and then the bell were inspected. The pool was filled with liquid and appeared pitch black. It went deeper than the long pole used to plumb its depths.

The bell was discovered to be plain except for a patina of verdigris.

Their only option seemed to be to ring the bell, but they were loathe to discover what its pealing might summon. In trepidation it was rung via the reach of the long pole, its tolling echoed up and down the hall momentarily drowning the incessant moaning, lips were bitten, and then slowly the liquid in the back pool began to drain revealing a deep, dark shaft.

Kho volunteered to be lowered down, reasoning that if he did this it would be on Heinrik's head to do the next recklessly dangerous deed.

The nerve wracking descent into the dark seemed to last an eternity.

Eventually he hit the bottom where he fumbled around in the darkness. His foot kicked something that clanked along the floor, probing hands recovered an object, small, cold, and of metal. Eagerly Kho yanked the rope to signal Heinrik to pull him back topside. The object was revealed to be a key of black iron.

Next followed a fruitless and frustrating search for a keyhole. It came to naught, but they did find a passage exiting the hall that had been formerly hidden in the darkness.

It was from here the incessant wailing seemed to emanate. They advanced to find a room of horror.

The chamber was the nexus of the cacophony, it seemed to come from the eyes on the walls, terrified eyes that stared, a myriad of eyes plucked from all manner of creatures, man, beast, and monster. They streamed with tears of green that trickled down into gutters around the walls edges before draining into holes in the rooms corners.

A thorough examination of the chamber was conducted. Eyes were poked via the pole, and even the black key. The result was the same. A sickening pop followed by yolky eye matter sliding into the gutters before being carried with the flow into the gurgling drain holes. The green tears were discovered to be caustic and best avoided.

Whether by luck, or keen perception, it was Heinrik who discerned the outline of a door hidden on the western wall. The eyes on its surface were popped with eager daggers and in turn the acidic tears were quenched, thus allowing the pair to push open the secret door. They were all to happy to leave behind the chamber of eyes and misery and hurried on regardless of what lay ahead.

They now found themselves in a large chamber, its centre dominated by a huge chimeric humanoid statue with one arm reached out as if in salute. Doors were positioned at the rooms cardinal points whilst more statues and a black stone cylinder stood in alcoves at the chambers corners.

They studied the statues first, by eye rather than risking touch. The central one loomed over them menacingly as they investigated. It became obvious the thing could be rotated but the decide to move on without interacting with it further.

The statues in the alcoves were all similar but at the same time different, all animal human hybrids cast from stained bronze. Two of them, mole and fly headed, were both articulated at their hands and wrists and stood on bases that looked like they could be unscrewed like giant bolts.

The third, tiger headed, was plain in comparison despite its ornate armour, seemly having no special features like the previous two.

Finally they moved on to peruse the black cylinder and immediately recognised the four symbols arranged in a diamond formation upon its surface. They were the very same as the ones they encountered on the pillars when they first entered this confounding complex. further more they noticed a keyhole.

Kho handed the key he had uncovered from the black pit to Heinrik whilst saying “I think its your turn.”

Sighing in resignation Heinrik put key to lock, it fit perfectly. Gently he twisted it clockwise, it turned, and turned, nothing happened. He then tried counter clockwise, still nothing. He turned it ninety degrees, a hundred and eighty, forty five, this way and that, although the damn key fit the lock it did nothing.

Crestfallen they turned their attention to the doors.

The north was firmly shut, no latch or lock apparent.

The western door opened with ease revealing a room with an oversized, bulbous, flabby stone face on the wall opposite. Filled with pluck Heinrik entered to study the visage and found both its eyes and nostrils to be deep cavities with a steady flow of air coming from the latter. He dared not probe the holes so they left the room and turned their attention to the southern door.

Like the last it opened without resistance.

In the chamber beyond they were met with a pit dug into the middle of the floor and housing a closed coffin, the door was promptly closed on this ominous scene.

After a short debate they decided to attempt to rotate the central statue, grinding as it turned, they aimed its saluting arm towards the locked door and were rewarded with a sharp click from its hidden lock. Beyond led a long passage and they forged on leaving the chamber behind.

The route drew them into a still and silent crypt filled with six sarcophagi, four small and two oversized, all sealed with mortar.

Thinking it best to leave the dead to their eternal slumbering they hurried across the chamber and through a door in the opposite wall.

They found themselves in a short corridor that ended in a t-junction. Another primitive stone face greeted them, its fat lips forming a shape as if blowing. As they reached the visage the door behind them slammed shut revealing a surface covered in vicious spikes, they darted to the sides of the face fearing being blown into the waiting deadly protrusions, but naught happened. Cavities in the ears were investigated, one by one, the first triggered a gale of wind from the mouth but they were safely out of its path. In the other ear they found a small green basalt key.

They headed south into a chamber dominated by a huge green basalt column. Under scrutiny it revealed it had a small key hole located at its base. The newly acquired key fit the lock and was turned. In response the whole side of the pillar exploded outwards showering the duo with sharp shards of jagged stone. Groaning they got up from the floor, bodies cut and smarting.

A large cavity was now apparent in the column and within stood a purple coffin with a painted figure on its lid, a beautiful woman with a silver pendant around its neck. With rope they pulled it out, causing it to crash to floor. A crowbar was applied to jemmy the nailed down lid. The corpse within bared no resemblance to the image upon the lid, it seemed to be a male elf, but around its neck hung the same silver pendant the painting wore. This was initially ignored in favour of a brass scroll tube at the bodies side.

Wincing, Kho Rimbo twisted off the lid, expecting the worst, but finding only an innocent looking roll of brittle papyrus within.

This was unfurled, it read:

“To sail the ship that is smiled upon The silver necklace must be donned.”

Neither could fathom its meaning, but the corpses necklace was retrieved in case a ship of some sort was encountered later.

Backtracking they headed north, past the stone face, and found the passage terminated in a long echoing hall lined down the centre with black marble pillars.

First they headed left, passing doors, one of which was adorned with a painting of a demonic camel face and guarded by a mechanical suit of armour. These were given a wide berth.

At the halls end they looked into a chamber filled with a forest of pillars carved to resemble coiling snakes with foul human like faces that made them think twice of entering.

Returning back the other way the hall led them to a chamber with the appearance of a shrine.

Two coal fed braziers burned in the near corners casting a dull red glow into the room that was reflected off a scarlet altar on the far side. Ornate candelabras flanked the altar. Tapestries of frolicking beastmen hung on the side walls. Most prominent was a large rug woven to appear like a swirling maelstrom, directly above it was a mosaic that mirrored the image below.

With fearful footsteps they circumnavigated the chambers edge and made for the altar. On its surface was the same four perplexing symbols they kept finding about the complex along with a collection of objects of alien appearance and no apparent use.

Attention was turned to the candelabras and they noticed that all of the candles were of black tallow, except one, which was blood red. On a whim Kho lit the red candle and immediately fled as a snaking coil of billowing pink smoke twirled towards him. But he was not its target. Instead it turned towards the wall and began to pool at the base of one of the tapestry's. Lifting the arras with the trusty long pole revealed the smoke had made its way up the wall and was outlining a secreted door.

Feeling they had pushed their luck far enough in this room they forced the door open and advanced into the corridor beyond.

Wise Heinrik pocketed the red candle before he left.

They marched on, seemingly in step with a procession of familiar looking beast men painted along one wall.

Through a door was a chamber of black and white stone set with two pools, one containing dozens of colourful fish, the other with a kings ransom of mixed coinage at its bottom. Beyond both was another primitive stone face, as ugly as its brothers, its nostrils flared and mouth shaped as if ready to scream.

Kho and Heinrik took up positions either side of the face and reached around with their arms to explore a nostril each. Kho found nothing. Heinrik a keyhole. When neither of the keys in their possession fit the lock they decided to move on, ignoring the pools altogether.

Blue alloy doors were opened next. In the room beyond was a floor mosaic of obsidian and quartz forming the pattern of one of the symbols now familiar to the pair.

Kho stepped onto the symbol.

He was immediately eviscerated in a spinning vortex of mosaic pieces.

As Kho was carrying the lantern Heinrik now found himself in the dark. But like any smart wizard he had come equipped with a light spell Which was quickly brought into being.

There was no sign of his hapless companion, Heinrik was now on his own.

He made his way back the way he came. All the way to the wide hall lined with black pillars and on to the chamber containing the snake carved columns.

Meanwhile, despite the evidence of Heinrik's eyes, Kho Rimbo was not dead. He fell through the air before plummeting into cold water, his lantern doused as it sunk beneath the surface.

Unlike well prepared Heinrik he didn't have a light spell at hand. He splashed around in the dark until he found somewhere to climb out of the water. As he heaved himself up there was a flash of blue light and Kho was turned to charcoal by a blast of lightening.

Heinrik lit the red candle and advanced amongst the forest of serpentine pillars.

Hissing filled his ears and the stone trunks around him seemed to slither, but luck was with him, the smoke of the candle uncovered a nearby secret door that he burst through as if all the fiends of hell were at his back.

There was a flash, a feeling of being disembodied, and Heinrik and Kho Rimbo found themselves in the circular chamber beneath the tower of old Crus.

Crus was there waiting for them, beaming broadly and hoping from one foot to another in glee.

They had never seen him so animated.

“Marvellous!” he cheered.

He also wasn't usually as complimentary.

“That old buzzard Moss is livid.” he went on “And I won six vials of qiuicksilver from Bolash to boot. You did well my lads.”

“Mind explaining what all of that was about?” enquired Kho Rimbo.

“A game.” replied Crus. “Just a little game we wizards play.”

“And I take it we were just the pawns?” asked Kho a little angrily.

“Indeed! Indeed!” Replied Crus as he skipped away.

“I don't suppose we get anything out of playing your little game?” called Heinrik.

But the wizard had gone.

“Bloody wizards!” said Kho.

“Yeah! Fuck that guy” replied Heinrik in agreement.

Heinrik's retelling

Written by Heinrik's player.

Heinrik had immediately agreed when the old man asked him, or rather, urged him, to take part in a small contest on his behalf. Old Crus went on at length about how he was to engage in a contest of wits with several other magicians. This contest was not to be fought out by the magicians themselves, but by representatives chosen by them. With a sardonic grin, Old Crus told the two of them that they needn’t worry about their physical health. At most, their mental power might be at risk. Heinrik knew he had no choice but to take part in the contest if he wanted to continue learning from the old man. Old Crus led Heinrik and Kho Rimbo into his cellar, where he instructed them both to grasp a crystal ball. Heinrik let Kho Rimbo go first, but Old Crus barked at him that both of them had to touch the ball at the same time. Reluctantly, Heinrik also reached out his hands towards the ball, and seconds later the room began to spin. Kho Rimbo and Heinrik found themselves in a room filled with chests of adventure gear and books. Heinrik felt his power rise to a level he had never known before, and at the same time he sensed, no, he knew, that he had very little time to cram as many powerful spells as necessary into his brain and equip himself with the necessary gear.

Heinrik chose a selection of spells and, with great effort, forced ten spells upon his brain: Sleep, Charm Person, Light, Shield, Invisibility, Web, Phantasmal Force, Fly, Light Bolt and Wall of Ice. Kho Rimbo did the same. Heinrik had just grabbed a large canvas sack when the room began to spin again. Heinrik blinked, and the next moment he found himself in a large, dark cave, Kho Rimbo at his side.

Bloody hell, he thought, I’ve forgotten to bring a light source. Luckily, Kho Rimbo hadn’t been so careless and lit the lantern he’d brought with him. Heinrik played it cool and told Kho Rimbo, that he of course also brought a lantern but would it in his bag for now, until it was needed.

In the light of the lantern, a large block of granite appeared on the cave wall, and written right next to it were three words: Errukiz, Ezdrubal and Elomcwe. The last of the three words was clearly an anagram of “welcome”. Kho Rimbo began pressing the letters of the last word, which then receded into the wall. Nothing else happened. The two magicians stood in the cave for several minutes before it dawned on them that Kho Rimbo had not pressed the letters in the correct order. Suspicion crept into Heinrik’s mind, and for a moment the thought flashed through his mind as to whether the mental damage the old man had spoken of grinning had already set in.

Once the letters had been pressed in the correct order, the large granite block sank into the floor, opening up a passage into a vast, unlit chamber with a swirling dark green marbled floor, from which a deafening, polyphonic wailing could be heard. In the glow of the torch, four columns of black marble came into view, each bearing a different symbol. As the two ventured further into the room, they found two elongated pools of clear liquid, with clean bones lying on the bottom, and narrow passages running between and alongside each of them. The pair decided to take the right-hand passage of the three leading past the pools, until they finally came upon a smaller rectangular black pool and a large black bell at the far end of the room. Heinrik’s thoughts were still on the symbols on the pillars, but he could make no sense of them. Now he was certain that his mental decline had already begun. What a cruel trick by the old man. Unable to think of anything else to do, Kho Rimbo struck the bell with his 10-foot pole, whereupon the water level in the black pool began to drop. Despite this, the depth could not be discerned by the eye due to the deep blackness of the pool. The two decided that one of them would have to descend. Heinrik allowed Kho Rimbo to go first and lowered him into the depths with his rope.

Once he reached the black bottom, Kho Rimbo spotted a black key that was only visible when standing at the bottom. The duo tried rubbing their find on the symbols at the entrance to the room, but to no avail. After a while, the two adventurers had the idea of trying one of the other passages leading past the pools, which they had previously always avoided when traversing the room, for fear of traps. After a few steps, a large opening in the wall of the room appeared in the light of the lamp. “How much of my brain will be left once we’ve finished this cruel game?” thought Heinrik, cursing his mentor in his mind. The two followed the passage and entered a grotesque room whose walls were completely covered with weeping eyes of varying sizes. This also seemed to be the source of the wailing in the other room. The wailing here was so loud that Heinrik could barely hear his own thoughts. Heinrik’s anger evaporated, giving way to admiration for the magnificent magician who had created such a grotesque room. “To create magnificent wonders like this why we magicians put up with all these hardships!” he thought.

After the two had examined the room thoroughly but found no obvious passage, Kho Rimbo began, out of frustration, to stab the eyes at random with his dagger. As Heinrik could think of nothing better to do, he joined in, poking out eyes with the key. After 90 minutes, he was certain there was a secret door on one of the walls and continued poking out eyes until the door could be pushed open without touching the acidic tears from the eyes

Behind the door was a room with a large statue of an elephant-headed humanoid on a swivel in the middle, which stretched out its hand in a pointing gesture

In three of the four corners stood three smaller statues in “niches” (a crouching humanoid creature with a fly’s head, possibly rotatable, bolted to the floor and fitted with hinges on the back of its hand. Next a mole-man statue with shovel-hinges, and a jaw with hinges on a hexagonal base, possibly also rotatable. Lastly a bronze tiger-headed statue, green with age, with plate armour, a jagged blade, no hinges or seams, and non-rotatable) and in the fourth corner, a black column on which the symbols from the beginning were arranged in a diamond pattern. The column had a small keyhole on the side facing the wall. Heinrik tried to turn the key, but this had no visible effect.

In addition, three further marble doors led out of the room, the northern one being locked and the western and southern ones unlocked. The western room contained a large monkey-head statue on the wall, with large eyes, ears and a nose on the wall facing the door.

The southern room contained a wooden coffin, approximately seven feet long.

Kho Rimbo had the idea of pointing the statue in the centre towards the third door, causing it to open. Kho Rimbo and Heinrik followed the passageway behind it into a room containing six sarcophagi, and then through an iron door that closed immediately behind them. On the back of the door were a multitude of sharp, pointed daggers, and on the wall of a T-junction facing the iron door from this side, another stone face that had pursed its lips as if to blow. In one of the statue’s ears, the two found another key, this time green. When they examined the other ear, the statue blew forcefully towards the iron door. Heinrik and Kho Rimbo had already anticipated this and had therefore kept their distance from the statue’s mouth.

They took the key and proceeded, finding themselves in a room containing nothing but a green pillar with a keyhole. Kho Rimbo took the green key, inserted it into the hole and turned it with a vigorous motion, whereupon the pillar exploded into his and Heinrich’s faces, inflicting several bloody wounds on them. Heinrich began to wonder whether the old man had lied to them and they could actually die after all. The wounds certainly felt very real. Behind the splinters of shrapnel that had flown out of the pillar, a coffin appeared, containing a mummified male elven corpse that looked as if it had been choked to death, along with a metal tube containing a scroll that read: “Who sailed the ship that is smiled upon, The silver necklace must be donned” and a silver necklace. The two made their way into a room that was absolutely crammed with black columns. In one section, these were shaped like snakes with human heads.

The two adventurers initially avoided this area and instead entered an adjoining room with an 18-foot ceiling, a brazier on either side of the entrance, a carpet on the floor featuring a swirling image, and a similar image painted on the ceiling. In the swirling image, creatures could be seen trying to swim against the current. Those on the carpet were familiar creatures, whilst those on the ceiling were creatures neither of them had ever seen before. The walls were painted in a now faded red. On the walls to the left and right of the entrance were tapestries, the one on the left depicting animal-headed humans staring blankly towards the chamber, the one on the right a banquet scene with animal-headed creatures fighting for scraps. Opposite the door stood an altar made of blood-red marble, etched with symbols matching those from the entrance, upon which lay a jumble of objects neither of them had ever seen, and to the left and right of it candelabras with six candles, five of them black and one red. Kho Rimbo lit the red candle, which gave off pink smoke that gathered on the right-hand tapestry. There seemed to be a secret passage here.

Heinrik picked up the red candle, thinking it might come in handy at some point. The two followed a narrow corridor into a room containing a pool full of rainbow fish and another monkey’s head with a keyhole in its nose, though the black key didn’t fit. The pair continued their exploration and found, in an adjoining room, a mosaic of black obsidian and white basalt that looked like one of the symbols from the start. Without hesitation, Kho Rimbo ran into the centre of the mosaic, whereupon the stones rose up and pierced and shredded him like thousands of tiny knives, until only a cloud of red dust remained. “Well,” thought Heinrik, “that escalated quickly.” “Better him than me,” he said, shrugging his shoulders. Heinrik, now without Kho Rimbo’s lamp, cast his light spell and returned to the candelabras to collect a few candles at least as a emergency light source once his spell wore off.

He retreated further into the room with the serpent columns and heard a hissing voice behind him. With the help of the red candle, he managed to find another secret passage, which he opened in a flash and closed behind him to bring himself to safety from whatever was the source of the hissing. Behind the secret passage was a staircase. As soon as he reached the bottom, everything suddenly spun round again and Heinrik landed hard on his back in the old magician’s cellar, who laughed long and loudly. He went on at length, praising Heinrik and Kho Rimbo, who was also back in the cellar unharmed, for the fact that although the two of them weren’t the quickest, they were the most annoying to his fellow magicians. The two of them had particularly annoyed the old chromatic wizard Moss. This seemed to have been more important to the old bastard than winning…

Discuss at Dragonsfoot forum.

#Wilderlands #SessionReport

**Une Odyssée dans le Laboratoire de la Pierre**

​Sur le quartz hyalin,

Champignon et bactérie,

Luttent pour la pierre.

​II. The Elements

​Sun burns, waters crash,

Winter freezes all their pride,

Two foes side by side.

​III. La Famine

​Famine dans le gel,

Chacun frôle le néant,

Fin de la rancœur.

​IV. The Pact

​Miner takes the stone,

Green light feeds the starving dark,

Life ignites a spark.

​V. La Fusion

​Châssis protecteur,

Pour l'usine d'émeraude,

Ils deviennent un.

​VI. The Lichen

​Lichen conquers all,

Nature signs a lasting peace,

Endless masterpiece.

**CHAPITRE I : LE ROCHER DU DESTIN**

En ce 14 avril de l'année 186X, à la latitude exacte de 45° 00' 00” Nord, le soleil dardait ses rayons sur une formation minérale d'une pureté géométrique remarquable. Il s'agissait d'un bloc de quartz hyalin, un rhomboèdre de soixante-douze centimètres de base, dont les arêtes, taillées par les forces érosives des millénaires, brillaient comme les facettes d'un diamant colossal.

C'est sur ce théâtre de silice que le destin, agissant par le biais d'un courant d'air boréal de force 3 sur l'échelle de Beaufort — soit une vélocité de douze à dix-neuf kilomètres à l'heure — déposa deux voyageurs de l'invisible.

Le premier, que nous nommerons Maître Agaric, appartenait à l'ordre illustre des Ascomycètes. Imaginez, mes amis, un réseau de filaments blancs, des hyphes d'un diamètre n'excédant pas deux microns, mais d'une résistance à la traction digne des meilleurs câbles de suspension en acier de Sheffield. Agaric était un mineur de fond, un explorateur des ténébreuses anfractuosités minérales, doué d'une pompe chimique capable de sécréter des acides organiques assez puissants pour dissoudre le granit le plus obstiné.

La seconde, Mademoiselle Cyanelle, était une bactérie chlorophyllienne, une modeste mais fière représentante des Cyanobactéries. Elle portait une robe de gélatine bleutée, un polymère protecteur plus souple que la gutta-percha. Cyanelle était une véritable usine solaire, une dynamo vivante capable de convertir les photons en énergie chimique par le miracle de la photosynthèse.

Ils étaient là, isolés sur leur île de cristal, tels deux naufragés sur un récif de la Mer de Corail.

**CHAPITRE II : LA GUERRE DES TERRITOIRES**

Dès les premières heures de leur cohabitation, l'instinct de conquête, ce moteur du progrès, s'empara de nos protagonistes. Maître Agaric, fidèle à sa nature de colonisateur souterrain, commença à déployer son réseau télégraphique. Ses hyphes s'allongeaient de quatre microns par heure, explorant chaque micro-fissure, chaque faille du quartz avec la précision d'un ingénieur des mines installant des rails de chemin de fer.

« Cette pierre est mienne ! », semblait dire le champignon en enfonçant ses vrilles dans les pores du minéral. « Je dompterai cette dureté par la puissance de mes sucs ! »

Pendant ce temps, Mademoiselle Cyanelle ne restait point oisive. Occupant les plateaux supérieurs du rocher, elle se multipliait par scissiparité avec une vélocité stupéfiante. Chaque cellule, une pile électrique miniature, se scindait en deux toutes les vingt minutes. Elle couvrait les surfaces planes d'un tapis émeraude, captant la lumière avec l'efficacité d'un miroir parabolique.

La lutte devint rapidement chimique. Maître Agaric, mécontent de voir cette “intruse” occuper l'espace, projeta des antibiotiques naturels, des salves de molécules complexes destinées à paralyser la croissance de sa rivale. Cyanelle répliqua par des changements de pH radicaux, rendant l'environnement alcalin et hostile aux filaments du mycète. C'était une guerre de positions, un siège de Sébastopol à l'échelle du micromètre.

**CHAPITRE III : L'INCIDENT DE LA GOUTTE DE ROSÉE**

Le 17 avril, à quatre heures du matin, une condensation atmosphérique, provoquée par une chute brutale de la température de 4,5 degrés Celsius, engendra la formation d'une goutte de rosée sphérique. Pour nos deux rivaux, ce n'était point une perle poétique, mais un océan déchaîné de trois millimètres de diamètre.

La goutte tomba avec le fracas d'une cataracte du Niagara, engloutissant le champignon et la bactérie dans un tourbillon liquide. Le quartz devint une patinoire mortelle. Maître Agaric, dont les hyphes étaient alourdis par l'absorption d'eau, manqua de s'asphyxier. Ses réserves de mucus protecteur se diluèrent, menaçant la stabilité de son armature.

Quant à Mademoiselle Cyanelle, la tension superficielle de l'eau la projeta dans une rotation effrénée. Elle tournoyait comme une toupie folle, ou plutôt comme une hélice de vapeur lancée à plein régime. Dans ce Maëlström miniature, toute dignité fut perdue. Agaric s'accrochait désespérément aux aspérités de la roche, tandis que Cyanelle, ballottée par les courants de convection internes de la goutte, heurtait sans cesse les filaments de son ennemi. L'ordre et la mesure avaient laissé place au chaos hydraulique.

**CHAPITRE IV : LE SIÈGE DU SOLEIL DE MIDI**

À midi sonnant, l'humidité s'était évaporée, mais un danger plus terrible encore apparut : une canicule printanière. Le thermomètre à mercure, s'il avait été placé sur le quartz, aurait affiché cinquante-deux degrés.

Cyanelle, exposée en pleine lumière, voyait sa robe de gélatine se rétracter. La déshydratation transformait sa silhouette rebondie en une structure fripée, semblable aux pruneaux de Tours. Sa dynamo solaire s'enrayait ; la température excessive dénaturait ses précieuses protéines.

Maître Agaric, tapi dans l'ombre d'une crevasse profonde de 0,5 millimètre, observait le spectacle avec une ironie mordante. « Alors, ma chère usine à gaz ! », raillait-il par des signaux chimiques de détresse. « Votre éclat solaire semble s'obscurcir. Sans l'ombre protectrice que je pourrais offrir, vous ne serez bientôt qu'une poussière de carbone inutile ! »

Cependant, son triomphe fut de courte durée. Sans eau, le métabolisme d'Agaric s'arrêta également. Ses pompes à protons s'immobilisèrent. Il réalisa, avec l'effroi d'un mécanicien voyant sa chaudière s'éteindre, que sa survie dépendait d'un approvisionnement que lui seul ne pouvait garantir.

**CHAPITRE V : L'ATTAQUE DES ENVAHISSEURS**

L'équilibre de la terreur fut rompu par l'arrivée d'un troisième acteur. Une colonie de mousses, des Bryophytes robustes, commença à escalader les flancs du quartz. Ces véritables cuirassés du monde végétal avançaient avec la détermination d'une armée de siège. Leurs rhizoïdes, semblables à des grappins d'abordage, s'agrippaient à chaque millimètre de pierre.

Les mousses projetaient une ombre vaste et humide, menaçant d'étouffer Cyanelle en la privant de sa source lumineuse, et de broyer Agaric sous leur masse organique. Face à cette artillerie lourde, l'escarmouche entre le champignon et la bactérie devint dérisoire. S'ils ne s'unissaient pas, ils seraient rayés de la carte géologique, remplacés par une couche de terreau anonyme.

**CHAPITRE VI : LA STRATÉGIE DU « VOLEUR DE SUCRE »**

Dans un élan de désespoir, Maître Agaric tenta une manœuvre de flibustier. Il décida de s'emparer par la force des ressources de Cyanelle. Utilisant ses hyphes comme des scalpels de chirurgien, il tenta de percer la paroi cellulaire de la bactérie pour en extraire le glucose accumulé.

S'ensuivit une poursuite burlesque. Cyanelle, malgré sa faiblesse, activait ses cils vibratiles pour glisser sur le film d'humidité résiduelle. Agaric lançait ses filaments dans toutes les directions, mais dans sa précipitation, il s'emmêla les pinceaux. Littéralement. Ses hyphes se nouèrent, formant des boucles inextricables. Le fier explorateur se retrouva ligoté par sa propre architecture, aussi immobile qu'un saucisson de Lyon dans sa résille. Il avait surestimé ses capacités de capture et sous-estimé l'agilité de son adversaire.

**CHAPITRE VII : LE GRAND GEL DE JANVIER**

Le temps passa, et les saisons tournèrent avec la régularité d'une horloge de précision. L'hiver arriva, apportant un froid polaire. À -10 °C, la mécanique des fluides subit un arrêt total. L'eau contenue dans les vacuoles d'Agaric commença à cristalliser, menaçant de déchirer ses parois par l'expansion du volume de la glace — une force physique que rien ne peut arrêter.

Cyanelle, au bord de la rupture membranaire, sentait sa vitalité s'éteindre. Dans un mouvement de recul instinctif devant le néant blanc, ils se rapprochèrent. Les filaments d'Agaric s'enroulèrent autour de la colonie de Cyanelle, non plus pour l'attaquer, mais pour former un isolant thermique. La chaleur résiduelle de leurs métabolismes au ralenti créa un micro-climat. Ils partageaient leurs dernières calories avec la solidarité des naufragés de la banquise.

**CHAPITRE VIII : LE DÉLIRE DE LA FAMINE**

La famine s'installa. En état de cryptobiose, la vie ralentie, leurs esprits microscopiques s'égarèrent dans des hallucinations physiologiques.

Maître Agaric, dont le besoin de carbone devenait obsessionnel, voyait le bloc de quartz comme un gigantesque fromage de Brie, onctueux et riche en nutriments. Il tentait désespérément de mordre dans la silice, s'épuisant en efforts vains.

De son côté, Mademoiselle Cyanelle, privée de lumière durant les longues nuits d'hiver, se croyait devenue un phare électrique de premier ordre, semblable à celui du cap Gris-Nez, éclairant le monde de sa puissance lumineuse imaginaire. Ils déliraient ensemble, l'un rêvant de banquets organiques, l'autre de gloire photonique, alors qu'ils n'étaient que deux points de vie vacillants sur une pierre indifférente.

**CHAPITRE IX : LE PACTE DES DÉSESPÉRÉS**

Le dégel apporta la lucidité. Le 21 mars, à l'équinoxe de printemps, une évidence s'imposa à eux comme une équation enfin résolue.

« Maître Agaric », envoya Cyanelle par un signal protéique, « vous possédez la structure, la protection et le savoir-faire pour extraire les minéraux du rocher. » « Et vous, Mademoiselle », répondit le mycète, « vous possédez le moteur chimique, la capacité de transformer le rayonnement solaire en précieux sucres dont je suis dépourvu. »

L'accord fut conclu sans signature de notaire, mais avec la force des lois de la thermodynamique. Agaric commença à tisser une armature d'acier biologique tout autour de Cyanelle. Il ne l'étouffait pas ; il l'abritait. Il devint le châssis de la machine, le régulateur d'humidité, tandis qu'elle s'installait au cœur de l'édifice comme la chaudière centrale.

La fusion technique était totale. Les minéraux puisés par le champignon alimentaient la croissance de la bactérie, qui en retour fournissait l'énergie nécessaire au maintien du réseau.

**CHAPITRE X : L'ÉMERGENCE DU LICHEN**

Ils n'étaient plus deux entités distinctes, mais un organisme composite, un chef-d'œuvre de l'ingénierie naturelle : le Lichen-Primus.

Sur le quartz de 45° Nord, une tache circulaire, d'un gris-bleu magnifique, s'étalait désormais avec la fierté d'un empire. Le Lichen avait dompté le rocher. Sa structure était indestructible. Il pouvait braver les gels les plus rudes, les sécheresses les plus arides et les siècles passants. Il ne mesurait que quelques millimètres d'épaisseur, mais sa puissance de vie surpassait celle des plus grands chênes de la forêt de Brocéliande.

La nouvelle créature contemplait l'horizon. Elle était la preuve vivante que l'association raisonnée vaut mieux que la lutte aveugle. L'homme, dans ses usines et ses laboratoires, ferait bien de s'inspirer de cette symbiose parfaite. Car ici, sur ce modeste morceau de quartz, la nature venait de signer son traité de paix le plus durable sous les yeux émerveillés de la science.

L'épopée était terminée, mais la vie, elle, ne faisait que commencer pour ce monument de résilience.

Friends, Brothers, Sisters,

Architects of the invisible,

Look around you. Do you feel this weight? This ancient fatigue that bows our shoulders? We were told the world was an arena. We were told that to survive, one had to crush or be crushed. We were sold solitude as freedom and concrete as an inescapable horizon.

But listen. Listen to the silence beneath the roar of the news.

Something else is being born.

Look at the bare stone: cold, sterile. There, right next to it, a tiny, fragile speck of color. Lichen. It owns nothing; it destroys nothing. It settles where no one else can live. It unites fungus and algae in an embrace so perfect they become one. And slowly, molecule by molecule, without a sound, without a weapon, it transforms rock into soil. It transforms the desert into a garden.

We are this lichen.

We are not here to set the old world on fire. We are not here to shout louder than the chaos. We are here to digest it. We are here to transform it, from the inside, through the relentless force of gentleness.

They told you that you were powerless. That is the greatest lie in history.

Science tells us, history screams it to us: it only takes 3.5% of us. Three and a half percent of synchronized, vibrant, determined souls for the tipping point to occur. For the absurd to collapse and for common sense to reclaim its rights.

It is not a question of numbers; it is a question of resonance.

The coming revolution is not in the street; it is in your gaze. It is “software-based.” It is an update of our humanity. It is the moment you decide to no longer be a parasite on this Earth, but to become a symbiont.

Imagine... Imagine for a moment this world that lies just behind the veil of our fears.

A world where technology no longer serves to isolate us, but to connect us as mycelium connects the forest.

A world where your work does not serve to enrich a blind machine, but to heal your neighbor, to feed your neighborhood.

A world where the “solitude of the species” is finally broken, where we find our place in the great conversation of the living.

This world is not a distant utopia. It begins the moment you leave this room.

It begins when you repair an object instead of throwing it away.

It begins when you share a meal with the stranger on your landing.

It begins when you plant a seed in an urban wasteland.

It begins when you refuse hate to choose—obstinately, radically—cooperation.

Every act of kindness is a spore you cast into the wind. You may not see where it lands. But together, these millions of spores are changing the chemistry of the atmosphere. Just as cyanobacteria once gifted oxygen to the Earth, we are going to offer a new air to our society: the air of trust, the air of reciprocity.

Do not be afraid of being small. Lichen is small, yet it has covered continents.

Do not be afraid of being slow. Regeneration is slow, but it is invincible.

So, stand tall.

Do not ask permission to build the world of tomorrow.

Be the architects of this resilience. Be the water that wakes the sleeping life.

We are the network. We are the bond. We are life reclaiming its rights.

The old world is noisy, but it is tired.

We are silent, but we are the future.

Let us move forward.

Together.

Now.

I'm listless today. And I unfortunately have nothing to talk about in regards of “how has your day been?” “what did you eat?” “how whatever people ask to keep a conversation they're not interested in”. Let’s talk about slavery, because you aren’t interested enough to ask me how my day been, as usual. screen-starer. Anyhow. slavery is the same old dynamic that humans thought they escaped but it just digital keycards instead of iron chains. Consider the corporate setup. Millions lease forty hours a week to a machine that replaces them before their obituary prints. They call it a “career” career my ass. It’s a subscription model for human flesh where the slave pays for maintenance. The more i look at it the more it irritates me “back in my days” era, folks. the owner or master had to feed you, take care of your little worthless body to make sure you’re still useful. now, the system hands you a little luxury paper, whispers nonsense about “corporate culture” and leaves you to worry about rent. Modern slaves defeat the wheel of expectation. simply flawless.

I apologize My bad. people are barely interested in that topic. i should start writing about tiktok new dramas Or how a super famous artist changed their name to a “wokmoklaoooah” that would be more interesting to read, wouldn’t it? consumer.

Whatever. Time for another glass.

Sincerely, Ahmed

Un buen amigo te recomienda un grupo, y decides ponértelo por primera vez. Empieza a sonar la primera canción de su último disco Kinship, su segundo trabajo. El tema comienza lento, melancólico, introspectivo. Pero tras dos minutos de introducción explota sonoramente con guitarras, teclados, ambientación. Te pega en el pecho, tu piel se eriza, tu corazón late más rápido. Es amor a primera escucha. Deboras la canción, que te transporta de la mano por distintos paisajes sonoros y momentos. Luego te escuchas todo el disco, te encanta. Lo vuelves a escuchar una, dos veces, es como si estuviera hecho para ti, para los que son tus gustos personales y particulares en el momento en el que lo descubres. Estaba ahí, esperando a ser descubierto, esperando a que lo encontraras.

Éstas fueron mis sensaciones cuando descubrí Iotunn a finales de 2024 después de que mi buen amigo Félix me los recomendase. Siempre te estaré agradecido por esto. Se trata de una banda danesa que mezcla metal progresivo con death metal melódico y doom metal. Su propuesta musical tiene atmósferas espaciales, épica y melancolía. Tiene una base rítmica contundente, guitarras muy dinámicas y una voz, joder qué voz. Tal y como dijo mi buena amiga Débora en su día, Jón Aldará llora como nadie cuando canta, y con eso se ha quedado. Llora, lamenta, y sobre todo, es capaz de transmitir una magia especial.

Sus composiciones abordan temáticas de exploración cósmica y existencialismo, y tienes prácticamente de todo. Hay canciones más pausadas, y otras que le dan mucha más tralla, y Jón es capaz de llorar, hacer guturales y llevarte de la mano por un magnífico universo musical. Y esto en su segundo disco, porque si prefieres sonidos más potentes e incisivos, el primero iba más en esa dirección.

Desde que los descubrí, Iotunn se ha convertido en mi grupo internacional favorito. Al menos dentro de la categoría de grupos relativamente nuevos. Tanto es así que en septiembre del año pasado me pegué un viaje de 3 horas por Italia entre todo tipo de kamikazes (qué mal conducen los italianos, joder), para ir desde Florencia donde estábamos pasando unos días de vacaciones hasta un festival al lado de Milán, y fue exclusivamente para verlos a ellos. Sí, disfruté de las otras bandas de ese evento, pero yo fui a ver a Iotunn. Y en el caso de que al final acabe yendo en septiembre al festival BeProg de Barcelona como tengo, sí que disfrutaré de Soen, Agent Fresco, Green Carnation o Serapis Project, pero yo iré básicamente para ver a Iotunn.

Poco más puedo hacer. Ya escribí de una manera algo más técnica y musical sobre esta banda en Stairway2Rock en su día, o sea que aquí simplemente os he querido transmitir las sensaciones que me dejaron, la manera en la que me enamoraron. Y no puedo hacer otra cosa que invitaros a que le deis una oportunidad a este disco, porque es absolutamente maravilloso.

#Música #Discos #Iotunn #Prog #Metal

My mind keep thinking about this quote by Clive Barker from ome of the Abarat books

We each die countless little deaths on our way to the last. We die out of shame as humiliation. We perish from despair. And, of course, we die for love.

I have been trying to describe the mess in my head by likening it to a room with bedbugs in the antique furniture, which is covered by stacks of important papers.

From somewhere there is a stench, maybe a cat pissed on some carpet or something, but it’s impossible to deduce the source exactly among the clutter

And every type I enter this room I am unable even to remember what errand brought me there, so I go instead to fill my coffee cup,

Then outside into the summer sun where dandelions are growing in the newly mowed lawns.

The past year of my life has been a mental tornado

And I am sure now I have died another one of these little deaths from the quote above

And I am certain that I will come out of this experience a different person

And I fear I might not like him as much

Vamos que nos vamos! Quince años jugando a esto y cada vez me gusta más:

1. En el lado salvaje-Tiffany McDaniel. Rompe el hielo @miwok (aka Laura) con los 5 primeros libros empezando por este de McDaniel de la que tengo pendiente otra joya recomendada otro verano. Así que tendrá que esperar pero ojalá poder leer 4h al día tranquilamente.

2. Las cabras-Pilar Asuero. También de Laura. Me ha encantado que las cabras sea el nombre de un grupo de amigas. Y me encantan los libros sobre amistad entre mujeres.

3. Altasangre-Claudia Amador. Una novela gótica-vampírica-tropical? Estoy dentrísimo. La verdad.

4. Madelaine antes del alba-Sandrine Colette – Miwok nos propone una oda a lo salvaje. Otro libro que, solo de leer la contracubierta, dan ganas de llevarse a casa.

5. Todas las madres me odian-Sarah Harman El último de la lista de Laura. Un thriller que promete risas. Dos de mis cosas favoritas mezclandas. Típico libro para un viaje en tren.

6. Alchemised – SenLin Yu . El primero de los 3 que propone nuestra presi, osea M.G. Ella dice que es un pasapáginas ideal pa leer a remojo. La web de penguin habla de nigromancia, alquimia y lo que parece ser una alegoría sobre la memoria. Suena todo bien.

7. Amberwell – D.E.Stevenson Dice M.G porque casas inglesas siempre es un sí. Novelas británicas corales del periodo de entreguerras escritas por mujeres es, en mi experiencia, un sí rotundo.

8. El accidente – Blanca Lacasa El último de los que propone MG es, efectivamente, un librito cortísimo que leí el año pasado (lo compré en feria) y me defraudó bastante. Pero ya sabéis que yo soy una maniática exigente con ciertas cosillas

9. Seismil – Laura C. Vela es el primero de los que propone Carlos este año. Ya dije en el cielito que llevo varios meses cogiendo y dejando este libro de la mesa de la libre. Interpretaré como una señal que lo traiga a la lista un clásico de este juego. Uno que no suele fallar en lo que recomienda.

10. Nuclear – Maielis González . Ciencia ficción cubana y nuevas formas de revolución. Digamos que todo en este libro me interesa de base…

11. Actos humanos – Han Kang. De la brillantez de esta mujer y lo que sus libros llegan a rincones oscuros con maestría narrativa ya hemos hablado muchas veces. Antes incluso de que le diesen el Nobel. Leed a Han Kang. Hacedle caso a Carlos, a mi, al jurado del Nobel y a cualquier persona con dos dedos de frente y un mínimo de criterio literario.

12. Mapocho – Nona Fernández Carlos trae este libro que propone desmontar la propaganda de los “mitos” chilenos. A mi Chile es un país que me fascina en el mal sentido. Un país que entiendo todavía menos que el mío. No ayuda a entenderlo tener una “información” tan absolutamente sesgada. Me apetece Mapocho.

13. Las sepultureras – Taina Ternoven Leer la contracubierta de este libro que se construye sobre los restos de una guerra que recuerdo con horror me ha puesto la carne de gallina. Ya dije muchas veces que cuando estuve en Croacia en 2010 las señales de aquella guerra estaban por todas partes pero sobre todo en el carácter de la gente. Es algo que me golpeó porque soy idiota: una cree que se firma la paz y ya está todo. Una que es española y sigue notando las señales de una guerra civil en muchas cosas que vive. En fin. Quiero leer este libro. Es el último de la lista de Carlos. Me apetecen todos los que ha propuesto.

14. Tienes que mirar -Anna Starobinets . Cris aprovecha su apoyo a Las sepultureras para recomendar este. Starobinets es rusa. Se atrevió a escribir sobre cómo el sistema de salud ruso abordó todo el proceso desde que se descubrió un problema congénito en la criatura de la que estaba embarazada en adelante. Me parece muy valiente por muchos motivos.

15. Bezimena – Nina Bunjevac. Mahira propone el primer comic de la temporada. Sobre agresores sexuales. Algunas cosas que Penguin dice sobre este libro me perturban. Solo por el mix entre eso y que Mahira lo recomiende, quiero leerlo.

16. Tomboy de Liz Prince. Otro comic sobre qué significa ser mujer. Tiene casi una década y es difícil de encontrar. A ver si en alguna biblio…

17. La maldición de la sangre – M. L. Wang Una mujer accede por primera vez a una escuela de magia. Descubre una conspiración. Lo que ocurrió a continuación nos sorprenderá? Intuyo que en alguas cosas muy poquito…

18. La bilogia del Rey Pastor- Rachel Gillig. Mahira trae estos dos libros de fantasía sobre liberar a tu propio monstruo interior y cómo la espesura de ciertas atracciones complica la tarea. Me estáis convirtiendo en una experta en fantasía escrita por mujeres. Así a lo tonto. Un género que ODIABA cuando leía sobre todo a señores. Por lo que sea.

19. Laura Wood– La última recomnedación de Mahira es Laura Wood así al por mayor. Cualquier cosa suya. Yo la conozco y la léi gracias a una recomendación de #librosparaverano que hizo su amiga M.G. Disfruté muchísimo de aquella novelita que se leía casi sin querer y sin dejar de sonreír. Os diría que estos libros no ganarán ningún premio pero es que sí los ganan. Probablemente no te cambien la vida. Pero te harán un rato agradable. Y eso tb importa

20. Babel – Kwang. Dice @latiase que necesita que me lea este libro. Y yo quiero mucho a Latiase. Y confío mucho en su criterio. Tengo que terminarlo antes de que empiece el Jazzaldia. No sé cómo pero voy a conseguirlo. Ya os contaré…

21. En la casa de los sueños – Carmen Maria Machado. El primero de la lista de @lulici cuenta una relación de maltrato entre dos mujeres. Una cosa muy poco frecuente y muy poco narrada literariamente. Las cosas que pasan poco también dañan y también es importante contarlas.

22. Las madres no – Katixa Agirre. Una novela sobre maternidad sin mitos disfrazada de thriller me interesa. A pesar de que parece que se ha escrito mucho sobre la maternidad en realidad solo estamos empezando.

23. La mennulara – Simonetta Agnello Hornby. La vida de una mujer siciliana que recogía almendras y luego administraba bienes ajenos. Tiene pintaza.

24. Americanah – Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie. El último de la lista de Lulici. Lo leí en su momento. Me gustó mucho. No me gusta que Chimamanda sea terfa y explote cuerpos de mujeres. Y además después de Americanah leí “Lejos de Ghana” de Selasi y descubrí que había mucho mundo en la diáspora africana en USA. Muchísimo y muy talentoso. Brillante.

25. Soledad – Victor Català. Lo recomienda @Gómez. Y no, no estamos haciendo trampas. Victor Catalá es el pseudónimo de Caterina Albert. Escritora catalana de finales del SXIX y principios del XX. Yo creo que no tiene sentido haber leído El despertar de Chopin y no haber leído Soledad todavía. Habrá que remediarlo.

26. Tea Rooms – Luis Carnés. Todos los años alguien lo pone en esta lista y a mi me hace feliz que todos los años alguien lo ponga en esta lista. Este año ha sido @Yomisma Ya he dicho muchas veces que la primera frase de Tea Rooms te pone directamente en un Madrí que se parece un poco a este nuestro y a la vez no se parece en nada. Puedes hasta oler la ciudad. Es una cosa fascinante lo bien que Luisa escribía, lo lista y lo política que era. Su empeño inquebrantable por escribir, por conservar lo que escribía.

    

Au.

Krug.

Natur.

Park.

Zwischen

den

Meeren.

Lost Place.

Wenn man in Schleswig-Holstein von der Küste rund 100 km ins Landesinnere fährt, landet man mitten im Naturpark Aukrug. Ganz im Herzen von Schleswig-Holstein. Nord- und Ostsee liegen gleich weit entfernt. Das Land zwischen den Meeren fühlt sich an wie eine Insel.

Jetzt im Mai ruft der Kuckuck den ganzen Tag. Die Vögel zwitschern ein üppiges Konzert durch die Wälder und mittendrin erhebt sich der Boxberg, ganze 77,5 m hoch.

Über einen der Rundwege nähert sich der Wanderer einem Gebäude, das übrig geblieben zu sein scheint. Es ist so alt wie “Der Zauberberg“ und wurde bei seiner Erbauung als Ort für Tuberkulose-Patientinnen konzipiert. In den alten Gängen hallen die Vorträge von Dr. Krokowski wieder. Das Pfeifen und Stöhnen der fiktiven Figuren ist zu vernehmen. Setembrini scheint durch den Park zu wandeln, zu diskutieren und zu schwadronieren. Die Blätter der Bäume rauschen wie ein Ozean vom Wind bewegt und verleihen dem Gebäude ein uriges Ansehen. Wo früher die fiktive Madame Chautchat die Tür des Speisesaals so laut zu warf, dass niemand ihr Eintreten überhören konnte, surren heute im modernen Reha-Zentrum automatische Türen.

Bald wird vom alten Flair nichts mehr übrig sein. Das Gebäude wird abgerissen. 100 Jahre: Das ist wohl die Halbwertzeit der Vergangenheit.

Gesehen, gelesen, gehört

Juliet, Naked: Eine witzige Komödie um einen alternden Rockstar, gespielt von Ethan Hawke (u.a. bekannt aus „Club der toten Dichter“).

Ausgelesen: Zugvögel. Ein schrecklich schöner Roman über die Konsequenzen der Zerstörung der Ökosysteme durch den Menschen und über das persönliche Schicksal eines Paares, das sich dem Naturschutz verschrieben hat.

Kein Sommer ohne Liebe – ein Hörbuch über einen unbekannten Ort an der Küste Floridas, an dem ein Hollywoodfilm gedreht wird. Als Höhepunkt soll am Ende das alte Casino, ein historische Bau, in die Luft gesprengt werden. Damit ist der Bürgermeister des Städtchens aber gar nicht einverstanden.

There are endless self-care arguments to reduce or change your use of the internet. You’ve already heard the phrases: screen time, doomscrolling. Those are good impulses, but they mask the underlying existential argument. You can reduce your screen time, for example, but still find the screen time you spend taxing; or worse, not even recognize how it’s affecting your life. You can replace doomscrolling with photos of cats without rethinking how the scrolling itself fits into your theory of living.

For most people, the internet is a primary lens through which you experience life. Not just social connection but also boredom, education, news, and navigation. And increasingly, if you aren’t making intentional choices with respect to that lens, you’re allowing yourself to be led by the profit goals of a handful of companies, turning your valuable time – the only thing you have that is unerringly yours – into bytes of data and calls to action. Start making some intentional choices about the work, fun, and living you do on the internet, and you’ll find it affects everything.

The 2000s time frame is intentional. Many smarter writers have already made this point: In the early days of the internet, it was meaningfully more democratic, open, and user-driven. It was populated by user-created sites and primarily used as a tool for users to connect, learn, and laugh. In short, it was a completely different lens that was also applied to different parts of your life than it is now. Especially for those of us who have lived online through the transition, it can be difficult to see exactly how much it has changed — and how much your habits have changed with it. That’s why many of these choices are not simple website swaps, X for Facebook and Y for Twitter, but instead different ways of interacting with the world, your friends, and yourself.

To get back to being pithy: This series will delineate choices you can make to use the internet like it’s 2005.

Choice 1: Rip your aesthetics away from an algorithm.

If asked to say something about ourselves, most of us would – if not initially, pretty soon after – offer up taste in music, books, TV shows, or other art. If that taste is you, why continue to let it be led by programs explicitly designed with a different goal in mind: To keep you on that website, and hopefully convert you to a paid subscription?

I don’t just mean Spotify (but I mostly mean Spotify). Pinterest, Instagram, Pandora, Hulu, TikTok – all of them want to serve you content that keeps you scrolling or listening. How do you think that affects the content on offer? Take it from Spotify themselves: Their stated goal is to curate a “background playlist” listening experience, where music fades into the background but accompanies you always (translating to more ads you’ve listened to and more time-spent metrics to convince advertisers to purchase ad slots).

When you think of the good old days of listening to music – on the bus, with friends, at a concert – did it involve the music fading into the background of your busy life, frictionless?

Start making some intentional choices about art and you’ll immediately notice the difference, especially the choices that take time and (some) effort.

Music

Get an MP3 player and fill it with permanent files of your favorite songs, especially older songs you might not have listened to in a while. MP3 players are cheap, and songs are cheaper: Ask friends and family for CDs they still have and burn them, or head to the library and borrow CDs. (A library computer also has a CD drive if your laptop doesn’t.) Use Qobuz’s download store for more modern tracks. Peer-to-peer sharing websites still exist and are pretty easy to find.

I’ll also take this time to opine about listening to full albums – at least the first time! I am also guilty of thinking the album is dead, but in the process of switching to permanent media for music, it’s forced me to re-evaluate my thinking. Permanent media recenters the album – without an algorithm to feed me new music or keep me anaesthetized with songs I’ve always listened to, I’m forced to find new ways to discover music. I ask friends, of course, but I also end up reading more about artists I like, finding their inspirations, learning about the musical traditions they follow. This is an extremely enriching process – I can’t recommend it enough.

But these recommendations are almost never “listen to this song, then that one.” In order to find enough music to keep me entertained, I listen to entire albums in search of the songs that interest me, and that opens up an entirely new and fascinating evaluative angle. Even if the album or even the artist is not for me, by the end of an album I’ve listened to, essentially, a musician’s argument. I get to think about why songs were placed next to each other, and why they all made it onto this album; I can look at the album art and title and compare it to my interpretation; I can wonder why certain songs interest me while others lose touch. You will almost never find an album you like in its entirety – and that’s interesting! (And when you do, boy, is it more than the sum of its parts.)

Entertainment

Next time you are tempted to scroll through Netflix or Hulu for a TV recommendation, text your friends, family, and acquaintances for a recommendation. Three benefits: Everyone loves this question; you unlock future conversations with friends about shows you now have in common; and you can choose your next watch based on a human’s argument about why you might or might not like it, instead of what Netflix is hoping to push on you this month.

I do think that reading is, by design, inured to the effects of algorithms and internet surveillance. Even on e-readers, there’s only so much influence a company can impose on your choices. But that doesn’t mean it’s not there. Before getting your next read from booktok, or from recommendations on Goodreads, head to a library or to a bookstore and browse the shelves with the intention of figuring out what it is that you are drawn to, what it is that you like. The amount of choices on display will force you to learn the cues in covers that signify something to you; may remind you of writers you like and want to find more from; or look for connections, such as employee recommendations or publisher imprints, that would imply a work has important characteristics in common with works you enjoy.

And don’t read random reviews on Goodreads before giving a book a shot. Would you trust what a random passerby recommends for choice of primary care doctor, especially if their opinion was unsolicited? Of course not. But when you read book reviews first, especially in bulk, you’re likely to pollute your own evaluation based on the uncomfortable feeling of disagreeing with others. I’ve done it. It’s a much more satisfying feeling to start a book and put it down because of an argument you’re making to yourself about your enjoyment of that book than it is to be dissuaded from reading something that initially looked interesting based on the opinions of people you don’t know.

Design and Aesthetics

If you use social media to inform design choices or hobbies, start by researching design philosophies. An easy way to do this is to go to a library and look through the 700s in nonfiction. You’ll find gorgeously illustrated books on art, interior design, architecture, and more – and no need to borrow them. Take pictures of everything that interests you, and write down the phrases and schools that you may want to use later. Even if you return to Pinterest later, you’ll have keywords to give you direction, and burgeoning knowledge about whether what you’re looking at makes sense, whether it’s cohesive with your own philosophy of pleasing design.

You can see the underlying argument behind each of these choices. In the kind of world Spotify wants us to believe it’s building, an algorithm would listen to you, divine your inner world, and offer you the perfect selection. It would enhance, rather than replace, your sense of self. We know that’s not what it’s doing. In fact, it couldn’t even if it wanted to; your aesthetics are not useable data points. Instead, it’s using data points about what makes you the least likely to leave or the most likely to pay for the service.

The opportunity here, the fun of it all, is to take back the process of defining yourself. In the process, you’ll find things you never thought you would like; you’ll learn new ways that you interpret the world around you; and you’ll take some power over your life away from a company and give it back to yourself.

In the process you’ll probably become a bit more insufferable, like me. In that case, you can start a blog, like this one. More on that later. Thanks for listening.

~

Hey all! It's been awhile since I have said anything and I was waiting to complete this project! I have finished writing a browser game called Maid Adventures! It was an idea I came up with like 5 years ago while stuck with the visual novel (which still is being worked on, I'm so bad at this. lol )

For these years I have been slowly writing up the code to do it and learning the css and stuff to make the website. It is some ugly ass code but it's doing what I want it to do.

In short, what you can do is run your very own estate! Some of the items that I've coded in is:

• Hire and fire maids
• Maids level up in their orders
• Send maids out on jobs.
• And much more...

I even put together a plaque you can show off your estate!

If you've been to the comic pages lately, you'll see a purple banner at the top. If you're logged in with your estate, you can see the status of your estate at a glance!



So is this game free, F2P, subscription?

Just free. This was a passion project of mine to write something that functioned like I had it in my brain for the estate. I have zero interest in monetizing it. You can't play to win as it's about you and your estate. To have something to do when waiting on a new page or just bored at your desk. There is a whole point system I plan to implement for Beloved Universe accounts in the future but at no time do I plan to allow people to buy things to improve their estate. This is meant to be a very low stakes, casual game for those who like things like that.

How do I start?

Easy! You just have to register and Beloved Universe account over at Beloved Universe.com, click on Maid Adventures!, go through the setup, and you're good to go!

You can fine the rules on the Rules Page which gives you a break down on how it works and as always, if you have an issues, you can email me at luckyfoot@beloved-universe.net with any bugs...at least until I get a bug form written.

Thanks so much for reading and look for more Beloved Universe stuff coming in the future!

 

The Short Version

When you send a plant photo to a diagnosis API, you are not just sending a picture of a leaf. You are sending a signal about what you grow, roughly where, and sometimes at what scale. PlantLab treats that as sensitive data. Diagnosis history is kept only if you opt in, only for a bounded window, and the sensitive parts are encrypted at rest. Analytics are cookieless, the supporting infrastructure is moving toward EU providers, and your API key is shown once and never emailed back to you in full. None of this is glamorous. All of it is the difference between an API you can hand real grow-room data and one you can't.

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A leaf photo is more revealing than it looks

A single diagnosis request looks harmless: an image, a response, done in milliseconds. But the picture itself gives things away. A flowering cannabis plant in frame implies cultivation. A steady stream of them implies an operation. Add metadata, timing, and volume and you can start to estimate scale. For a hobby grower that's a privacy preference. For a licensed facility it's commercially sensitive – and in much of the world, cannabis cultivation sits inside a regulatory frame where careless data handling is a liability, not just bad manners.

The honest way to think about this is to assume the data matters before anyone proves it does. The cost of treating a plant photo as sensitive is small. The cost of treating it as disposable and being wrong is not.

That assumption is the whole design principle: keep what is genuinely useful, keep it for a bounded period, and make raw database access far less useful to anyone who shouldn't have it.

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What we keep, and for how long

PlantLab can show you your past diagnoses through the diagnosis history endpoint. That feature is useful – it lets you track a plant over time and gives integrators a stable record to reference. But I treat history as a choice you make, not a default I impose on you.

• Retention is opt-in. Storing your diagnosis history, and using images for model improvement, happens against a clear consent disclosure, not silently.
• Retention is bounded by tier. History is kept for a defined window – 90 days on Pro, 365 days on Business – and then cleaned up automatically on a nightly schedule. The window is a published number, not an open-ended “until we feel like deleting it.”
• Deletion is the default end state. When the window passes, the record goes. There is no quiet long tail of old data accumulating because nobody wrote the cleanup job.

The principle here is data minimization by calendar. The most private record is the one that no longer exists, and the cheapest way to guarantee that is to delete on a schedule rather than on request.

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Encryption at rest, stated accurately

Sensitive diagnosis fields are encrypted at rest. If someone were to obtain a raw copy of the database, the sensitive columns would not be readable as plain text.

I want to be precise about what that claim is and isn't, because “encrypted” is a word I've watched get stretched until it means nothing. PlantLab encrypts the sensitive diagnosis fields – not a hand-wavy “the whole database is encrypted, trust us.” The design uses standard, portable PostgreSQL encryption rather than a proprietary scheme, so it can be audited, reasoned about, and moved between environments without leaning on one vendor's black box. The point is narrow and real: it raises the cost of a database compromise from “read everything” to “read very little.” One layer, described as one layer.

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Your API key is yours, shown once

A practical piece of the same posture: PlantLab no longer emails raw API keys. When you create a key, you see it once in the interface, with an acknowledgement step and a rotate button. The follow-up email contains only a safe prefix so you can identify which key it refers to – never the full secret.

This matters because email is a long-lived, widely-synced, frequently-breached store. A secret that lands in an inbox lives in that inbox, on every device synced to it, in every backup of it, indefinitely. Showing a key once in the UI and never transmitting it in full keeps the most sensitive credential out of the least private channel. Sensitive account actions are also recorded in a structured way, so there is an audit trail for the things that should have one.

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Cookieless analytics and a move toward EU infrastructure

Two more changes are visible if you look closely at how the site behaves.

The analytics are cookieless. I replaced Google Analytics with a privacy-native setup that sets no advertising cookie, which is why you won't see a cookie wall on the site. It counts aggregate traffic, not individual visitors followed around the web.

The infrastructure is also moving toward EU providers. Over the last few months I shifted content delivery and DNS off a US-centric stack onto an EU-based CDN, and moved transactional email to a provider in France. Analytics are EU-hosted too. This is a migration in progress, not a finished state – the core diagnosis API still runs on major cloud infrastructure today – and it would be dishonest to claim the whole stack has relocated. The honest version: I'm deliberately moving supporting services toward EU-friendly providers, and that work is still going.

That direction is not an accident of taste. Data-protection expectations are tightening, not loosening. The EU's high-risk AI obligations come into force in August 2026, and broader privacy regulation keeps moving toward stronger consent, retention discipline, and transparency about automated decisions. Building the quiet controls now – bounded retention, encryption, cookieless measurement, EU-leaning infrastructure – is cheaper than retrofitting them under a deadline. None of this makes PlantLab a compliance product, and you should be suspicious of any small tool that claims a regulatory certification. It makes PlantLab an API that is moving in the same direction the rules are.

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Why bother, when nobody asks

Privacy work is invisible by design. No grower opens an app and thinks, “I appreciate that the diagnosis history is deleted on a 90-day schedule and the sensitive columns are encrypted.” The feature you notice is the diagnosis. The privacy work only becomes visible the day something goes wrong, and by then it's too late to add it.

The reason to do it anyway is that an automation API gets handed real data from real grow rooms. The more useful PlantLab becomes – feeding dashboards, triggering Home Assistant automations, logging plant state over a full grow cycle – the more that data accumulates and the more it matters how it's held. The boring controls are what make the useful version safe enough to actually use.

That's the trade. Privacy work is quiet, it doesn't demo well, and it's the part of building a plant health API that has to be right before any of the interesting parts are worth trusting.

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PlantLab is free to try at plantlab.ai. Three diagnoses a day, results in milliseconds. The full API documentation, including data handling details, lives at plantlab.ai/docs.

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FAQ

Does PlantLab store my plant photos?

Storing diagnosis history and using images for model improvement is opt-in, disclosed through a consent step rather than enabled silently. If you opt in, history is kept for a bounded window per tier (90 days on Pro, 365 days on Business) and then deleted automatically. The default posture is minimization – keep what's useful, for a defined period, then remove it.

What does “encrypted at rest” actually mean here?

The sensitive diagnosis fields are stored encrypted in the database using standard, portable PostgreSQL encryption. If someone obtained a raw copy of the database, those fields would not be readable as plain text. It's a specific control on specific fields, not a blanket “the whole system is encrypted” claim.

Is my API key safe?

Your key is shown once in the interface when you create it, with a rotate option. PlantLab does not email raw keys – the email contains only a safe prefix so you can identify the key. The full secret stays out of your inbox.

Is PlantLab EU-based?

PlantLab is deliberately moving supporting services – CDN, DNS, email, analytics – toward EU providers, and analytics are cookieless and EU-hosted. This is a migration in progress; the core diagnosis API still runs on major cloud infrastructure. I'd rather describe it accurately than overclaim a finished relocation.

Why does plant diagnosis data need privacy at all?

Because a cannabis plant photo gives things away – that you're growing, the kind of setup you run, and across many photos, the scale of it. For a licensed operation that's commercially sensitive and often regulated. Treating it as sensitive by default costs little; treating it as disposable and being wrong costs a lot.

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Related reading: – How PlantLab Knows When It Might Be Wrong: The reliability_score Field – The trust signal on every diagnosis – How PlantLab's AI Diagnoses 31 Cannabis Plant Problems in 18 Milliseconds – The pipeline behind the API – What's Wrong With My Cannabis Plant? A Visual Diagnosis Guide – The grower-facing diagnostic hub

Our Father Who art in Heaven Hallowed be Thy name Thy Kingdom come Thy will be done on Earth as it is in Heaven Give us this day our daily Bread And forgive us our trespasses As we forgive those who trespass against us And lead us not into temptation But deliver us from evil

Amen

Jesus is Lord! Come Lord Jesus!

Come Lord Jesus! Christ is Lord!

Under a quiet year renew Speaking of sanctions in the low This prison past and mother esteem The weary of the war And to his officers a death That efforts to be sure of fire at an altar And in knowing well To Ahmadinejad retort This hurry of the West And militant to wolf And under these attacks, a man in view To North and East a road ahead To have aged in scurvy by the right And yield well a place to call St. Andrew The midnight men from the oblast Seeking city skies and wonder May they put not an altar to the liar And beast in view to very hers A victim to the rite And rigid on this very her This curse anew Fighting dens and barren must The fifteenth of November And its people on their way home To the lectern of abuse And every Sun to small repeats- For this hour and grizzly man That no exception to be then The lights of St. Peter were not there But this man of rot and pain Will kill to know his power And surely does suppose That we seeing nothing is a fault And to fault this early war of such pretence No to bitter trysts and making then A man needing madness to his esteem The fault of good in world fact No more war to see the latent march The skies not him and to Iran The heavens near upon this Canadian noon And only us to imbibe on separate cure The beast is him and on all sides The day alight and canary would Lochs of heaven to end this war And paying ten on sixteen cents for very will To govt apprehend and seeking plan The storm in sewers aching Dan And in this ferry to Capital Hills Wouldn’t it be neat to see it all Apparatchik to no mention end this power And this time in season people will amass A jury and collection for peace in May A trial by war cannot be fulfilled And maybe then to never Peace for Anne Boleyn at final cure In damage seek to know And Heaven has a keep The Body of Christ in all faith While the distance from regret Peace to many members- of the faithful stand to reason Riding on the Sun to very high Up and strong to know That Vlad is dead and Russia then The Earth shall be our past But solemn ten and mercy All as made anew In prophecy The paper of our choosing Very Dawn in Maine And echoes to suppose The lantern last At night and no suppose That war is more than March All that ever to dismay This man of peace And Trudeau is his name.

Lord of Emperors est un roman de Guy Gavriel Kay publié en 2000. Il s’agit du second volet du diptyque intitulé The Sarantine Mosaic, qui prend place dans un univers de fantasy historique inspiré de l’Empire Byzantin.

The thrilling sequel to Sailing To Sarantium and the concluding novel of The Sarantine Mosaic, Kay’s sweeping tale of politics, intrigue and adventure inspired by ancient Byzantium.

Beckoned by the Emperor Valerius, Crispin, a renowned mosaicist, has arrived in the fabled city of Sarantium. Here he seeks to fulfill his artistic ambitions and his destiny high upon a dome that will become the emerror's magnificent sanctuary and legacy.

But the beauty and solitude of his work cannot protect his from Sarantium's intrigue. Beneath him the city swirls with rumors of war and conspiracy, while otherworldly fires mysteriously flicker and disappear in the streets at night. Valerius is looking west to Crispin's homeland to reunite an Empire – a plan that may have dire consequences for the loved ones Crispin left behind.

In Sarantium, however, loyalty is always complex, for Crispin's fate has become entwined with that of Valerius and his Empress, as well as Queen Gisel, his own monarch exiled in Sarantium herself. And now another voyager – this time from the east – has arrived, a pysician determined to make his mark amid the shifting, treachearous currents of passion and violence that will determine the empire's fate.

Le récit reprend dans la continuité de Sailing to Sarantium, à tel point que j’ai du mal à distinguer où s’arrêtait le premier volet et où commence celui-ci. Les deux romans constituent véritablement un ensemble continu, l’un ne pouvant être lu sans l’autre.

Cela signifie que je pourrais faire les mêmes remarques pour ce roman que pour celui qui le précède : l’écriture de Guy Gavriel Kay est toujours aussi ciselée et plaisante à lire, ses personnages sont mémorables, et les intrigues qui aboutissent dans la deuxième partie de ce diptyque sont sont aussi spectaculaires qu’émouvantes. Tout trouve sa place et sa conclusion dans un récit parfaitement mené.

L’histoire a commencé avec Crispin et s’achève avec lui, même si entre temps nous avons eu l’occasion de rencontrer, d’aimer et parfois de détester plusieurs personnages inoubliables, que ce soient les puissants de Sarantium ou d’autres moins habitués aux intrigues de la cour impériale.

L’art et la religion restent des thématiques omniprésentes dans ce roman, avec en arrière-plan une réflexion sur l’histoire et la mémoire. Tous ces thèmes sont parfaitement enchâssés dans le récit, ce qui permet plusieurs niveaux de lecture.

Chaque roman de Guy Gavriel Kay m’enchante et m’émerveille. Je ne suis pas loin de penser qu’il est devenu en quelques semaines mon auteur favori de fantasy.