The second level of the tower is curiously devoid of almost any feature, save for a bunch of discarded sleeping bags. Rummaging through these, I discover a note:
So Isabell Nona (in company with her husband?) was here, however long ago.
With nothing else of interest here, we endeavor to climb the rope ladder. But while the distance separating us from the next level seems short, we grab and step on rung after rung after rung after rung during what feels like much too long a time, indicating perhaps that the tower shifts in imperceptible ways.
On the third level:
“This tower,” explains the Caretaker, “much like the rest of the Cage which you call the Abyss, has rules onto itself. This river encircles the Abyss as its Binding Chain, and the Pillars configure it into its varied shapes. It is here, however, mainly to protect the upper floors from intruders. You see, it has certain territorial tendencies.”
[…] the Pillars configure it into its varied shapes. Uh… Log 4.55—which we read moments earlier—mentions the tower being “due south” of the Forgotten City; but in truth the tower is situated to the south-west of the city. So either that’s the tiniest of bungles on Tyranicon’s part, or the tower was indeed due south of the city when Log 4.55 was written. I do like the idea of a zone that rearranges itself; very intriguing.
Then, I bethink myself of the Guardian I had previously encountered, as the Caretaker proves anew his great liking of questions underscored by curious notions. Now taking on the role of a troll guarding his bridge, he voices his conditions for our passage:
First question: what is your name? I of course answer with my name. To which the Caretaker retorts: “Ahhh, for calling names, that is strange to my ears. When you reach Her, She may tell you a truer name.”
Second question: what is my quest? The options are:
– To find Isutyr’s kin;
– To resolve the Guild’s civil war;
– To obtain great power or wealth;
– To survive;
– I have no ‘quest’;
– Something else;
– Say nothing.
Given recent discoveries—or, really, undiscoveries—about myself, I more than anything aim to understand the truth about my lost memories. Thus I answer: “Something else.” And the Caretaker to say: “Oh? Is it a great secret? Nonetheless, you have in you the desire and chance for greatness… should you wish for it.”
Third question: will you free Her, if you are able to do so? Despite I yet fail to grasp the granular intricacies of this entire affair, I am quite certain that She, whoever that is exactly, is not someone I wish to set free. Thus I answer with a simple ‘no’; and the Caretaker allows me safe crossing of the river.
Meters away from the bridge I descry, anew, some discarded sleeping bags inside which is a written log:
Climbing to the third level of the tower:
Sorrow and grief felt towards, as he says, those made in his image and now fallen. Into each of these strange memorials has been scribbled a sweet notekin or another.
Making me wonder if the people who had herein been besieged had, much earlier, bought a company’s worth of sleeping bags, I find yet more of these, and of course a written log.
Still we climb. And once standing on what we learn is the penultimate level of the tower, the Caretaker speaks:
Daughters? Traps? Okay…
And indeed a trap is sprung onto us! But it’s just two or three droids whose bent, half-broken parts are barely held together by glue and tape, further being given a semblance of life by servos corroded through and through; not exactly a great menace to us feisty brothel gals.
Inspecting the room, I find the following:
So… shapeshifters? I’ve definitely met a couple of those.
Family bickering over food rights. Cute. Classic.
But at length we finally arrive at the towertop, and I dart for the umpteenth discarded sleeping bags, to read a final log:
“Isabell and I.” I make a mental note to talk to her and her husband as soon as possible.
And there it is, the Plot Device after which I quest:
But afore I make to grasp it, I talk with the Caretaker who, perhaps mollified by my amicable dispositions, now proves ready—in truth almost eager—to shine his subtle light where a number of shadows have mounted and deepened:
– What is the Key? “You’ll need it if you want to reconfigure the valley… and that is the only way to reach Her prison.”
– What is the purpose of this place? “The purpose of this tower is to house the Key; the purpose of the valley is to house the configuration engine. The purpose of the Abyss is to house the Prisoner.”
– Who built these structures? “The Goada Naren, with the assistance of the Traveler’s Guild. It was very long ago. I’m sure both parties remember very little of what happened here.”
– Who is imprisoned here? “A powerful entity from a place of existence very different than our own. She is the Everqueen, and her hunger was what drove your forefathers to imprison her here. You have an appointment with her, one will come soon enough.”
“Your forefathers,” he said. Forefathers proper, as in ‘my ancestors’, indicating my kith to be Goada Narens or people from the Traveler’s Guild? Or is that a more general ‘your forefathers’, simply meaning ‘people who came before you’? That’s the problem with prolonged exposure to crypticality: you develop a habit of reading between lines even when only one line is written.
Still, now I grasp the key; and soon as I do I feel a deep, rumbling shockwave descending the tower’s length. The Caretaker asks if we are ready to leave, to which I answer yes.
My ‘yes’ still floats in the air when the upper part of the tower seems to melt then coalesce into a flesh-like living matter that promptly rises over and surges around us, shaping itself as if a mouth of colossal proportions. And of such verisimilitude are the inner features of this mouth that my companions, feeling panic wash over them, futilely draw their weapons. The flesh-like matter enfolds us whole into its clammy stuff… then spits us out—unharmed but coated by a glistening layer of saliva—back onto solid ground at the foot of the tower, whose aspect is anew that of a decrepit tower made of plain stone.
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