Fortress 2

LOADING . — 1% — ETA 12:45 LOADING . . — 32% — ETA 09:43 LOADING . . . — 88% — ETA 02:11       OPEN: 5_script_supplement THE FORTRESS MUST SURVIVE ACT 2, SCENE 1 [Enter the SCRIBE walking down a tall hallway, with numerous stained glass windows to her right. The red sunlight hasn't changed since her arrival: she tries to peer into the horizon, but the mist and blinding light block her sight.] [Suddenly, she hears talking ahead: the murmurs echo through the hallway, indecipherable. The SCRIBE walks slowly, sneaking near a doorway that leads outside. The CHARLATAN and the SMILING MAN are there, on a set of stairs that sinks into the Sea: the former is standing, and the latter is sitting, both looking toward a barely-visible, thin line of cliffs up ahead.] [The CHARLATAN wraps a droplet of water in a red string while the SMILING MAN idly plays with a dull throwing knife, moving the blade across the surface of the Sea.] CHARLATAN: Knowest thou not a better form of communing with the chanting songs within the great Sea? Thy knife-wavings, as verily fanciful and befit of a Lord such as thee as they are, doth not much of substance produce. SMILING MAN: Proof and substance are things I give no thought to. Naught shall listen if I did my voice raise: even those who doth wish to harken shall despair, for vengeful prayers are to be gaudily answered not. [The SCRIBE stands by the doorway, her head barely past the wall. The shadow of her head lengthens forward, nearly meeting the CHARLATAN's, which lengthens on the opposite direction. The pair stay briefly silent before the CHARLATAN sighs.] CHARLATAN: Forsooth, believest thou that those same folk will indeed welcome thy voice when it is not of godly distance, but of true presence? Dost thou hope — in foolish feverishness, no doubt — that thy visage will friendlier prove when gazed upon with eyes not from the mind? SMILING MAN: O, great Charlatan of silvered tongue and honeyed teeth, believest thou that I am a fool such as to hope in death for that which in life I was granted not? CHARLATAN: Perchance hast thou at last found faith in a cause not thine…? But no- I know indeed that these things you give no thought to. SMILING MAN: [Laughing.] Indeed, good sir. As fire was what last memory mine eyes knew, in sooth it too shall be what my new eyes will first know. But those hopes belong to fate alone, and afar still drift in its capricious tides: hast thou finally cracked that thick King's cranium? Thy tongue hast indeed grown fallow and sour, as dost thine appetite and width with each meal. [Hearing about the KING, the SCRIBE gasps and moves closer, further lengthening her shade.] CHARLATAN: Alack! Close thy pestilent muzzle, befit better of lowly hounds of booze than one of thy stature. Verily art thy lips as putrid as they are wide! But nay! The accursed King doth his Keys not give — and the Dragon's Egg thither lies, too far yet for my grasp. [The SCRIBE's shade lengthens far enough to meet the CHARLATAN's: as it does, a red circle shines in the head's shadow. This startles the CHARLATAN: The SCRIBE recoils, hurriedly walking away as the CHARLATAN turns to face her.] CHARLATAN: Fie! Didst thou yon miser sawest? With haste, behind that wench! Surely she hath harkened, and bare to the King's ear may she our words lay! [She flees toward the end of the hallway, finding herself in the halls of a dormitory. Some doors are wide open, revealing empty bedrooms. Others are closed. She opens a closed door and hides inside: the CHARLATAN and the SMILING MAN thunder past, their steps echoing inside the bedroom. After a while, they slow down, then stop. Whispers are barely audible: both seem to leave from where they came.] [The SCRIBE exhales and relaxes, but doesn't move from the door. Then, she hears knocking: not from the door, but from the wall at the right. She opens the door, finding the hallway empty, and enters the bedroom at her right. This room is populated with furniture and books, as well as a bed. An OLD MAN sits on it, clutching a walking stick with both hands.] [His head is wrapped in feathery wings that cover his face. Two slits reveal a pair of human eyes.] SCRIBE: Ah! Pray pardon, noble sir! To find a good gentle like you, amidst such voided chambers, I verily did not expect. To invade your hearth I did not intend: for I merely heard a knocking from the chamber beside, and its source I wished to see. OLD MAN: Fear not, fair lady. It was me that knocked on that room: I heard your fearful running, and once I knew from who you were running, I also knew to aid you. Those ruffians are a great disgrace upon us! SCRIBE: I pray pardon once more — but thy manner of speech is so queer! I know not a tongue so kin to mine, yet so strange indeed. Perchance a distant kingdom is from whence thou camest? Misdeem me not, gentle gaffer, for thine is not an unpleasant tongue, but indeed a laetificating one. OLD MAN: [Offended.] I ask for your pardon instead, for my English is perfectly normal, and it is yours that is strange, as is true for every other soul inside this castle. But! May I know the reason for your visit here? SCRIBE: I came but to pursue the aid of an old goodman in a matter of consummate importance for mineself. That is, I wish to master the affinities and wonts of a Lord befit of this castle, so that it may become my hearthstone! [Embarassed.] But oh, indeed only presently do I learn of the navel-gazed scent of mine words. I soothly pledge that I desire not the glory or reign of better men befit, but the right alone to here remain. For the King of this bastion spaketh such: that only Lords may indeed remain in the fortress-island of Folamh Gard. OLD MAN: That is not what I asked. I want to know why you came here to begin with. SCRIBE: Ah… Most abashed I am, for I can recall not from whence I camest. It is as if such a thing dissolveth and disperseth from mine head! [The OLD MAN stands, and gazes to the Sea from a small window. He sighs, then speaks.] OLD MAN: And what name might that old goodman have? SCRIBE: I know not his name, but the kind soul that here instructed me to come spake of Lord's title: the Justiciar is whom I seek… Mayhap, that is naught but you, noble savior? OLD MAN: Ah, that old man is me. I abhor being named a Lord, and even more the title that with my Lordship comes, but a better name I have not. The question that I asked is not what you answered, but I believe I know the answer nevertheless: did you arrive here from a long journey, begging for a place to rest at the gates of Folamh Gard? And did you then, unanswered and uninvited, enter to meet the King and his Charlatan, then the Spider and her oracle, the Future? And did you then forget your journey and name, as do the demented at the gates of Death? SCRIBE: Indeed I allow… What you speak may be troth. How may a thing so humiliating befall me? Mayhap am I not of sound mind, as I indeed believed? For sooth! Even many know their name among the insane. But how dost you know such things? Perchance are you a seer of minds, as the man upon the bow is a seer of fate? [The JUSTICIAR turns, holding his staff high and waving it as he speaks.] JUSTICIAR: No! I simply knew someone much like you before, who came to me for help that I refused — someone who failed to flee, yet failed to earn Lordship, and thus was cast upon the Sea. Ah! He was foolish, even if his fate pains me, and thus his own fate he sealed. But that is what you should do: flee! For the title of Lord in Folamh Gard, and all those vain rites of speaking with the Sea, are but the ramblings of the insane. Ramblings that, far from harmless, enthrall good men to take on fantasies of power and duty. Ah! A good man the Future was, before the delirium took him! We studied the pecularities of this world, the mysteries written in the library's books… So close were we to unlocking the truth behind the Crimson Sun when he turned to his task, and now he rejects our work as delusions of senility. A Lord! A Lord, he calls himself! Do you truly think that the souls here are Lords, like one may call Aphrodite the Lady of Love, or Zeus the Lord of Storms? [He nearly falls over, hunching over his walking stick and breathing heavily amid bouts of coughing.] SCRIBE: Verily I deem so, Lord Justiciar, for the Future and Spider hath shown me so. I have indeed seen both weaving upon the droplets of the Starlit Sea, as each is a World singular among brethren. Dost thou proclaim that mine eyes doth lie, like the bleary-eyed drunk doth lie to his faithful mistress when he is a disloyal swine? JUSTICIAR: Mere puffery! A world of Lords, they think this is, when it stands equal among every other! I know it true, and I hold the memory of my name dear from the stupor that imbibes this wretched fortress. Leave, I tell you! Leave now, before you can no longer. Or do you not see what happened to me? I am ill, lady. I am so ill I can barely walk, and that is because I refuse the Sea's worship, which desires that I play a Lord. I hear the voices of the Starlit Sea calling, each and every little soul asking for my intercession, for the justice that I have no right to give, and it makes me ill, oh so ill… [The JUSTICIAR sits on the bed, trembling and breathing heavily.] SCRIBE: I learn now that thou'rt not the goodman Lord that I misjudged thee for, but a mere senile coot to life clinging through delusion, his most noble task eluding like an enlarged feline. But I cry thou mercy, for I had indeed harkened so, and wiser I needed be to treat you as such. I depart now, Justiciar, for I have not a moment to bummel in the fanciful lands of thy absurd reality. Mayhap some troth may thine words hold — a misadventure indeed that from a demented mind they hail. JUSTICIAR: [Scoffs.] Indeed I am not a Lord, and that I proudly hold. [The SCRIBE begins to leave, slowly opening the door and stepping past. As she does, the JUSTICIAR's face saddens. Suddenly, the JUSTICIAR reaches out with his right hand.] JUSTICIAR: No! Wait! I will aid you. Please stay, if for a moment only. You will learn what you desire. I cannot bear to condemn another to the Sea's depths. SCRIBE: Oh? Didst thou not dis the title of Lord just before? Did I aptly harken to thy claims, or didst not thou indeed call the noble Spider a madwoman? JUSTICIAR: You wanted to learn how to become a Lord, did you not? There is a field of bones across the Starlit Sea, down South, where the Worlds Betwixt are closest to us. By swim you must arrive there, as I did when I tried to flee. Tell the Future what you saw — for the true might of a Lord is not what they can do, but what they can see. But please — answer me one thing. Why do you hold these things so dearly? Why do you defend it with such zest? [The SCRIBE turns to the JUSTICIAR and bows.] SCRIBE: Grammercy, o noble Lord, for allowing sooth! And to your query, I retort: the Lady Spider hath saved me once from the cold Sea, and again she intendeth to, should the vile Charlatan again try when the time to exile me doth come. Such nobility, I cannot but cordially defend, and to the bitter end! JUSTICIAR: [Shakes his head, then sighs.] I see indeed… Please, stay with me for now. I am alone in my illness, but only a brief company I need. ⇓

THE FORTRESS MUST SURVIVE
TITLE:	PART 2: THE STARLIT SEA	DATE:	09/06/2007
FILE:	2KDD6159F3JAE/AAAAA_oslo/umbreit_letters/6	#	6/8
The Scribe leaves the fortress from a door on the side of the Common Room: she is blinded by the brightness of the Crimson Sun at first, not noticing that the Hare is sitting by the shore until she is right beside. When she does, she asks whether the field of bones is indeed in that direction, or if she is somehow confused. The Hare answers that she is right, but that the red mist makes it far too difficult to see in any direction. However, the field of bones is so far that even if the mist was not there it would be far too difficult to see, as it is very far South. Intimidated, the Scribe walks to the shore and dips her feet on the red Sea: it is completely still, only disturbed by the ripples her feet have caused. Watching the horizon, she sighs and begins to walk. When the water reaches her chest, she begins swimming, struggling to keep her head afloat. Faced with shortness of breath, she tries to return, but panics when she realizes that the island isn't visible anywhere. She shouts, but there is no response: she stops swimming in any direction, instead trying to remain afloat. As she is starting to sink, a boat slowly approaches. The Hare, standing upright on its front side, is rowing forward. The Scribe shouts once more and receives no response until the Hare passes right by, crouching and extending the right hand. The Scribe climbs onto the boat and thanks the Hare. She then asks where they are going, or if they are returning to the island, but the Hare only continues rowing: both remain silent thereafter. After a while, they enter the field of bones. Giant pieces rise from the Sea, reaching toward the sky far above the boat. Some are so tall that they get lost in the red mist. They are all unrecognizable, save for a few that resemble ribs. SCRIBE: From the carcass of what beast, what colossal brute doth these towering remains come? Boundless they unfold before mine eyes, as our very hearthstone doth to the tiniest insects! HARE: The King once chronicled the most agonizing end of this titan, in yore when he could walk upright still. The beast, neither noble nor ignoble, he called a Dragon, even so it was not, for no other creature he had witnessed could match its immense measure. Once, from the great Sea it emerged, afore the Fortress rose above the isle, betwixt its clutches an Egg: small as a youngling no older than six. Unto the isle the Dragon crawled, and in its heart the Egg forsook. Then away, and anon it became still: first in deepest slumber, red blood from great injuries still flowing, in cadaverous stillness after. Ere thine arrival, many more bones indeed rose from the Sea, but its billows plunged them. SCRIBE: 'Tis Sea the very same we rise above from? It waves not! The Hare does not answer. The Scribe then notices that the sky is slowly changing colors: purple, then dark blue are beginning to take hold. The Crimson Sun seems to vanish, leaving only a night sky dotted by countless stars. The bones, barely visible through the mist, are now fully seen. They reflect the white starlight and illuminate the Sea around them. In the distance, there are great cliffs extending as far as the eye can see. Calm waves softly shake the boat, and a soft wind makes the Scribe quiver, still drenched in water. She nevertheless comments on the beauty of the Starlit Sea. HARE: It waves not, thou saidst. But doth the Sea not wave before you indeed? SCRIBE: Ah! But afore, it did not…! Perchance, doth the Crimson Sun, vanished now, preclude it so? HARE: Astute indeed, thou seemest. Of clear eyes and canny mind thou'rt still, verily unlike the Lords of Folamh Gard, for they knoweth not of what nigh lies. The authentic Starlit Sea wondrous and vibrant thou'rt seeing, and not the corpse beneath the Crimson Sun. Forgat this sight not, sweet lass. The Scribe reaches for the Sea: the water sinks and rises as if grabbed and held by a hand, a motion that the Scribe soon imitates. She then gasps: SCRIBE: Havest thou sawest this? The Sea mov'd afore I touched it! Hath it foreseen my movement, as doth birds foresee the tempest impending? The Hare does not answer but instead throws the oar in front of the boat, where it remains floating. Ignoring the Scribe's complaints, the Hare steps onto the oar and stays afloat too, barely sinking one half and raising the other. The Hare walks forward, extending both arms to the side as if balancing on the oar, then begins dancing: it is like ballet, but far more free. Each hand periodically reaches to the Sea, raising a single droplet of water to the sky. The Hare does so in such a way that the light of a star shines through the droplet every time this is done, bathing the Scribe in it: she recognizes silhouettes within the light, different for every drop. As the dance continues, the silhouettes grow clearer and brighter, slowly becoming full images. These images become visible not only within the drops that the Hare raises, but also in every drop that is touched by starlight, then those that are not. She is overwhelmed by it: SCRIBE: Light! Light beyond measure! I am blinded, but it is so beautiful indeed! Forests, seas, bastions and things unknown still! What do I see?! Ruins of men not! Rabbit's warrens in water submerging! Fathomless castles of glass and iron, reaching to the sky! What are these things I behold? A man! I spot a man! Amidst the zeniths of ruined towers, against the black abyss! But oh, he is wounded and moribund… And he speaks to me! To that fading voice, hardly can I harken, yet indeed I know, I know! The Scribe scribbles wildly in her book, struggling to see her own handwriting. She soon loses consciousness: she wakes up on the shore of Folamh Gard. She gasps when she opens her eyes, blinded again by the sights of the Sea. Slowly, she grows accustomed to them, and begins to trudge up the rock beach to the Common Room.
~ ~ ~ ~
The door to the Common Room opens, and the Scribe enters: the tables are set for a frugal meal of cooked meat and lettuce. The Charlatan, the Spider, the Smiling Man, and the Hare are sitting around the King, who is at the head of the table. Only the Hare and King are sitting properly: the Charlatan is holding his right hand to his cheek, elbow to the table, while the Smiling Man has his hands behind his head and the Spider sits almost a meter away from the table. There is a full set of plates, silvers and a cup beside an empty chair. The King struggles to stand up and raises a cup of wine: KING: To th' masked visitor, one glass and one plate afore thy departure. Wellaway! Delight in a Lord's aliments, and anon accost fate with full belly and fuller heart. The Scribe bows as the others raise their cups and drink, then sits in the chair left for her. Seeing that everyone else has finished or is close to finishing their meal, she speaks to the King: SCRIBE: O King, may your castle remain ever-resplendent amidst the quiet Starlit Sea. So wondrous indeed hath my visit felt, in something akin dream-glee enswathed, that in mine own heart of hearts I discover'd a deep longing: but the desire to abide as visitor, but to name myself your kin. I'faith vile and selfish would such a desire be, to sup upon the fruits of thy hospitality and nothing provide in return, like mistletoe feasting with no regard for the laws of kinship. Instead, I proffer, that I may my services of sight extend. She nods to the Hare, who does not show any sign of noticing. The Charlatan responds instead of the King: CHARLATAN: And what may such a service of sight be? A gift or craft thine own, I daresay? I warn thee, no use we have for those who misdirect with tricks of vision, or dominion over substances claim. In good sooth, I hope that thy service is fandangle not! SCRIBE: I do know not yet what its nature is… She is briefly interrupted by snickering: it appears to come from the Smiling Man. The Spider sighs, covering her face. SCRIBE: But I do trust that its function thou wilt intuit, for what I will now speak are but figments from the Starlit Sea! She then reads from her book: I saw a man, by fathomless abysm surround'd. He rest'd on the cusp of a spire ruined, which was by many more environed. His skin by Death's touch clenched, his eyes of flame drained, but his mouth and tongue were unsullied still: he did speak, and in moribund whispers even, his voice I did hear. "Scribe, Scribe! To thee I entrust, for none remain to heed mine words. To the abysmal maw I ventur'd, and the Dusk-Seed I beheld blossoming. But ah! Too perilous, too fickle the returning path for one like I… And my kin a buried failure doth envisage me, oblivious to the dark that for them cometh!" "I pray thee, what I discover'd be heard! Anon, anon…" The Charlatan suddenly rises from his seat, both hands on the table. CHARLATAN: Od's me! Dear King, silence this herald of deceit at once! Dost you now embrace the puffery of haruspexes and crystal-readers as soothful wisdom? What malady of the mind hath afflicted our hearth? SPIDER: It is thou whose foul mouth shall silenced be! I know troth when mine ears hear it, and the words of our dear visitor are naught but sights from the Sea arisen. I vouchsafe: every sign indeed insureth so. The Charlatan and Spider continue discussing. The former claims that it is obvious that what the Scribe has written is quickly-written fiction that does not resembl e true prophecy, while the latter assures otherwise. The Hare continues eating and does not intervene. The Smiling Man is as irritated as the Charlatan, but remains silent. KING: No more! Once more mine hand is forced to stop thy ceaseless bellicosity, and before a kind visitor, for sooth! I harken'd both, yet I will choose none: the Future, my fine lad, shalt in my stead decide, for his sharp wit I better trust. Go, Spider! Our visitor's words impart upon him. The Spider hurriedly leaves. The King orders that everyone but the Charlatan leave, and that the Smiling Man escorts the Scribe to the library. Once there, he threatens the Scribe: do avoid that which thou shan't concern thineself with. He takes a throwing knife from his pocket, and grazes her chin with the flat side of its blade before leaving. She waits inside the Library for a long while before the Spider finally arrives and urges her to follow. They return to the bow of the ship, where the Future is waiting with his arms open. He praises the Scribe, apologizing for his earlier dismissal. The Scribe tries to warn them of what she heard from the Charlatan and Smiling Man earlier, but the Future responds, shaking his head: FUTURE: Verily peculiar things doth the Charlatan believe sooth, all strange words of conceit from old books prieth. Many a poor soul hath to deceitful doctrine fallen, the wise and sharp amidst them, and mineself even. But reality is much alike a fair gammer: unvarnish'd and simple, yet beauty gleaming indeed. Fear not, for troth within thy reach is. Patting her back, he takes her to the front of the bow and asks her what she can see and hear. The sights of the Sea blind her again, and she struggles to respond. Slowly, they become more focused and coherent. SCRIBE: I- I only narrowly do parse these visions… A great man in the throes of Death whispering. A handmaiden amidst a brine of sand howling. Wise men, good men, wild men and grave men from life's embrace parteth, and their final words unto me lay. Lone and wounded, one and every, they do fail to good home return. The Spider exclaims: the specificity of the visions surely means that the Starlit Sea calls to the Scribe to fulfill a specific task. The Future nods, and caresses her mask. FUTURE: Now and ever, o noble visitor, entask'd thou art. The Sea demands and thou must harken. Thine only bourne this shall be, as fisherfolk seeketh fish, and mousers seeketh pests. Naught may from this task divert thee, as without wind the ship can not sail, and without horse the carriage can not move. I dub thee the Lady of Last Words, and last words thou shalt seek.

Some Notes…

Those visions in the Starlit Sea. The Scribe's. They have to be Limspace, right? That place she talks about, the abyss with the towers… I think I know that place. Read about it, rather. But the piece I read talked about a distant Moon lighting the place. Is it gone now? If the Sea is Limspace, then the Hare describing it as a "corpse" under the Crimson Sun has to be a bad omen. Now that I think about it… The Scribe doesn't even feel cold until she's at the field of bones. There's no wind anywhere else either. It's as if every other place is in complete stasis. And what does the segment where she reaches to the Sea and it moves on its own mean? Maybe she missed her cue and it moved as it would have if she had arrived on time? The Smiling Man says the same warning the Bound Mass did to the Scribe earlier on as well… Are they the same? And the cliffs… The cliffs! Are they the cliffs of Pyramiden? Is the Hare's boat the boat I saw? I don't know. I'm definitely reading too deep into it. I know for damn certain now that the script won't tell me anything new about Rolf. For all I care, he's dead. But I can't help but wonder if he learned something important as well. There's just… Something familiar about all of this. The Crimson Sun. The names of the characters. I can't put my finger on it. There's so much to learn here, and I was thinking of goddamned global warming allegories. I'm already reading a few pages ahead and there seems to be a large time-jump. I think I'm just letting it get to me. The sky's so damn red now, it scares me a little. I don't know if I should look outside.

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NEXT: THE CRIMSON FEAST
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