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"The Travels of Another or: Musing On The Nature Of Light" by airbournvirus

alternate reality novel inspired from golden compass and house of leaves

Category: Book: 1st Chapter

Tags: fiction, alternate, adventure, magic, fantasy

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stroy starts with a line anfd page break. any advice is welcome, grammer/spelling included. note that stroy does have it's own launguage/s so if it sounds completly alien... it's not a real word

The following is from the journal entries of the travels of another.

If you are reading this, it is not for you.

…

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

…

Still here?

Perhaps it is.

A word of warning: do not aspire to recreate or find these travels in any but mind.

You will, perhaps, find the mind much more durable then the flesh.

And yet, at the same time, find parts of the mind exponentially more vulnerable.

Introduction-

Or

Musing upon the Nature of Light

Musing on the nature of light, the value of it becomes very clear as even a little time is pent[sic] in thought of life without it, It being light. The insanity, depression and confusion that sets on when there is a lack of illumination for any length of time, makes the very thought of a lamp bringing on the perception of insanity and any kind of trouble almost amusing. But this is in fact, how some stories begin, and it is the case, with this one. Light is the mother’s teat for sanity. Without light, we are but ash, without fire we remain but ash.

The lamp had been a gift from a forgetful previous house owner. Who left it behind when the left this place. Never know what you get even you buy houses form estate sales. Lovely house, anyway, if this lamp had a dating profile, it would describe it self as “unique” and just looking for the right person to love it and find it a home. That person was not I sadly. The thing was beautiful in it’s own odd way, but looked out of place in this decade, this time, couldn’t place any time, or place it would have fit the décor either. The base was solid brass, or assumed as much, not knowing metals well. A boxy structure about 5 feet tall with each side made of four segments dividing up its form. Designs and shapes embossed with designs born of intimate attention to detail. Shade was just as detailed out of stained glass.

Reminds me, should introduce myself. Never remember to do that. Wil, Wil Psul. Don’t ask me how to pronounce the last name or why it is only one l. Anyway, no clue how old this thing was. It mostly just lived in my corner and got coats hung off of it when I rarely had guests over. Thought about selling it a few times, but for some reason never could let go of it. Then perhaps all that trouble would have been someone else’s. Perhaps. Lets start at the beginning again, names Wil. I own a lamp and a house. The lamp, which has four keyholes in its base, is also the base for other things. And my troubles began when I wouldn’t turn on. Not sure why any lamp would need a key to get into it’s base, though they did things strange in the 1800’s or whenever this thing was made I guess. On second thought, never needed t in the first place. What I found when I did turn the keys though. Should mention for amusements sake alone that each side had it’s own key…getting ahead of myself again.

My great grandmother gave the keys to me. Put it off to Alzheimer’s on the account of the weight she put on it. Guess she forgot to give me the lamp at that point as well. (Been in the dark too long, I’ve stopped making sense I’m afraid. Value your sanity my friend. It is a lovely thing, but the good thing- you won’t miss it when it’s gone. Oh no. Not at all. Hah.) Whoever or wherever I procured the keys came from, I also recall them being on the ring in addition to the ones that now open my front door. However, I had them and that is what maters. Being a pack rat can help, specially organized pack rat habits. As I was saying, when I opened the base, what I found inside was papers, yet more piles of papers and a few books. Some of the papers I could read, the books I couldn’t comprehend. Titled unhelpfully as well in some language I couldn’t [yet] read, the papers mostly gibberish, English gibberish mind you, or they were stories or terribly dull scientific sounding words concerning gates and different uses for keys all in rambling non-sequiter manner bordering on the inane at times that was rather hard to follow. Also equally possible I just didn’t understand yet what to make of these words.

At this point I had found the papers and books, the lamp worked once more- and the lamp and its oddity passed out of mind for some time. The books of which there were three that were found at least. Rested upon my shelves and the papers nestled between them. Children are very inquisitive creatures and the story continues by such a mind. My niece Riana was visiting, a cute chilled of some lower single digit in age. It was she who found them [the papers] once more some years later. The question taking me off guard “unka? What does S… ars…yir…da mean?” I later read her the paper in her hand to get her to sleep. The story, which I transcribed later, went as follows:

Sársyirdá, the mother of all dragons is also the mother to all. For the moon was once held in her feet, the stars once her embedded upon wings and her jaws once held the great orb of fire by which the great waters were illuminated. However as eons and ages passed, her path soon became tiresome. In her depression and despair she wavered upon her path. Her need bore her two children. Sárrínswí, her son had scales red as fire holding a temperament at the same time both fierce and proud. His breath burned and his eyes shone bright. The other, Sársralswí, her daughter was pale and her scales shone clear and beautiful. To her son the great mother gifted the orb of fire, and his task was to ferry the orb so as to give light to the waters as his mother had. To her daughter she gifted the moon and stars. She was to carry these as her mother had done. Her duties filled Sársyirdá fell to the waters. Her mighty wings became rent and the lands of the far west are built upon the structure where stars once hung. Her cage of ribs, which held her heart, and the bones of her legs lay past the great river and under the great islands. Her mighty tail and neck fell to the north and northwest and her mind under the lands of the southwest. Her conscience she gave to the stone that became her body, and from the stone emerged 14 short stout creatures with grave expressions upon their brows yet dragon wisdom twinkled in their eyes. Sársyirdá's son, in his fury swept down upon the land scorching it and covering the land in ash sweeping at last for the fourteen, blaming them for his mothers demise, this act angered Sársyirdá and in her fury she created mountains and caverns in the rock for the newborn race to flee too. Her will turned to her son; she forbade him to never approach the lands this close again and cursed him to ever circle the lands from a distance. Sársralswí wept for her brother’s fate. These tears formed the ice in the south and the rain, which poured from the sky of which the trees and foliage grew from the ash. Seeing the beauty she and her children had created the great mother saw she was no longer needed and split the rest of her presence to create the four elementals: Sárrín, Sársral, Sárfyul and Sárdan.

The story rekindled my interest in the papers and books once more. The books in the odd text were set aside [for now] and I quit my job to transcribe the bits I could comprehend. The story of Franko and King Bubble Drop I found especially amusing. Based upon the description of the insanity ward I’d guess mid 1800’s inspired. You will here his tales later. Delightful fellow. The panda is a bit strange though. The papers relied upon something I lacked however. They alluded to compounds and materials, which had names I couldn’t place. The answer as it returned out to often be found was in the dark. The lamp stopped working again. I began to suspect sentience. Not malevolent, but in the least, petty and easily annoyed. (I had been cursing at it earlier) the keyhole was reveled after the lamp once more behaved. Within it’s metal frame another compartment lay, holding many jars. Now in addition to the papers, books I couldn’t read- there were eight jars. What troubled me further is the just that I was to drink either a mixture of them, or only one f them. I hadn’t gotten as far as too figure out that just yet. Having just read about the fate of Sárwar in terms of getting things wrong. Time escaped me at this point. The full force of this fact came in the form of Riana’s wedding invitation. The darkness became clear and the cobwebs appeared, the dust, mess. Everywhere. Somehow I had been feeding myself with no source of income. I tried to dial my friends, and received naught but dial tone. My girlfriend of the time- married. The wedding, which shall divulge no time into due to it’s typical ness and lack of interesting details (for me at least) was attended by estranged family and distant mutual friends. Though it was to be expected. Since I had appeared to have not left my house in the last something-teen years.

Where had I been getting my food? Had I even slept? Any attempts to communicate with others during this brief outing only gathered looks of annoyance or pity or more often a combination of those with a touch of confusion. My own speech drifting in and out of Príl (I had come to understand the books) it was at this point he began to teach me to play flute from my doorstep. Arriving every night sometimes less often. Though young in appearance, his eyes were ageless. And it was these eyes, which gave me the answer I needed. This was not my world any longer. Just as it, this reality was not his, all the time. Right, wrong. I must escape this … reality. Tonight I put my research to the good will of the great mother though I am not her child. I have the blessing of deaths prophet and have spoken to the minds of the timeless. My time has come. The zombie lawn gnomes wait.

This all sounds like babble- but to those who have seen the fog of the gates it is just life you see. The man who plays flute is ageless, his music is to amuse death, and as long as we travel in each other’s company- the truth remains safe as long as he/ she/ it/ they remains distracted.

Farwell my friends and family- may it be years before you have to smile at death

Wil Psul

Finishing reading the journal entry was difficult to do, for the dark haired young man hunched over the dust covered table for a pletohora of reasons but most of all because the writer of this insane ranting was the mans father. Kneading his fingertips across his temples Dan wondered how his father managed to stay out insane asylums all those years prior to his disappearance. Shame flickering likes a moth to light and dieing as quickly as his thought process also extended to how this deluded stark raving mad man was able to be successful in seducing his mother. On this subject Dan had learned not to ask. Since all he ever got were glares if in person, or an icy good bye if over the phone and needing to wait a month before she would accept his phone calls or visits again. The texts and his fathers “research” had been moved to his home at his prompting opposed to destroying them or paying for storage. His mother had found the musty old journals, papers and books to only draw her further and further into a state of severe and utter depression. The gloom was forcing Dan to squint a bit.


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1. stroy starts with a line anfd page break. any advice is welcome, grammer/spelling included. note that stroy does have it's own launguage/s so if it sounds completly alien... it's not a real word

2. The following is from the journal entries of the travels of another.

3. If you are reading this, it is not for you.

4. …

5.  

6.  

7.  

8.  

9.  

10.  

11.  

12.  

13.  

14.  

15.  

16.  

17.  

18.  

19.  

20. …

21. Still here?

22. Perhaps it is.

23. A word of warning: do not aspire to recreate or find these travels in any but mind.

24. You will, perhaps, find the mind much more durable then the flesh.

25. And yet, at the same time, find parts of the mind exponentially more vulnerable.

26. Introduction-

27. Or

28. Musing upon the Nature of Light

29. Musing on the nature of light, the value of it becomes very clear as even a little time is pent[sic] in thought of life without it, It being light. The insanity, depression and confusion that sets on when there is a lack of illumination for any length of time, makes the very thought of a lamp bringing on the perception of insanity and any kind of trouble almost amusing. But this is in fact, how some stories begin, and it is the case, with this one. Light is the mother’s teat for sanity. Without light, we are but ash, without fire we remain but ash.

30. The lamp had been a gift from a forgetful previous house owner. Who left it behind when the left this place. Never know what you get even you buy houses form estate sales. Lovely house, anyway, if this lamp had a dating profile, it would describe it self as “unique” and just looking for the right person to love it and find it a home. That person was not I sadly. The thing was beautiful in it’s own odd way, but looked out of place in this decade, this time, couldn’t place any time, or place it would have fit the décor either. The base was solid brass, or assumed as much, not knowing metals well. A boxy structure about 5 feet tall with each side made of four segments dividing up its form. Designs and shapes embossed with designs born of intimate attention to detail. Shade was just as detailed out of stained glass.

31. Reminds me, should introduce myself. Never remember to do that. Wil, Wil Psul. Don’t ask me how to pronounce the last name or why it is only one l. Anyway, no clue how old this thing was. It mostly just lived in my corner and got coats hung off of it when I rarely had guests over. Thought about selling it a few times, but for some reason never could let go of it. Then perhaps all that trouble would have been someone else’s. Perhaps. Lets start at the beginning again, names Wil. I own a lamp and a house. The lamp, which has four keyholes in its base, is also the base for other things. And my troubles began when I wouldn’t turn on. Not sure why any lamp would need a key to get into it’s base, though they did things strange in the 1800’s or whenever this thing was made I guess. On second thought, never needed t in the first place. What I found when I did turn the keys though. Should mention for amusements sake alone that each side had it’s own key…getting ahead of myself again.

32. My great grandmother gave the keys to me. Put it off to Alzheimer’s on the account of the weight she put on it. Guess she forgot to give me the lamp at that point as well. (Been in the dark too long, I’ve stopped making sense I’m afraid. Value your sanity my friend. It is a lovely thing, but the good thing- you won’t miss it when it’s gone. Oh no. Not at all. Hah.) Whoever or wherever I procured the keys came from, I also recall them being on the ring in addition to the ones that now open my front door. However, I had them and that is what maters. Being a pack rat can help, specially organized pack rat habits. As I was saying, when I opened the base, what I found inside was papers, yet more piles of papers and a few books. Some of the papers I could read, the books I couldn’t comprehend. Titled unhelpfully as well in some language I couldn’t [yet] read, the papers mostly gibberish, English gibberish mind you, or they were stories or terribly dull scientific sounding words concerning gates and different uses for keys all in rambling non-sequiter manner bordering on the inane at times that was rather hard to follow. Also equally possible I just didn’t understand yet what to make of these words.

33. At this point I had found the papers and books, the lamp worked once more- and the lamp and its oddity passed out of mind for some time. The books of which there were three that were found at least. Rested upon my shelves and the papers nestled between them. Children are very inquisitive creatures and the story continues by such a mind. My niece Riana was visiting, a cute chilled of some lower single digit in age. It was she who found them [the papers] once more some years later. The question taking me off guard “unka? What does S… ars…yir…da mean?” I later read her the paper in her hand to get her to sleep. The story, which I transcribed later, went as follows:

34. Sársyirdá, the mother of all dragons is also the mother to all. For the moon was once held in her feet, the stars once her embedded upon wings and her jaws once held the great orb of fire by which the great waters were illuminated. However as eons and ages passed, her path soon became tiresome. In her depression and despair she wavered upon her path. Her need bore her two children. Sárrínswí, her son had scales red as fire holding a temperament at the same time both fierce and proud. His breath burned and his eyes shone bright. The other, Sársralswí, her daughter was pale and her scales shone clear and beautiful. To her son the great mother gifted the orb of fire, and his task was to ferry the orb so as to give light to the waters as his mother had. To her daughter she gifted the moon and stars. She was to carry these as her mother had done. Her duties filled Sársyirdá fell to the waters. Her mighty wings became rent and the lands of the far west are built upon the structure where stars once hung. Her cage of ribs, which held her heart, and the bones of her legs lay past the great river and under the great islands. Her mighty tail and neck fell to the north and northwest and her mind under the lands of the southwest. Her conscience she gave to the stone that became her body, and from the stone emerged 14 short stout creatures with grave expressions upon their brows yet dragon wisdom twinkled in their eyes. Sársyirdá's son, in his fury swept down upon the land scorching it and covering the land in ash sweeping at last for the fourteen, blaming them for his mothers demise, this act angered Sársyirdá and in her fury she created mountains and caverns in the rock for the newborn race to flee too. Her will turned to her son; she forbade him to never approach the lands this close again and cursed him to ever circle the lands from a distance. Sársralswí wept for her brother’s fate. These tears formed the ice in the south and the rain, which poured from the sky of which the trees and foliage grew from the ash. Seeing the beauty she and her children had created the great mother saw she was no longer needed and split the rest of her presence to create the four elementals: Sárrín, Sársral, Sárfyul and Sárdan.

35. The story rekindled my interest in the papers and books once more. The books in the odd text were set aside [for now] and I quit my job to transcribe the bits I could comprehend. The story of Franko and King Bubble Drop I found especially amusing. Based upon the description of the insanity ward I’d guess mid 1800’s inspired. You will here his tales later. Delightful fellow. The panda is a bit strange though. The papers relied upon something I lacked however. They alluded to compounds and materials, which had names I couldn’t place. The answer as it returned out to often be found was in the dark. The lamp stopped working again. I began to suspect sentience. Not malevolent, but in the least, petty and easily annoyed. (I had been cursing at it earlier) the keyhole was reveled after the lamp once more behaved. Within it’s metal frame another compartment lay, holding many jars. Now in addition to the papers, books I couldn’t read- there were eight jars. What troubled me further is the just that I was to drink either a mixture of them, or only one f them. I hadn’t gotten as far as too figure out that just yet. Having just read about the fate of Sárwar in terms of getting things wrong. Time escaped me at this point. The full force of this fact came in the form of Riana’s wedding invitation. The darkness became clear and the cobwebs appeared, the dust, mess. Everywhere. Somehow I had been feeding myself with no source of income. I tried to dial my friends, and received naught but dial tone. My girlfriend of the time- married. The wedding, which shall divulge no time into due to it’s typical ness and lack of interesting details (for me at least) was attended by estranged family and distant mutual friends. Though it was to be expected. Since I had appeared to have not left my house in the last something-teen years.

36. Where had I been getting my food? Had I even slept? Any attempts to communicate with others during this brief outing only gathered looks of annoyance or pity or more often a combination of those with a touch of confusion. My own speech drifting in and out of Príl (I had come to understand the books) it was at this point he began to teach me to play flute from my doorstep. Arriving every night sometimes less often. Though young in appearance, his eyes were ageless. And it was these eyes, which gave me the answer I needed. This was not my world any longer. Just as it, this reality was not his, all the time. Right, wrong. I must escape this … reality. Tonight I put my research to the good will of the great mother though I am not her child. I have the blessing of deaths prophet and have spoken to the minds of the timeless. My time has come. The zombie lawn gnomes wait.

37. This all sounds like babble- but to those who have seen the fog of the gates it is just life you see. The man who plays flute is ageless, his music is to amuse death, and as long as we travel in each other’s company- the truth remains safe as long as he/ she/ it/ they remains distracted.

38. Farwell my friends and family- may it be years before you have to smile at death

39. Wil Psul

40. Finishing reading the journal entry was difficult to do, for the dark haired young man hunched over the dust covered table for a pletohora of reasons but most of all because the writer of this insane ranting was the mans father. Kneading his fingertips across his temples Dan wondered how his father managed to stay out insane asylums all those years prior to his disappearance. Shame flickering likes a moth to light and dieing as quickly as his thought process also extended to how this deluded stark raving mad man was able to be successful in seducing his mother. On this subject Dan had learned not to ask. Since all he ever got were glares if in person, or an icy good bye if over the phone and needing to wait a month before she would accept his phone calls or visits again. The texts and his fathers “research” had been moved to his home at his prompting opposed to destroying them or paying for storage. His mother had found the musty old journals, papers and books to only draw her further and further into a state of severe and utter depression. The gloom was forcing Dan to squint a bit.

41.

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