Link to article: Black Queen Hub 3.
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[[div class="K"]] [[=]] [[collapsible show="Gaze into the mirror?" hide="A possible future, reflected September 20th, 2011" ]] [[<]] [[div class="blockquote"]] The letter finds you in the [[[https://wanderers-library.wikidot.com/of-the-archives|Archives of the Wanderer's Library]]], tucked within The Grimoire of Charles Samuel Addams, Professional Warlock. The letter's pages are burned and ripped to slivers, yet somehow cling together. Ruined paper is a rarity in the Library, and curiosity overcomes your better judgment. A simple spell cannot hurt. A whisper, a snap, and the memory of your first grape—the sweet pop of the juice and flesh, the sweetness that followed. The ashes surrender two words: 'Alison Chao.' Your name. You consult Harliss Cabernatch, a tuphramancer privy to (some of) your secrets. Under her hands, the ashes murmur words once on paper. Harliss interprets the ash-language: a greeting, references to multiple letter versions, a hope that one will reach someone. The ashes mutter names: //Alison. Alix. Alisander. Queen. Vizier. Knave of Clubs. L.S..// A soft, sibilant //S//, drawn out into silence. Armed with rituals, you retreat to the Lavagon, an abandoned laboratory from a previous universe, another lost place in the Archives. The lab-creators' skeletons still sit in their brass chairs, faces turned away—yet they watch you still. You light green candles under the ashes, then draw your fingers through the trail of smoke—grasp the edges and //pull,// opening the smoke to a soft static. Within the smoke lens, a bald man wearing a tuxedo and a woman in a long gown, both uncharacteristically smiling. //Charles Gears. Leanne Zhu Chao.// A warning whispers from the flicking flame: //He has not lost his ability to feel. But this only makes him more dangerous.// And: //She is coming for you. She is coming for us all.// Your mother? Someone else? > Stop. A Docent, drawn by the scent of burning paper. It knows you are conducting a ritual, and burning no books, but there are instincts which they cannot overcome. You freeze, staring into the smoke window, as the Docent's long neck twists its gaze around you. It will not leave for some time. Visions flow through the ashy mirror. Black towers jutting from the twisting curve of a starry abyss. An endless labyrinth of laboratories etched through pale white void. Jewel-bright castles and stone prisons stretching across an empty, devastated Earth. A glass and clockwork octahedron orbited by planets. //The Black Castle at the End of Time. The House of Gears. The Empress Foundation. The Final Psalm.// Instructions bubble in thought in strange colors. //##blue|Beneath the bust of Sir Bruce Robert Cotton.## ##green|Take a Library card that lets you breathe liquid.## ##red|Beware The Black Dog.##// The smoke-images die out. But the Docent—yes, it's still there—extends long, slender fingers—down, down, down. Down over the blackened letter. It traces a finger through the air, and ink appears, floating on nothing. While it's too dark to read easily, you hold it up to the candle, and the words are cast on the nearby wall, just like a gobo. > ...the Cap of Neglect. (//Here and there, words are smeared away.//) Sew, knit, crochet. //(…)// The Cap instinctively erases identity, even an identity as resilient as ours. Acknowledge its personhood, or lose yours... > > //(…)// few of us found the Library. Vanishingly few became magicians. Fewer still //(…)// Now, it's different. Almost every day, //(…)// the multiverse, a critical mass of Alison Chaos did a critical mass of services to the Library, //(…)// decided to start encouraging us along. //(…)// maybe the Library knows something we don’t. The Docent leans back up. It turns, quietly gliding away with a sound like wet, sticky grocery store cart wheels. The door hisses closed. And it's gone. The rest of the letter is gone, too, leaving only the barely visible ghost of the page, visible through a borrowed agate scrying lens. You could try to have it woven into something readable, but you're out of favor with The Graeae since the incident with a package of Lee Press-On Nails. Alls the pity. You resume reading The Grimoire. At the bottom of a page discussing the use of animated body parts (hands in particular), the instructions vanish into rough, smudged text— > ░▒▓▓▓▒░ investigating a multiversal threat. A cosmic event has crushed ░▒▓▓▓▒░ If you’re reading this, you may be ░▒▓▓▓▒░ inconsistency or repetition ░▒▓▓▓▒░ powerful, well-connected, and murderous ░▒▓▓▓▒░ fractures in reality, surfacing where the universe has been stressed by supernatural or paracausal ░▒▓▓▓▒░ easiest to find by watching Librarians ░▒▓▓▓▒░ sewing air with a needle and thread, ░▒▓▓▓▒░ Witch Child, Sigurrós ░▒▓▓▓▒░ some realities, she dies in ░▒▓▓▓▒░ hope she still lives in yours, or ░▒▓▓▓▒░ Project [[[Resurrection]]], a ░▒▓▓▓▒░ with worse implications ░▒▓▓▓▒░ ##white|rumors, whispers, of something knocking at the edges of reality, something nameless, something not a god. A wolf at the door.## More words play over the page—but now you feel intrusions in your mind. The phrases leak away, leaving only impressions of important instructions and urgent warnings. Then you're again reading about how to teach sign language to a miniaturized flesh golem. As you close the book, you notice an inscription written on the inside of the front cover. The letter's signature. The same name as yours. > Your Little Sister, > > Alison Chao [[/div]] [[/<]] [[/collapsible]] [[/=]] [[/div]] [[div class="L"]] [[=]] [[collapsible show="Gaze into the pool?" hide="A possible future, gleamed September 20th, 2011" ]] [[<]] [[div class="blockquote"]] The letter finds you in the [[[https://wanderers-library.wikidot.com/of-the-archives|Archives of the Wanderer's Library]]], tucked within The Lost Song of Robert Dylan. The letter's pages are burned and ripped to slivers, yet somehow cling together. Ruined paper is a rarity in the Library, and curiosity overcomes your better judgment. A simple spell cannot hurt. A whisper, a snap, and the memory of your first apple—the tart bite of the juices flowing over your tongue like joyous acid. The ashes surrender two words: 'Alison Chao.' Your name. You consult Harliss Cabernatch, a tuphramancer privy to (some of) your secrets. Under his hands, the ashes murmur words once on paper. Harliss interprets the ash-language: a greeting, references to multiple letter versions, a hope that one will reach someone. The ashes mutter names: //Alison. Alix. Alisander. Queen. Vizier. Knave of Hearts. L.S..// A soft, sibilant //S//, drawn out into silence. Armed with rituals, you retreat to The Hard Luck Cat Cafe, the quiet little diner serving tuna, mice, and cream—all day, every day, from one Big Bang to the next. A few cats coil their tails around your legs in greeting. Only cats are allowed inside, but they recognize a kindred spirit. You light blue candles under the ashes, then draw your fingers through the trail of smoke—grasp the edges and //pull,// opening the smoke to a soft static. Within the smoke lens, a bald man wearing a tuxedo and a woman in white, both uncharacteristically smiling. //Charles Geirs. Leanne Zhu Chao.// A warning appears in a halo above them: //He has not lost his ability to feel. But this only makes him more dangerous.// And: //She is coming for you. She is coming for us all.// Your mother? Someone else? > STOP. A Docent, drawn by the scent of burning paper. It knows you are conducting a ritual, and burning no books, but there are instincts which they cannot overcome. You freeze, staring into the smoke window, as the Docent's long neck twists its gaze around you. It will not leave for some time, though some of the cats gaze at it reproachfully. Visions flow through the ashy portal. Black edifices of cyclopian buildings, rising around you like teeth, stars twinkling between. Twisting, bleach-white rooms full of scientific equipment. Sparkling, tiny catacombs carved from gemstone by ants in feathery dust. An impossibly huge mesh of clockwork, echoing with each tick through an endless sky--touched only by a series of tiny moons. //The Black Castle at the End of Time. The House of Gears. The Empress Foundation. The Final Psalm.// Instructions bubble in thought in strange colors. //##00ffff|Beneath the bust of Ser Bobby Cotton.## ##e6e600|Take a Library card that lets you walk on fire.## ##e63900|Beware The Black Dog.##// The smoke-images die out. But the Docent—yes, it's still there—extends long, slender fingers—down, down, down. Down over the blackened letter. It traces a finger through the air, and ink appears, floating on nothing. You lift the page, the ink moving with it, and hold the print against the fur of a painfully white cat. The words become visible. > ...the Cap of Neglect. (//Here and there, words are smeared away.//) Communicate, like Grandma taught you. //(…)// The Cap instinctively erases identity, even an identity as resilient as ours. Acknowledge its personhood, or lose yours... > > //(…)// Not so long ago, very few of us found the Library. Vanishingly few became //(…)// across the multiverse, a critical mass of Alison Chaos did a critical mass of services to the Library, such that the Greater Library itself—whatever that is—decided to start encouraging us along. //(…)// maybe the Library knows something we don’t. The Docent leans back up. It turns, quietly gliding away with a sound like wet, sticky grocery store cart wheels. The door slowly closes. And it's gone. The rest of the letter is gone, too, leaving only the barely visible ghost of the page, which one of the cats is swatting at. You could try to get it translated into stone, but you've been kicked out of Cobblehewer's masonry since that incident with a shipment of rotten pumice. Alls the pity. You resume reading The Lost Song. In the middle of a verse about a woman with three legs (a euphemism?), the lyrics suddenly change— > ▓░▒▓▒░▓ investigating a multiversal threat. A cosmic event has crushed together uncountable timelines, making everyone into a patchwork quilt ▓░▒▓▒░▓ If you’re reading this, you ▓░▒▓▒░▓ conflicting lives, carrying equal emotional legitimacy. Both—somehow—verifiable ▓░▒▓▒░▓ easiest to find by watching Librarians ▓░▒▓▒░▓ sewing air with a needle and thread, ▓░▒▓▒░▓ Stefánsdóttir. You likely helped her save Earth from destruction. In some realities, she ▓░▒▓▒░▓ Project [[[Resurrection]]], a series of ▓░▒▓▒░▓ ##white|rumors, whispers, of something knocking at the edges of reality, something nameless, something not a god. A wolf at the door.## More words play over the page—but now you feel intrusions in your mind. The phrases leak away, leaving only impressions of important instructions and urgent warnings. Then you're again humming a tune about a woman's huge, middle leg. As you close the book, you notice a title on the Table of Contents, another song unwritten, but also not included in the book itself. The letter's signature. The same name as yours. > Your Little Sister, > > Alison Chao [[/div]] [[/<]] [[/collapsible]] [[/=]] [[/div]] [[div class="M"]] [[=]] [[collapsible show="Gaze into the lens?" hide="A possible future, spied September 20th, 2011" ]] [[<]] [[div class="blockquote"]] The letter finds you in the [[[https://wanderers-library.wikidot.com/of-the-archives|Archives of the Wanderer's Library]]], tucked within The Apochryphon According to Thomas. The letter's pages are burned and ripped to slivers, yet somehow cling together. Ruined paper is a rarity in the Library, and curiosity overcomes your better judgment. A simple spell cannot hurt. A whisper, a snap, and the memory of your first orange—the smell of citrus popping in the air like you'd just ripped the rind. The ashes surrender two words: 'Alison Chao.' Your name. You consult Harliss Cabernatch, a tuphramancer privy to (some of) your secrets. Under their hands, the ashes murmur words once on paper. Harliss interprets the ash-language: a greeting, references to multiple letter versions, a hope that one will reach someone. The ashes mutter names: //Alison. Alix. Alisander. Queen. Vizier. Knave of Coins. L.S..// A soft, sibilant //S//, drawn out into silence. Armed with rituals, you retreat to the Satanic Ossuary, where they store the bones of anti-popes and hell's saints from forgotten—but very much successful—apocalypses. No one else comes here, for fear a saint might rise again. You light purple candles under the ashes, then draw your fingers through the trail of smoke—grasp the edges and //pull,// opening the smoke to a soft static. Within the smoke lens, a bald man wearing a white tuxedo and a woman, both uncharacteristically smiling. //Charles Gears. LeAnne Zhu Chao.// A warning forms from the smoke: //He has not lost his ability to feel. But this only makes him more dangerous.// And: //She is coming for you. She is coming for us all.// Your mother? Someone else? > **Stop**. A Docent, drawn by the scent of burning paper. It knows you are conducting a ritual, and burning no books, but there are instincts which they cannot overcome. You freeze, staring into the smoke window, as the Docent's long neck twists its gaze around you. It will not leave for some time. Visions flow through the ashy sphere. Black stone, cobbled together and worked smooth by time, arranged into curious towers, nestled in stars. Research laboratories and testing rooms, stacked atop each other from the top of the universe to the bottom. Painfully bright, carnival glass towers and prison-castles, rising from a metal-strewn desert into a yellow-gold sky. A spinning clock of a solar system, each day, week, month, and year carefully dictated. //The Black Castle at the End of Time. The House of Gears. The Empress Foundation. The Final Psalm.// Instructions bubble in thought in strange colors. //##002e4d|Beneath the bust of Sir Robert Bruce Cotton.## ##008000|Take a Library card that lets you swim through air.## ##660000|Beware The Black Dog.##// The smoke-images die out. But the Docent—yes, it's still there—extends long, slender fingers—down, down, down. Down over the blackened letter. It traces a finger through the air, and ink appears, floating on nothing. You pull up your sleeve and use your pale forearm as a background, even though the ink is hot and stings like alcohol on a papercut. > ...the Cap of Neglect. (//Here and there, words are smeared away.//) If you haven’t met yet, you’ll want to reach out soon. Make friends //(…)// The Cap instinctively erases identity, even an identity as resilient as ours. Acknowledge its personhood, or lose yours... > > //(…)// very few of us found the Library. //(…)// Now, it's different. Almost every day, another Alison steps over the threshold and //(…)// across the multiverse, a critical mass of Alison Chaos did a critical mass of services to the Library, such that the Greater Library itself—whatever that is—decided //(…)// To what end? I can't know. //(…)// maybe the Library knows something we don’t. The Docent leans back up. It turns, quietly gliding away with a sound like wet, sticky grocery store cart wheels. There's an audible creak from hell scorched hinges. And it's gone. The rest of the letter is gone, too, leaving only the ghost of the page, which fails to respond to any necromancy you can muster. You could have it resurrected, but you've been forbidden from asking Jesus for more favors since that incident at Easter Dinner last year. Alls the pity. You resume reading The Apochryphon. In the middle of a hoary treatise on secret rites of ancient Christian blood magic (compelling, genuinely), the verses go from Latin to English, half smudged out— > ▓▒░░░▒▓ investigating a multiversal threat. A cosmic event has crushed ▓▒░░░▒▓ If you’re reading this, ▓▒░░░▒▓ inconsistency or repetition ▓▒░░░▒▓ alone and vulnerable and scared, and ▓▒░░░▒▓ Visible fractures in reality, surfacing where the universe has been stressed by ▓▒░░░▒▓ easiest to find by watching Librarians ▓▒░░░▒▓ sewing air with a needle and thread, make polite conversation. Praise their stitching. Find ▓▒░░░▒▓ Witch Child, ▓▒░░░▒▓ dies in the process. I hope ▓▒░░░▒▓ Project [[[Resurrection]]], ▓▒░░░▒▓ of increasingly awful ideas ▓▒░░░▒▓ ##white|rumors, whispers, of something knocking at the edges of reality, something nameless, something not a god. A wolf at the door.## More words play over the page—but now you feel intrusions in your mind. The phrases leak away, leaving only impressions of important instructions and urgent warnings. Then you're again reading about how much saint's blood is required to raise a sinner from the dead long enough to allow for confession. As you close the book, you notice, beneath the epigram, a barely visible indentation. Paper and lead raise it for you. The letter's signature, in the same name as yours. > Your Little Sister, > > Alison Chao [[/div]] [[/<]] [[/collapsible]] [[/=]] [[/div]]