IC INBOX: THE STORYTELLER

The Storyteller's temple on the central island of Ensō is, unsurprisingly, where your local deity can most often be found. Those seeking to strike up a conversation or pursue the Storyteller for answers are not guaranteed an immediate answer, but they can certainly try. If one waits for long enough after posing a question, their expectation for a response from the deity in question may very well prompt them to happen along...eventually.

If you're looking to request an item, this is not the place to do it. Our Item Requests page is where you ought to pose those inquiries!

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[ They think about it. The Storyteller can surely understand them, even without words, can hear them without their fumbling attempts to speak and communicate.

Their purpose was already determined from the moment they were born. Their nature does not allow them to forget it. As a wanderer, they had little purpose but to do what they could for those that could not. Learn how to master their strength with an old weapon that threatened to break.

They had felt a sadness for their sibling who loved and was not loved in return, for those knights and faithful vassals that were still loyal to a king that did not deserve them. Mourned without voice for a seer who believed that she did not deserve to be remembered.

They have been dream-wielder, hunter's heir, disciple and ghost. All gifts, all names or titles bestowed upon them by others.

The Knight never thinks much about their own wants, or their own individual desires. They simply do, and are defined by action, not much by desire. Whether they really want to do something factors little into it, most of the time; defending themselves in a hostile world does not require choice, only reflex.

They have been defined over and over by others, or stepped up to accept a responsibility that once belonged to another. Mark yourself as King. Usurp the Vessel. You could contain that thing inside. The Seals must break.

This pledge of loyalty, however, is something they are choosing for themselves.

This -- is a choice that they understand the implications of. Something that they truly want to give, if the Storyteller will accept them.

They do not lack for purpose. But they want this one.
]

[For several beats, the conversation sinks into silence.]

[The Storyteller is not omniscient, as they have reminded their patrons many times before. They know stories. The stories they have been given. The stories that they have kept. They do not intrinsically know the thoughts that tangle in a mind, until they are unwoven in pen and ink, in word and mouth.]

[But often, the Storyteller knows, there is not so much of a difference between thoughts that have been penned and thoughts that are still in their tangles. When you have come to perceive enough of one, then a certain amount of understanding for the other will follow. It is not omniscience that brings them to understand the child's intent, but their story.]

[Sometimes, it is not enough.]

The curtain of feathers across the Storyteller's back rise, and they stand on their hooves, their tail snaking backwards. As it slinks in front of the little knight like a long, thick snake, it deposits an aged tome in front of them, weathered and bound in gray.]

[The Storyteller looks down with wet, black eyes. It is an empty look -- but not unkind.]

You know very little of my story, young bug.

What does a child of the void choose to fill themselves with? Will an unknown purpose fill that hollow?

[ That empty look - and those questions - bring them a certain comfort. They look at the tome before them for a moment, reflecting on what to say, how to communicate in a way that will be understood - though they do nod. To show they're listening, to acknowledge that they are lacking information.

It is, in some ways, just like a normal conversation. So they relax, a little.

They think that they shouldn't scratch their words permanently into the temple's floor. But they have found, through their rambling throughout Enso, small rocks that serve as an acceptable substitute for chalk.

They reach under their cloak and pull out one such specimen. It might not last under their writing, but that's fine, they have more.

What do they choose to fill themselves with...? They have already found it. What story should they tell to convey the message?

They think for a long moment, and then begin to draw on the floor. A sigil, this time, encompassing a single story.

This one is something they have not told the Storyteller yet. It bears similarities to the offering they made when asking for a charm; but this time, they are returning to the place of their birth, not escaping from it.

A wanderer without memory of their past descends into a dark kingdom and accepts the truth - and burden - of what they had forgotten. Their creation, their purpose, their death and rebirth. In doing so, they become whole, and stronger than they were before - even if such knowledge brings them pain.

They finish the sigil by stepping carefully out of its center, etching a symbol they cannot forget. Something that is part of them, inescapably. They wear it with pride.

(They take out another rock. Do they have a little bag of them under the cloak? It's likely.)

do not ask to fill emptiness

They pause. How to put this in an understandable way?

storyteller gives much

helps much

is kind

want to give something back

can give duty . service .

all i have Like Quirrel to a teacher sacrificed, Hornet bent to her duty as a protector.

do not know what it means exactly to serve a god

but want to learn

'Want' is the key word - something they desire, rather than something they just...do, without regard for their own feelings. But they put aside their writing for now, meticulously cleaning their hands of rock dust.

They look up at the Storyteller questioningly, searching for understanding, before they look down again to gently open the book before them. It does look very aged. They should be careful with it. ]

[Their respect for the tome is appreciated. But, perhaps, redundant -- for as they open the book, page after page will be nothing but empty, wordless canvas.]

[It, too, is empty.]

In asking for this, you must understand, little one:

I was never a god meant to be served.

[There's a note of regret in their voice; something that grows heavier as it echoes on the stone walls. Then, their voice becomes gentle -- like a story-teller, weaving a tale to lull a child to sleep.]

I am meant to receive your tale. I exist to guide you to its conclusion. And yet -- I understand that this, too, is a part of your story. One that you have chosen to write me into. And thus, while I am not a god to be served, I am a god who can serve you in turn by accepting.

[Their feathers flutter.]

I will ask once more. Is this truly what you wish to write upon this page?

[ They listen carefully, taking in the words, noting that change in tone. It is not a choice to be made lightly, they know; they do not want the Storyteller to think they are making a hasty decision, to think that they - do not understand.

To serve another is to bind yourselves to them (and, perhaps, to bind them in turn). They know that very well, have seen it in those around them.

So they remain still, for a long moment.

I am meant to receive your tale. I exist to guide you to its conclusion.

Well. They, too, existed for a purpose - a vessel to be filled. Even if they did not fulfill it in the way that was wanted or expected of them. Such knowledge only tightens their resolve.

They rustle in their cloak for the quill they've had with them since they arrived, placing it on the blank pages of the book, and look up at the Storyteller. No reason to use it, finding other methods of communication, until now.

A single nod, nothing more.

They've given it due thought. They wish to go through with it. ]

Very well.

[The Storyteller dips their head. A ripple of sunlight scores through their white feathers, seeming to flash and then fade, as though a solar flare had been swallowed by a flurry of dark clouds. In the newly dim light of the temple, the page beneath the child's quill begins to glow with a faint, circular outline.]

Then you must turn it, and begin the next.

[If they indeed do so -- on the next page lies a slim disc of stone, slightly rounded on the bottom, etched with a peculiar sigil.]

[ They notice the glow and turn the page as instructed, gazing down at the sigil. They tilt their head at the mismatch between the outside and the inside, wondering what it means. Those violent strokes that almost seem like scars...

But...perhaps it's just a difference in language. It's certainly something they don't know how to read, in any case. They leave that mystery aside for now.

"Begin the next." Are they supposed to draw a sigil of their own? To link them together?

It makes sense to them, at least.

The quill's movements are careful and precise, adding symbols where they feel it's appropriate; the three pronged crown that represents the light of a god. Their own symbol, and a sword underneath - not pointed up or down to indicate taking up arms, but laid in service. They are careful, though, to imitate the sigil underneath where it makes sense. To make the Storyteller's image accurate (otherwise, it will be remembering things incorrectly).

And at last, they are done. ]

[The Storyteller allows them to draw in silence. When it is finished, they sit once more, feathers draping down their sides, pooling on the floor around them like a great cape. Their black, marble-like eyes blink once in slow acceptance of what has been done.]

[The disc lying upon the page ceases to glow, as if solidifying itself; its lines carved into the stone. There is no further shift in the light, nor does the atmosphere seem to change. Nothing else seems to happen at all.]

[Perhaps that is the result of serving a god that is not meant to be served: that there is very little result.]

[The Storyteller scrapes a hoof across the dusty temple floor. Then they dip their head forward, touching an antler to each of the child's horns, and the third one to the top of their head.]

Arise, young knight, and take your seal. Carry it with you always. May this crest -- this charm -- begin your story anew, by your hand.

[ They - are not sure what they expect, to be honest. But they are a little...relieved, by the lack of fanfare. It feels - better, for a bond made in quiet trust.

(Is this what faith is? They are uncertain, but they do feel...different, in a strange, abstract way they can't quite pinpoint.)

They remain still to receive the Storyteller's words, that point of contact. (Of the two, it's the touch that they fix in their memory more.) They pick up the new charm with a careful reverence, tucking it away beneath their cloak for now. Later, they'll find a way to display it properly.

They retrieve their sword and sheathe it, before raising their hands to sign, in precise but slightly clumsy movements: ]

THANK-YOU

WILL-REMEMBER

[ Then they stand, and bow to the god that has accepted them into their service, and begin to walk away, leaving the temple.

Is their head held a little higher, their back a little straighter, perhaps? It's hard to tell; they are quite small. But they are proud to accept the duty, unknown and inscrutable though it might be. ]

[The Storyteller dips their head once more, this time mirroring the bow, and move in conjunction to stand. As the knighted child leaves, their tiny footsteps fading down the corridor, the Storyteller watches after them until they can sense the presence no longer.]

[Finally, their gaze drops to the tome. A copy of the sigil lies imprinted on the page, scratched in bright and dark lines, blinking like a solar shine.]

[For several seconds. Then, the sigil fades. The page blankens and becomes naked once more. The Storyteller's tail winds around the tome, pulling it shut and drawing it to their side. ]

I am certain of it.

[And then, they are gone.]

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