Starfall Heights had its own distinct flair in terms of architectural style, but the inspiration was clear. Streets were mostly comprised of one to two-story buildings, which had narrow facades adorned with intricate carvings and decorative wrought-iron railings.
Each building boasted unique brass fittings and mechanical adornments, from brass door knockers shaped like gears to tiny chimneys—some of which were actually emitting gentle puffs of steam. Surprisingly or unsurprisingly, the farther they went into the district, the more people they saw.
There was even a little market where people were bartering food and fuel. It wasn't as glorious as bazaars from before the Duskfall, but it was nice to see, nonetheless. People were slowly warming up to this new reality, finding their own positions in this restructured and trimmed-down clockwork that was society.
Most factories they passed by were abandoned, and so were most of the offices. So Vern didn't hold any hopes of the Relay station being in a better condition than this.
Adjusting the band of his mask, he inquired, "Does the mask match my outfit?" It was his attempt clearing the air. To repel some of the awkwardness that had crept up between them throughout the walk.
Some gave them funny looks because of their outfit. But hey, masquerade masks always look good no matter the situation. These ones specially, with their long and elegant curves that covered their lower faces to some extent as well.
They had talked very little because of the increased number of people that were passing by, and it was obvious she was actively avoiding any conversations regarding Observation in front of ordinary citizens.
And Vern could only agree with that attitude. Another bout of panic in the masses wouldn't be any good. They already had their plate full, trying to settle down without their families and acquaintances. They didn't deserve more complications than necessary.
This reminded him, Heh, those bystanders back at the bridge must be thinking we got real lucky with all the weapons backfiring at the last moment—
"Ahh, I think the gems on it match with your vest. But here, in these surroundings, it's almost an act of rebellion," she said, interrupting his thoughts as they marched up the incline, "Though, if your eyes were glowing in the same hue, it would pull the whole look together."
Well, that seemed like it worked in getting her to talk.
"No, Miss Cera. It is very important that one doesn't reveal that they are different from others in the society. The idea is to avoid drawing undue notice to oneself. I could see commoners calling me occultist for the matter, and it only goes downhill from there."
But instead of replying to his masterful assertion, she asked something he hadn't expected, "Vern, do you always address people with the prefix of Miss and Mister? Is that a thing among Fundamentalists?"
Huh? What?
"Uhh, not really? I—I just…didn't want to commit a Faux Pas by misaddressing a noble. I am still just a lowly commoner, after all. A fundamentalist or not."
But the moment he said that, she stopped in her tracks and brought her ungloved hand to her lips which was untouched by the mask as she chuckled. A chuckle that soon turned into laughter—her giggles sonorous like tinkling bells. The gloom that had surrounded her, and broke her down in tears was nowhere to be seen.
Amidst her fit of laughter, she looked at him with her crescent eyes that peeked through the elegant mask—upturned like a moon. She might be right that her eyes would look dazzling if they shined through the mask.
"A noble? Who? Where?" she said holding her hand flat over her eyes as she theatrically scanned the surroundings.
Vern's mind was sent reeling as his assumptions came crashing. This situation almost made him want to open his notebook and go through all the events to see where he had gone wrong. A habit of the past. One he had managed to keep in check in the recent years.
But. But that doesn't make sense. She has connections with Helena Von Arden and has always been dressed like an aristocrat. Last time, she was even in some fancy mourning dress.
But it was okay. It really looked like he had gone wrong somewhere. No matter. He wasn't some fumbling teenage anymore. Not giving in to his past introverted tendencies, he managed to eke out a few words, "Are…you not?"
"Hahhahah. What gave you the idea? I can't even manage a curtsy properly. If I was a noble, I'd be disowned the day I was born."
"I think it was your graceful mannerisms and the dignified way you present yourself that confused me. It's hard not to see something noble in that."
"Hah, I wouldn't believe that if Ephram himself came down. But please be assured. I am no noble."
However, before Vern could conjure something witty to mask his embarrassment, she resumed her strides and changed the topic, "Anyways. Now that we don't have to be wary of people around us, would you like to know more about Observation?"
His flustered self quickly shifted gears when he heard her last words. Furrowing his brows, he asked, "Miss Cera, didn't we agree that you would give me the rest of the information later on?" He wasn't keen on looking a gift horse in the mouth, but he didn't want his earlier actions to come off as transactional in nature. He was just trying to soothe a fellow human being without expecting anything out of it.
"Cera. Just Cera. Not a noble, right?"
Damn. It's already stuck in my mind.
He shook his head and responded, "Alright. Cera. Are you sure about this? I am perfectly fine waiting until you have enlightened yourself before you divulge anything else. Please don't consider my previous actions to be something I performed in hopes of coercing you into giving me more information."
Her head swayed side-to-side and her lips maintained a subtle smile as she responded, "No, it's nothing like that, Vern. Please don't worry about it. I just agree with what you said earlier. The more you understand Observation, the easier it will be for me inside the station."
He sighed in relief. That was great.
"You can already render firearms impotent without having shaded your perception. Who knows what else you can do once you have a better understanding of things? I guess my earlier question of who would win if pitched against a firearm has already been answered."
He wanted to be modest, but then, she had seen it already. So he swung his arm in an elegant gesture towards his chest and bowed briefly, "Then I thank you for your generosity. I would love to hear whatever you're willing to share with me."
She nodded her head and looked at the ground, probably organizing her thoughts—getting ready to bombard him with some complex information.
In the meantime, Vern observed his surroundings, not keen on repeating his earlier mistake—getting lost in a conversation, only to find himself knee-deep into trouble.
It was indeed as Cera had mentioned. There were barely any people going up or down the hillside route. A few houses lined the right side of the road, but as was the usual nowadays, most looked unoccupied. With spaced out houses and somewhat dense vegetation, this area would have been the perfect hideout for gangs just a few days ago. Now they probably had castles to themselves.
Scrutinizing every nook and cranny of his surroundings, he finally noticed something odd, and snapped his head backward, twisting his torso a little.
.
.
.
But there was nothing.
He was sure that some of the shadows that were projected on a building next to him had shifted. The greatest source of light here was the odd street lamps that were still working. It was probably every fourth lamp or something.
A marvel of intelligent city planning and genius Fundamentalists. These lamps were different than others that preceded them. They used solar condensed fuel, which gets turned into steam when the sun is out and is stored in a chamber. At night it's funneled into the outer section where it's ignited, illuminating the streets before condensing into its volatile form once again.
Uhh, someone help me! I can’t keep my thoughts straight. Banishing his meandering recollection, he focused on the matter at hand. There were only a few burning lamps behind him. So the shadow must have been generated because of something between the lamps and himself.
But then again, he was being too paranoid. For all the possibilities, it could very well be one of the cats that ran about the streets even after the Duskfall. They might've ended up in the path for a second.
Anyway, even if it was something dangerous, they had to be quite some distance away according to the size of the shadow. As long as he interpreted them in his perception before they could do something untoward to him, he should be fine.
Rifles weren't much of a concern since the sun had set already. In such low light, if someone was skilled enough to shoot him down, he saw no point in hiding. He would rather not skulk around like a wraith because of figments of his imagination.
So he instead looked to his left at the gorgeous city beneath him. The sun had already sneaked away, and it was hard to make out the details. But the winding pathways were growing minuscule by the second, resembling a labyrinth with shadows obscuring many of the twists and turns.
The hint of the moon that had shown up in the purple sky alongside that disturbing rift was throwing their light down from the heavens which reflected off the river to his north. The water shimmered like another starry sky, bisected only by that metallic bridge that connected it to some other small district.
It was the very definition of—
His musings were interrupted yet again as Cera finally started. "Okay. So let me first ask you something else. Do you know about the whispers from beyond?"
Vern put the desolate beauty of his surroundings to the back of his mind and focused.
He weighed his words and finally ended up deciding not to mention Ascendant Council and the madman that attributed his discovery to the whispers. She didn't need to be involved with that dangerous place. "I have experienced them myself, but no. I don't really understand their nature."
She nodded, the mask adding an air of allure to her every gesture, "Mhm. So the very first thing is to not envision changes into reality recklessly. That is why we have Observation Records. The recorded Visions are chains of thought that are considered to be safe and viable. Hundreds have succumbed to whispers trying out ideas that didn't conform with reality."
This was peculiar. It did line up with his failed attempt to mess with gravity back in the library after he'd woken up. But this puzzled him. His first voyage in the sea of Observation was nothing like that. He had envisioned almost whatever came to his mind.
So he asked to confirm one of his previous conjectures, "Is that to say we can't use our Viewpoints freely? That we have to follow these said paths, or we'll be putting ourselves in danger?"
"I would say you're mostly right, but remember that these Observation Records started somewhere. Someone must have gone through a completely novel thought process to create these Visions, which was further developed by later inheritors."
That was a fair point. That was to say, there was some logic over what worked and what didn't. That meant more experimentation was in order—
"But Vern, please heed my warning. Do not envision changes rashly. The warnings I received left no room for doubt that these whispers are no joke. I haven't experienced them myself, but based on how you were acting back in the library, you barely managed to survive. You were mumbling incoherently. And—and it was scary."
"Vern, you weren't yourself. Madam Helena stressed this more than anything else and made it indisputably clear. Those who succumb to the whispers don't end up pretty, and there's no coming back."
Maybe more experimentation wasn't the brightest idea.
He dispelled any and all foolhardy notions, soaking her words with a more serious stance. That madman in the council was a clear example of how whispers could affect one's mind. He had no plans of giving up his greatest asset—his brain, for some Vision that might not be useful.
She continued, "Secondly, Vern, there's another thing you've got to understand. Sometimes, it's better to know little than more. There are things out there, things that aren't meant to be dug into too deeply. I know it sounds onerous and pretentious, but that's exactly what the warnings say, word for word."
"I see," he said with a pensive look in his eyes.
That was another adage he would have done well to know yesterday. This whole conversation just seemed to highlight everything he had done wrong in the past few days. But he still nodded, unpacking her words.
"There are more things to keep in mind, but most of them are derivatives of these two. So, maybe I can instead tell you a little more about other things."
However, before she could start the topic, Vern waved her to stop.
The station was already in sight, just a couple lamps ahead. But that's not why he interrupted such an important conversation. Someone was standing in front of the station, hidden in the shadows, loudly tapping what seemed to be a cane.
When Vern looked over, the figure turned about, and a raspy voice resounded in his ears.
"Turn back, wanderers. Turn back. These grounds aren't meant for nightly escapades."
Starfall Heights had its own distinct flair in terms of architectural style, but the inspiration was clear. Streets were mostly comprised of one to two-story buildings, which had narrow facades adorned with intricate carvings and decorative wrought-iron railings.
Each building boasted unique brass fittings and mechanical adornments, from brass door knockers shaped like gears to tiny chimneys—some of which were actually emitting gentle puffs of steam. Surprisingly or unsurprisingly, the farther they went into the district, the more people they saw.
There was even a little market where people were bartering food and fuel. It wasn't as glorious as bazaars from before the Duskfall, but it was nice to see, nonetheless. People were slowly warming up to this new reality, finding their own positions in this restructured and trimmed-down clockwork that was society.
Most factories they passed by were abandoned, and so were most of the offices. So Vern didn't hold any hopes of the Relay station being in a better condition than this.
Adjusting the band of his mask, he inquired, "Does the mask match my outfit?" It was his attempt clearing the air. To repel some of the awkwardness that had crept up between them throughout the walk.
Some gave them funny looks because of their outfit. But hey, masquerade masks always look good no matter the situation. These ones specially, with their long and elegant curves that covered their lower faces to some extent as well.
They had talked very little because of the increased number of people that were passing by, and it was obvious she was actively avoiding any conversations regarding Observation in front of ordinary citizens.
And Vern could only agree with that attitude. Another bout of panic in the masses wouldn't be any good. They already had their plate full, trying to settle down without their families and acquaintances. They didn't deserve more complications than necessary.
This reminded him, Heh, those bystanders back at the bridge must be thinking we got real lucky with all the weapons backfiring at the last moment—
"Ahh, I think the gems on it match with your vest. But here, in these surroundings, it's almost an act of rebellion," she said, interrupting his thoughts as they marched up the incline, "Though, if your eyes were glowing in the same hue, it would pull the whole look together."
Well, that seemed like it worked in getting her to talk.
"No, Miss Cera. It is very important that one doesn't reveal that they are different from others in the society. The idea is to avoid drawing undue notice to oneself. I could see commoners calling me occultist for the matter, and it only goes downhill from there."
But instead of replying to his masterful assertion, she asked something he hadn't expected, "Vern, do you always address people with the prefix of Miss and Mister? Is that a thing among Fundamentalists?"
Huh? What?
"Uhh, not really? I—I just…didn't want to commit a Faux Pas by misaddressing a noble. I am still just a lowly commoner, after all. A fundamentalist or not."
But the moment he said that, she stopped in her tracks and brought her ungloved hand to her lips which was untouched by the mask as she chuckled. A chuckle that soon turned into laughter—her giggles sonorous like tinkling bells. The gloom that had surrounded her, and broke her down in tears was nowhere to be seen.
Amidst her fit of laughter, she looked at him with her crescent eyes that peeked through the elegant mask—upturned like a moon. She might be right that her eyes would look dazzling if they shined through the mask.
"A noble? Who? Where?" she said holding her hand flat over her eyes as she theatrically scanned the surroundings.
Vern's mind was sent reeling as his assumptions came crashing. This situation almost made him want to open his notebook and go through all the events to see where he had gone wrong. A habit of the past. One he had managed to keep in check in the recent years.
But. But that doesn't make sense. She has connections with Helena Von Arden and has always been dressed like an aristocrat. Last time, she was even in some fancy mourning dress.
But it was okay. It really looked like he had gone wrong somewhere. No matter. He wasn't some fumbling teenage anymore. Not giving in to his past introverted tendencies, he managed to eke out a few words, "Are…you not?"
"Hahhahah. What gave you the idea? I can't even manage a curtsy properly. If I was a noble, I'd be disowned the day I was born."
"I think it was your graceful mannerisms and the dignified way you present yourself that confused me. It's hard not to see something noble in that."
"Hah, I wouldn't believe that if Ephram himself came down. But please be assured. I am no noble."
However, before Vern could conjure something witty to mask his embarrassment, she resumed her strides and changed the topic, "Anyways. Now that we don't have to be wary of people around us, would you like to know more about Observation?"
His flustered self quickly shifted gears when he heard her last words. Furrowing his brows, he asked, "Miss Cera, didn't we agree that you would give me the rest of the information later on?" He wasn't keen on looking a gift horse in the mouth, but he didn't want his earlier actions to come off as transactional in nature. He was just trying to soothe a fellow human being without expecting anything out of it.
"Cera. Just Cera. Not a noble, right?"
Damn. It's already stuck in my mind.
He shook his head and responded, "Alright. Cera. Are you sure about this? I am perfectly fine waiting until you have enlightened yourself before you divulge anything else. Please don't consider my previous actions to be something I performed in hopes of coercing you into giving me more information."
Her head swayed side-to-side and her lips maintained a subtle smile as she responded, "No, it's nothing like that, Vern. Please don't worry about it. I just agree with what you said earlier. The more you understand Observation, the easier it will be for me inside the station."
He sighed in relief. That was great.
"You can already render firearms impotent without having shaded your perception. Who knows what else you can do once you have a better understanding of things? I guess my earlier question of who would win if pitched against a firearm has already been answered."
He wanted to be modest, but then, she had seen it already. So he swung his arm in an elegant gesture towards his chest and bowed briefly, "Then I thank you for your generosity. I would love to hear whatever you're willing to share with me."
She nodded her head and looked at the ground, probably organizing her thoughts—getting ready to bombard him with some complex information.
In the meantime, Vern observed his surroundings, not keen on repeating his earlier mistake—getting lost in a conversation, only to find himself knee-deep into trouble.
It was indeed as Cera had mentioned. There were barely any people going up or down the hillside route. A few houses lined the right side of the road, but as was the usual nowadays, most looked unoccupied. With spaced out houses and somewhat dense vegetation, this area would have been the perfect hideout for gangs just a few days ago. Now they probably had castles to themselves.
Scrutinizing every nook and cranny of his surroundings, he finally noticed something odd, and snapped his head backward, twisting his torso a little.
.
.
.
But there was nothing.
He was sure that some of the shadows that were projected on a building next to him had shifted. The greatest source of light here was the odd street lamps that were still working. It was probably every fourth lamp or something.
A marvel of intelligent city planning and genius Fundamentalists. These lamps were different than others that preceded them. They used solar condensed fuel, which gets turned into steam when the sun is out and is stored in a chamber. At night it's funneled into the outer section where it's ignited, illuminating the streets before condensing into its volatile form once again.
Uhh, someone help me! I can’t keep my thoughts straight. Banishing his meandering recollection, he focused on the matter at hand. There were only a few burning lamps behind him. So the shadow must have been generated because of something between the lamps and himself.
But then again, he was being too paranoid. For all the possibilities, it could very well be one of the cats that ran about the streets even after the Duskfall. They might've ended up in the path for a second.
Anyway, even if it was something dangerous, they had to be quite some distance away according to the size of the shadow. As long as he interpreted them in his perception before they could do something untoward to him, he should be fine.
Rifles weren't much of a concern since the sun had set already. In such low light, if someone was skilled enough to shoot him down, he saw no point in hiding. He would rather not skulk around like a wraith because of figments of his imagination.
So he instead looked to his left at the gorgeous city beneath him. The sun had already sneaked away, and it was hard to make out the details. But the winding pathways were growing minuscule by the second, resembling a labyrinth with shadows obscuring many of the twists and turns.
The hint of the moon that had shown up in the purple sky alongside that disturbing rift was throwing their light down from the heavens which reflected off the river to his north. The water shimmered like another starry sky, bisected only by that metallic bridge that connected it to some other small district.
It was the very definition of—
His musings were interrupted yet again as Cera finally started. "Okay. So let me first ask you something else. Do you know about the whispers from beyond?"
Vern put the desolate beauty of his surroundings to the back of his mind and focused.
He weighed his words and finally ended up deciding not to mention Ascendant Council and the madman that attributed his discovery to the whispers. She didn't need to be involved with that dangerous place. "I have experienced them myself, but no. I don't really understand their nature."
She nodded, the mask adding an air of allure to her every gesture, "Mhm. So the very first thing is to not envision changes into reality recklessly. That is why we have Observation Records. The recorded Visions are chains of thought that are considered to be safe and viable. Hundreds have succumbed to whispers trying out ideas that didn't conform with reality."
This was peculiar. It did line up with his failed attempt to mess with gravity back in the library after he'd woken up. But this puzzled him. His first voyage in the sea of Observation was nothing like that. He had envisioned almost whatever came to his mind.
So he asked to confirm one of his previous conjectures, "Is that to say we can't use our Viewpoints freely? That we have to follow these said paths, or we'll be putting ourselves in danger?"
"I would say you're mostly right, but remember that these Observation Records started somewhere. Someone must have gone through a completely novel thought process to create these Visions, which was further developed by later inheritors."
That was a fair point. That was to say, there was some logic over what worked and what didn't. That meant more experimentation was in order—
"But Vern, please heed my warning. Do not envision changes rashly. The warnings I received left no room for doubt that these whispers are no joke. I haven't experienced them myself, but based on how you were acting back in the library, you barely managed to survive. You were mumbling incoherently. And—and it was scary."
"Vern, you weren't yourself. Madam Helena stressed this more than anything else and made it indisputably clear. Those who succumb to the whispers don't end up pretty, and there's no coming back."
Maybe more experimentation wasn't the brightest idea.
He dispelled any and all foolhardy notions, soaking her words with a more serious stance. That madman in the council was a clear example of how whispers could affect one's mind. He had no plans of giving up his greatest asset—his brain, for some Vision that might not be useful.
She continued, "Secondly, Vern, there's another thing you've got to understand. Sometimes, it's better to know little than more. There are things out there, things that aren't meant to be dug into too deeply. I know it sounds onerous and pretentious, but that's exactly what the warnings say, word for word."
"I see," he said with a pensive look in his eyes.
That was another adage he would have done well to know yesterday. This whole conversation just seemed to highlight everything he had done wrong in the past few days. But he still nodded, unpacking her words.
"There are more things to keep in mind, but most of them are derivatives of these two. So, maybe I can instead tell you a little more about other things."
However, before she could start the topic, Vern waved her to stop.
The station was already in sight, just a couple lamps ahead. But that's not why he interrupted such an important conversation. Someone was standing in front of the station, hidden in the shadows, loudly tapping what seemed to be a cane.
When Vern looked over, the figure turned about, and a raspy voice resounded in his ears.
"Turn back, wanderers. Turn back. These grounds aren't meant for nightly escapades."
