Transcriptions of the Aington Pal recordings

The following is a transcription of the recordings found in Aington Pal, the derelict prison north of Silitra Forest. Every effort has been made to faithfully reconstruct the words as recorded. Unfortunately, due to extreme degredation, accuracy cannot be guaranteed. Currently, the Aphist Order is working to restore artefacts like these to their original states.


You can help fund the Aphists' work from as little as 20kgs per month. Included in the price, you'll receive a full membership to the Museo Magnifica and access to all public areas and documents.

While that may seem a steep cost, nothing is more priceless than a good education.

Maccaday, Duotesla 17th, 1142 (Transcribed):

I keep thinking back to that first day. To what the guard had said. What was it again? The creature – he told me not to speak to it. He told me it would show me things about myself that I wouldn't like. I listened. I didn't speak. But it spoke to me without words. It never spoke. Not really – not with its mouth, at least, and yet... it's as if we had spoken every day for that year. I– I can't understand why it stays with me. Its face – those eyes, stuck to the middle of its forehead, watching me. Speaking without–

Incoherent noise

End

Galaday, Duotesla 25th, 1142 (Transcribed):

They refused to let me in today. I'm worried something's happened to it. I don't know why it scares me: the harm that might come to it. It's a dangerous thing. I know that now. The last time we spoke, it asked me to speak in private. Well, it didn't, but I knew that's what it wanted.I know it was a mistake – I knew it then – but I obeyed nonetheless. Is it friendship? No. These things don't have friends. They can't have friends. Incapable. It's not evil. They just don't understand the concept. The guard told me as much the first time I met it. Maybe that's why I feel how I do. I'm projecting my singular human emotions onto this creature. It has eyes, so I perceive its eyes. I perceive its eyes, so I translate its blank expression into emotion, meaning, humanity. It never spoke. It's never spoken. It cannot speak. Its mouth is shut, shut forever as if it never had one.


A voice shouts indistinctly.

I'll be right there. Hang on. If only I could rip open that mouth and hear its words. Of course, that's just speculation. I have no proof that this beast has any words at all, so I shouldn't assume as much. Still, though, I know what they say. I know what they think. But do they really think that? You can't spend more than a moment with the creature – at least I can't – and not see meaning behind the smise and glint that hide behind its uncanny face.

A voice shouts indistinctly.

Yes, yes. I'm coming now.


End

Marsday, Princap 10th, 1144 (Transcribed):

They've told me I can see it again today. I had to beg – not in the way you might beg if you wanted something. In that way one must beg but retain their dignity by making it clear that it's in the other party's interest. All the same, they know I wanted to see it as much as they want me to. I've given no indication of my clear emotional attachment to it, but they know. They must. They must know because, somewhere inside each of them, there is a piece that feels connection with the beast. This is what the guard had warned me of. I remember now. I remembered the other day in the bathroom. The guard had warned me it didn't speak, but that it must have some kind of telekinetic power.


That guard is gone. I never asked where he went – it's been so long, and you only say "Hi-bye" when you deal with people like him. It never goes deeper. But now... Now I wonder. Where did he go? The guard. He told me… No, I'm being silly. It's a boring job. Well, at least, it must be. He left of his own accord. Well... One way or another, he must have left of his own accord.


End

Hariday, Princap 18th, 1146 (Transcribed):

I saw the thing today, holed up in its cell. They took my recorder. If only I was paranoid enough to keep spares, but they're hard to come by, so that's a pipe dream. It seemed sad that I hadn't come to see it. I don't know if it was or not. I can't say for certain. It just stared at me as it always does. I projected my own feelings onto it, as I always do. But there was something about its nostrils, the way they flared in and out, crinkling up the skin between its eyes and lifting the sides of its ever-shut mouth to meet the bones that pushed its cheek flesh out in a– it's disgusting, but familiar. Familiar because I've come to know it. But I remember the first time I saw it. I wanted to be sick. I almost was. I'd never seen a thing so out of line with the natural, logical order.

It had never done that to me before: flared its nostrils. I'd like to think it was anger, but I know it can't feel that. The guards – several of them – have always told me so. It doesn't feel anger. It doesn't feel pain. It has no wants. It has no thoughts. It is a virus, plain and simple. Its only purpose is to infect. It's working, I think. I understand now what they meant, what that guard meant. If I think back to how I thought before and how I think now, I'm aware my opinion has changed. But I'm also aware of how wrong that opinion – the new one – is. It's like it's stuck in my head, and I can't remove it. It's as if my brain is on a road but now knows there's no way back. I can stop. I could stop. But if I stop, I'll never see its conclusion. If I try to go back, I'll never forget where I was or where I could have been, so it will be as good as staying still.

So, logically, according to my understanding – which is all I have– According to Methodism, I must push forward and accept the consequences of that which I could never have foreseen.


End

Marsday, Princap 25th, 1147 (Transcribed):

They've told me that next week will be my last visit. The beast is to be killed. I suppose it's for the best, but I will miss it. I'm approaching its cell now, but something's wrong. It knows. It knows what's going to happen to it. I know they say it can't know, but if it can't know what we think, then surely they have no grounds to believe that they know what it thinks. It knows.


I know it knows because I know it. I know its face – every crease of its contorted face, from the scraggy strands that cover its malformed eyes to the flaring nostrils that pull its lips up from its chin when scared or stressed or mad or sad. I know it.

I'm watching it now through the glass. It's unusually docile. Not that it's ever particularly animated, but, normally, the feet of its hind legs rest on the floor while the feet of its front legs move wildly through the air. I've always thought this was some attempted form of communication. Of course, nonsense. The guards told me as much.

It's not moving. Its hind legs lie supine on the floor while its front legs splay out to touch the walls of its cell. Its head simply lolls from side to side, ignoring me. It knows I'm here. I know it knows.

Banging on glass.


Hello? Hello? Creature? Can you hear me? Friend?

Footsteps. Heavy bang on glass. A shout of fear.

Stop that! Stop it now.

The banging continues.


I'm not here to harm you.

More banging.

I'm your friend. The creature has taken a sudden disliking to me. It bangs its front paws against the glass. If this isn't anger, then I–

End

Sunday, Janus 1st, 1147 (Transcribed):

They said today would be my last. They were right.

End


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