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Paint by Adventures​


Within the tapestry of every civilization, be it that of a backwater village or sprawling, cosmopolitan mecca, there lies a hidden tale woven in only black and white. The elusive people these threads belong to are called different names in different tongues, but before all the known languages of the world, when thoughts were still seeking kinship in sound, they knew themselves as Lingi.

Lingi is not so much a species or ethnicity as it is a way of being. It is the state of in between, of looking both forward and back. Neither here nor there, yet ever present.

Some devote their entire lives to uncovering the Lingi’s secrets, only to find themselves lost to the annals of insanity and conspiracies. Others dismiss them as fairytales unworthy of even a child’s imagination. Distracting at best, many elders staunchly insist. A waste of time that is bound to lead even the most promising of minds astray.

And yet, the Lingi leave enough crumbs to suggest they are not made entirely of fairy dust and dreams. Their involvement with mortal affairs may be rare, but the tides of auspiciousness always seem to follow in their wake. They are the heralds of momentous change, be it for good or for worse.

Many Festivals of Light have come and gone, but this time, something is different. Perhaps the symbolism of dark and light this year has proven to be extra potent, drawing the Lingi out of hiding. Or, maybe the traditions of honoring memories while anticipating the future, inspiring people all across the lands to suspend themselves in that fleeting, tenuous limbo within transition, have finally piqued their interest. Whatever the reason, they now choose to make their presence known to a select few.

One might consider it fortuitous to be chosen. But if you are, what tidings will Lingi mischief bring?

Only one way to find out.

As you celebrate the brightness of hope against a dreary backdrop of winter, you must embrace the dichotomy of before and after, between which all life remains temporarily frozen as it awaits transformation…suspended, floating, drifting…dreaming…from a dream within a dream…


…you find yourself staring at a scroll hanging from a wall. How this came to be is a wisp of memory in your mind that only grows foggier by the second. Perhaps you were admiring the decor in someone’s home. Or, recalling something you once saw long ago. Whatever the case, you feel the need to linger.

It is a simple landscape painting of black ink on white paper. The brush strokes are careful, minimal. Drier ink swiped to and fro across parchment brings forth the majesty of a jagged mountain. A gentle flick forms each end of a fishing boat. Swaths of diluted ink fade into negative space to suggest distance, mist, and atmosphere, while greyish stippling mimics water.

The more you stare, the more details seem to reveal themselves, and the closer you are drawn to the painting. You lean and lean. Something compels you to take a step forward and…

…white washes away your surroundings, until the only thing you can see is the bottom of a painted mountain. When you crane your head to look up, rough brush strokes of rock rise towards the heavens and, high above it, the soaring emptiness of mist.

To your left is the barest suggestion of a path up and around the mountain. It curves dramatically, cutting off your view of what might be lying in wait just around the corner.

To your right, a humble fisherman’s boat. It’s made up of quick, decisive swaths of black ink, and it bobs like any boat might in water. Inside is one oar and a seemingly dry, sturdy bench.

Which will you choose?


How it works: Make your choice, flesh out your characters actions/reactions, and include at least one piece of introspection per post. It could be a reflection on what is happening currently, reminiscing about the past, or some combination of your choosing. The idea is that your characters will explore these paintings like the Chinese Literati of old, except unlike their dynastic counterparts, your characters will have the benefit of magical visuals and divine intervention. There will be meaning, symbolism, allegories, and any other artistic device you can think of. The story they tell, however, will be up to you.

You’re welcome to embellish to your heart’s content, so long as your character stays within the painting until the end. Where ever you leave off, the Lingi will create more mischief.

This will be a journey both fantastical and internal. The more you travel inside of the painting, the deeper your character looks within themselves, and perhaps by the end, you will both come face to face with the very essence of who you are.
 
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View attachment 905"You are sure you need nothing else, my priestess?" ​

"No, Buru, it is quiet alright," Kiriko replies. Slipping embroidered slippers from her feet. Careful in placing them near to the raised wooden platform her bed mat rests upon. "I simply wish to be left to meditations, and rest,"

A bow from her attendant. "Understood, my priestess, please, if anything-" ​

"Yes, thank you Buru, as always, your faithful diligence is most appreciated," a bow of the head, let down with the finality of a knife come chop down a sea bass' head.

Buru bowed deeper still. Shut the sliding door of ornate wooden slats. His silhoutte moved away behind the glow of the silk screens.
​
Kiriko let out a sigh. And pulled her legs up to her chest as the oil lamp burned its golden orange glow. Rest her temple against her knees. Wild hair, like raven down, spilled over one side of her neck, a cascade of ink. The faint smell of jasmine flower and lemongrass on her nose. Face still caked with the paint of her station. The pale ash of a priestess' duty. Eyes streaked with the red stain of the blood she carried.

That's when she saw it. The painting across the way of her humble room.

She sits, no long upon the wooden platform that raised her above the floor. But upon the steady rock of fisherman's shallow hulled craft. Its wood, a swirl of black ink beneath her, and the pale color of finest paper there in its heft.

"What is this," she wonders aloud. Eyes ever wide, and ever seeing. She glances up, and sees that wide brim of a reed hat. A figure, with a black ink bird there upon their shoulder. She blinks but once. "Hello..." she ventures. Amidst the world of ink and paper.
 
It was Aembi's turn to be defiled, and she couldn't do it. Wasn't even the first time. Last month she heard footsteps in the hallway before the shrinework was done. The one before that, the weather had been ugly. Couldn't even remember what stayed her hand the one before that. Because she'd been here before. She'd failed here before. Easy as it was to desecrate shrines of lethargic Uden or the ohsoclever Ichizu... she could never do it to the Toad. And how did you even subvert one who gave willingly when all you did was take? Scriptures could be altered and inks spilled. Walls effaced and indigos stained...but...

Surely she could take more elsewhere. Another of the divine, one who hadn't provided fish midwinter. And perhaps that was the trap of Aembi, but she found herself caught all the same. Her faith wasn't yet strong enough to forget who she'd been. Future was just another thing to devour, but there were some things past and gone that she'd never dine on. And she knew she'd do it if the Lord asked. Because every sacrifice would be made. Whatever it took to loosen the chains and let it fully slip into material – because the Hungers had limited lifespans, and she would not see her favorite one reduced to a personsized reminder that no one was there. Not any more.

Her crisscrossed fingers shuffled in thought. Honzui was due an offering and the next suitable shrine was too far. But how do you respect both that which gave and that which took? And then she had it. Of course!

Hand reached out to the nearest thing. A scroll hanging wallside hummed with what she almost heard as warning. But almost wasn't a thing you could consume. Wasn't good enough.

So she stared at it. An offering devoid of color. And the more she looked, more the emptiness showed her. An old style of ink and lack, but the more you blinked, the more you saw. Didn't look so much as a moment captured as it did one remembered. Greywash suggesting things that weren't present seconds ago. Reminded her of the peabroth she sometimes watched being prepared and how the little green guys floated up as they got ready for supper. She really should've been better at cooking after this many years, but at least she was a great eater.

They snuck up on her between blinks. Sky and water just offwhite enough not to be the same thing, mist minding the gap. Trees that clung up the sheer sides like spiders that forgot themselves. So she blinked into mountains. Into the boat. And before she knew it, she blinked the shrineroom away. One moment, she was Kuuga thingtaker, shrinebreaker, and the next she was eaten.

„Uuuh...“ All those words she was good at failed her. It was normally she who took. But what did you do when you got taken in turn?

The mountain rose dangerously close, and when she looked back, Kuuga could no longer see the scene end. Was this a consequence of her failure? She always knew she was allowed to be weak. But she could never be certain if she was allowed to be wrong.

The ground beneath felt solid even when her feet gave to liquid and she slumped to a kneel. Soil stained the robe even as they both remained colorless. She could see the path winding up the stone, edging out of reach, out of sight. The boat was familiar and it swayed like the waves of her home. She'd been a fishgirl once, but that was no longer her path. And yet, hers was the Lord that dwelt in shallow waters and deep wounds...

Whether she was meant to help them ascend the mists or tide over both depths known and otherwise... it wasn't a choice she could make easily. If this was all a test, she did not yearn to know the look of another failure.

So her fingers grabbed at the many symbols at her throat. Praying for guidance. It was an old fishprayer, because that's where comfort was, even if the meaning was no longer the same.

„Lord, please, let me catch a fish I can talk about for the rest of my life without lying“​
 
To your left is the barest suggestion of a path up and around the mountain. It curves dramatically, cutting off your view of what might be lying in wait just around the corner.


Juusha Khuam let out a long-toothed yawn as she ambled up the mountain path.

The walk back to the Iron clan was always such a hike. Somewhere in the middle, when the sun was highest and her waterskin empty, her mind began to dull. She told herself she could stop and rest after she reached a certain spot, always pushing the target a few steps down the path whenever she got close.

Just a bit further, to the next bend in the road, and then she could take off her pack and pull out a strip of dried meat to chew on. When the bend turned and the rocks opened up to a dip in the mountain valley, she saw a proud red pine with a perfect sitting rock perched beneath its roots. Surely she could make it just a bit further, to the next-next bend, so that she could rest under the spotted shade of the tree.

She blinked away the speckles of light that still clung to her vision after that weird white flash from earlier. The raakgui were playing with her again -- changing the landscape and trying to steer her off the path. The prospect off mischevious mountain spirits did not worry Juusha. She would keep picking her way through the mist. Even if her senses deceived her, with these rough-hew strokes of black around everything and the flat smell of parchment clinging inside her nose...

Even so, her feet still knew the way back home.
 
“You’re not supposed to be here.”

The words lingered in the air as Momoshiro stared at the black-and-white scroll now hanging ominously on the wall. Just moments ago, the surface had been bare. His cherry-red eyes narrowed as he studied the inked figures and sharp calligraphy, his large white tail swaying slowly behind him in idle motion. He had been in the middle of an exorcism; the work unfinished. The spirit he’d been dealing with still lingered nearby—he could feel it, faint but present, like a weight just beyond his awareness.

He clicked his tongue softly and stepped closer despite himself, curiosity nudging past caution. A slender hand lifted toward the scroll, fingers hovering inches away before he stopped. Only then did he realize he’d been holding his breath. He exhaled, drew his hand back, and ran his fingers through his chalk-white hair, deliberately scritching at his fox ears before settling both hands on his hips.

“This is most assuredly a trap,” he muttered, addressing no one in particular—though perhaps the unseen spirit was still listening.

He lingered there for another moment, weighing his options. Then he huffed, shrugged one shoulder, and reached out to touch the parchment.


The world shifted in a single breath.

When his senses caught up, Momo found himself standing somewhere entirely different—yet eerily familiar. The surroundings mirrored the image on the scroll so precisely that it felt as though the world itself had been painted into existence. Thick strokes of black ink formed trees and hills, while untouched spaces gleamed like egg-white parchment beneath his feet. He turned slowly, taking it all in, then let out a low whistle.

“Well,” he mused, “if this is a trap, it’s certainly an elaborate one.”

At least, he reasoned, if he was going to be ambushed, he could appreciate the scenery.

To his left, a narrow path stretched forward, its edges bleeding softly into nothingness. To his right waited a small boat, bobbing gently in a pool of dark, glassy ink. Momo raised a brow, a grin tugging at his lips as one fang peeked free.

Whatever this was, he’d already decided to enjoy it.

With an easy confidence, he stepped into the boat and pushed off from the shore using the inky oar resting inside. The black water rippled as he dipped it in, and with a steady pull, he urged the vessel forward—eyes bright with curiosity as he let it carry him toward whatever awaited beyond the painted horizon.
 
View attachment 909

A black shadow dances just past your peripheral, almost indistinguishable from the scenery. As it darts by, it giggles and whispers something so faint you may as well have imagined it. But something happens when it does. A fracture forms, web thin, and though you cannot readily perceive it, you feel a strange tug, like a moment of deja vu coming and going.

You think you heard…

“Clean One.”​

And then the boat rocks. A gentle wave has washed underneath you, and though the world is made up of brush strokes and ink, it feels real. Real enough to force you to grab onto something if you wish not to topple forward into the stranger seated before you.

Whatever you choose to do, they seem unbothered. You cannot see their face under the hat no matter what you try. If you try to touch their hat, the bird on their shoulder pecks violently at your flesh, the pain from which would feel very real. Only when the boat stills again do they finally give their version of an answer. They do not turn around, only raise their hand in silent greeting. The black crow upon their shoulder stares at you with one baleful eye. It does not trust you, beak open slightly in disapproval, ready to squawk at the slightest sign of danger.

The stranger curls all their fingers but the index, then points ahead. Through the white mist and grey stippling of water, you can just make out the smudgey outline of a shore. It is flanked by tall reeds that sway in the wind.

On this shore, you see someone you recognize. Someone you’ve had a hard time forgetting, despite time and effort.


“Eater.”​

And then something leaps out of the water, sending grey droplets flying everywhere. They disappear into white nothingness within moments, but not before the distinct feeling—and smell—of a fish’s slick body slaps you in the face.

Should you catch the fish, it will start to grow rapidly in your hands, not stopping until its impossible weight drags you straight into the water.

Should you fail to catch it, it will drop into the water first and balloon into an impossible size. It only stops when it is about as big as a fishing boat. And then it explodes from the stippled surface and drags you into the water anyway.

You are pulled under with frightening speed. Too soon, you no longer are able to distinguish between up, down, left, or right, only the feeling of being yanked through water with what feels like wrathful strength.

This only stops when you suddenly find your shoulders gripped by firm hands. You are pulled out of the water as roughly as you were dragged in, but at least you can breathe now.

When you finally manage to regain your bearings, you realize your rescuer is someone you recognize. Someone you’ve had a hard time forgetting, despite your best efforts.


“Itchy Fingers.”​

And then laughter echoes all around you. The mist, despite being so thick you can no longer see behind you, seems to clear up ahead as the path leads higher up into the mountain.

Stranger still is the creature sitting calmly some few feet away from you. From the neck down, it appears human. Small and rather thin. Perhaps a child? But from the neck up, its head bears the unmistakable silhouette of a horse. The head is turned to one side as it stares at you judgingly. The whites of its eyes are stark against the pinprick dot of its pupil.

It does not speak, and as soon as you move toward it, it begins to move higher up the path. If you stop, it stops. If you run, it runs. No matter what you do, you cannot reach it, the distance between you both forever unchanged. And all the while, it continues to side eye you.

If you choose not to pursue it and remain still for even a handful of seconds, a terrible burning sensation lights up your backside.

This experience strikes a particular feeling in you. Perhaps several feelings, even. And with those feelings, you are reminded of something from your past. A moment you’ve had a hard time forgetting, despite time and effort.


“Ghost boy.”​

And then a ghostly laugh drifts past your ears. It sounds…familiar.

As you row, you find that, for some inexplicable reason, the task becomes harder. The water is somehow becoming thicker. Viscous, like syrup. Eventually, it grows so congealed that you can no longer move the oar. You cannot even pull it out from the inky depths, no matter how much strength you use.

Though you can no longer row the boat, you’ve traveled far enough that you can see something along the horizon. The details seem fuzzy, but you feel like you recognize the figure waiting at what must be the shoreline. Tall grass sways under a gentle breeze as the figure waves in a friendly gesture. Or are they worried and warning of danger? It’s too hard to say for certain at this distance.

However, also to one side of your boat, the oar has been swallowed up into a large, man sized hole. Strangely enough, there seem to be steps leading down into this hole, and a warm, amber light glows from within. You can see the oar lying innocuously a few steps in, but beyond that, the pathway curves and obscures what lays beyond.
 
She tumbled toward the ink wrapped boatman. Body thumped against their mass. Felt like a cold smudge. Not quite cold water. Too thick. The sharp cry of the crow stung her ears. She gathered herself. Flinched back. Eyes saw the sharp beak, go for her. Hands raised. Fingers snatched at. Scraped and jabbed by ebon beak.

Step back, and back. Hit the railing of the boat. Felt it rock. Her heart thumping hard. Her eyes wide as they watched the crow. Its inkdrop feathers drift through the air like canvas.

The figure raises their hand.

Not a word from them. Only the going on of their oar. Dip. Pull. Push.

The crow's warning hissed. Cawed.

Kiriko breaths. Fingers red. Swollen. Beating with red angry pain that nails down to her bones.

The stranger points to the shore. Where a familiar face awaits her.

"Yuan," the name falls from her painted lips. "How-" the boat slides against the shore.

Ever smiling, ebon haired Yuan. Eyes as gleeful as a fox's. His nose, just as fine. Round cheeks, she always thought looked good enough to eat. Like ripe peaches. She steps off the boat, robe trails and sandals splashed against the water.

"Oh, Kiriko," he answers nervously. Face already dusted with rouge. "I didn't know you were due back already,"

"Due, back?" she asks as hand clasped about the hem of her priestess' sash. But it is gone. Instead, the hem of her apprentice's robes.

"Weren't you and Buru to visit the Rain Whale's shrine out beyond the Emerald gate?"

She blinks. "But," shakes her head. She looks around, and sees the sprawl of her home. Ginkgo Village. "That was years ago,"
 
Water and scale prayers always did have a sense of humor. And whether it was the water that responded or her own, proper Lord, one had to laugh. The slap of slime and scale across her cheek was familiar. It had been ages since they tried to net the arrowfish. But any good fisherman knew that all you needed was buckets...and a helmet.

Her arms shot out, more memory than skill. Because where nets failed, hands could not. Those who weren't quick didn't eat. And she couldn't remember the last time she wasn't hungry. But the fish wasn't tame and quickly tried to drown her. Vicious little...not so little...what...HOW WAS IT THAT BIG? A smarter person would've let go. But she saw it for her prayer answered – not just the biggest fish of her own life...biggest of anyone who's ever fished. But creatures that answered prayers were rarely kind. Her own weakness pulled her down into the liquid. Even as it was all white and colorless, it felt like diving at night. One spin, two...a tug, a pull...and before you knew it, there was no up or down – there was just the monotone all around, wanting to drown you.

It was no longer a choice of path, because sometimes the path chose you. And she'd asked for it, in a way. She just didn't expect it to listen. But those who prayed for fish learned to either find it or measure everything by its absence.

The anchor at her hands was replaced by two hooks at her shoulders. Grip and Grab. Yank and pull. She wondered what the bruises would look like in this bleak world. She could almost imagine small poolings of ink making the shadow of her shoulderblades just a tad too long, just a tad too dark.

Fear was an animal of its own. And she found her nails digging into the hands that offered salvation. Because to the drowning, even the helping hand was fearsome. And Kuuga may not have been ready to die, but she was always ready to be afraid.

„Bluurgh!“ she wasn't sure if she was coughed of vomited the fakewater as it left her.

„What was that, Kuuga?“ A distinct tsk she hadn't heard in years. „I taught you to swim.“

„We...“ It wasn't the cold that ran the shiver down her spine. „Learned together.“ And shameful as it was, she felt at her released shoulders, making sure they were still there.

„I don't remember you wanting to be a stone.“ And it even talked...talked like him.

The hand extended and she bundled tighter, away from the help offered. Because the real one wouldn't have allowed touch. The real one would've let her drown. Because not all deaths were equally bad.

„Who...who are you?“ Kuuga asked the boy she knew.
 
This experience strikes a particular feeling in you. Perhaps several feelings, even. And with those feelings, you are reminded of something from your past. A moment you’ve had a hard time forgetting, despite time and effort.


No rest came when Juusha reached the pine tree. Someone was already perched on her perfect sitting spot.

That sly little shit was looking at her like it knew something, which of course it did. Who else could be responsible for the mist, and that tingling feeling behind her ears?

"Are you gonna let me sit down?" she asked the spirit.

The answer was no.

It felt like someone had lit a fire under her tail. With a squeaky yeowch!, Juusha leapt further up the path. When she was in the air, the burning stopped, and when she landed on her feet, it started again. And all the while, that inky bastard goaded her on, forward, just out of reach.

It was the same smug look that Master Tana had trailed after her on their way up the mountain. When the path got steep and rocky, Juusha's first instinct had been to use her hands and feet to climb. That had earned her a switch and a scolding.

She could even hear his voice from behind, in the mist.

"A posture unbefitting of a Blade," the old man said, ever so calm. "Stand up straight, get your feet under you. You must be ready to draw your blade at any moment."

A growl started in Juusha's throat, before she swallowed it down. "You aren't real," she said.

But the pain was as real as it ever got. So she rolled her shoulders square, and kept walking.
 
However, also to one side of your boat, the oar has been swallowed up into a large, man sized hole. Strangely enough, there seem to be steps leading down into this hole, and a warm, amber light glows from within. You can see the oar lying innocuously a few steps in, but beyond that, the pathway curves and obscures what lays beyond.

“Hrm.”

Momo glanced from the inky hole beside the boat to the shoreline, where the distant figure continued to wave. His ruby eyes narrowed as he weighed the options, then flicked back to the dark opening at his feet… and back again to the shore. He chewed at the inside of his cheek, irritation creasing his features. He wanted both paths—wanted to see where each would lead—but that was a childish wish. Choice, by its nature, meant leaving something behind.

The echo of that eerie laugh lingered in his thoughts, gnawing at the edges of his memory. It felt familiar. Uncomfortably so. For a fleeting moment, he wondered if it belonged to one of his brothers or sisters—there had been so many of them, after all. Yet no clear image surfaced, no name or face to anchor the sound. The absence unsettled him. His tail, usually restless, curled in close around his legs without him noticing, a small, instinctive attempt at comfort. Momo did not handle uncertainty well—especially the kind that felt like something he should remember.

Only then did he realize how long he’d been standing there, unmoving on the boat. With a final glance toward the shoreline, he let out a breath, shrugged to himself, and stepped off the edge—down into the hole where the oar and water had once been.

If you were already beneath the surface, after all, you might as well dive deeper and see what waited in the dark.
 
The shadow is back, skittering along the edges of your peripheral. If you turn to try and look at it, it disappears. If you try to speak of it, the laughter returns in your mind and garbles your words, rendering your speech incoherent.

View attachment 931

Clean One​

Yuan tilts his head to one side, bemused by your question. Then he laughs. “Your jokes need work. Come, you must be tired and hungry. There will be plenty of time to explain why you’re back so early.”

Even though the landscape remains swathed in paint strokes, every detail on Yuan seems painfully real. That is, until he turns to lead you back to the village, and for the briefest of moments, you watch as the edges of his form become perfectly flat. Like a paper doll twirling in the breeze. But then his rotation completes as his back faces you squarely, and he seems whole and real again.

Beyond Yuan’s familiar outline, you can see that the village also appears to have come alive. There are spots of color and light now, no doubt from the warm glow of lanterns that have been lit as the sun behind you begins to set. Finer details, like roof tops and bustling figures, also come into focus the longer you stare. Yuan does not turn around again, but asks instead, “Well, are you coming?”

You could. There is nothing stopping you. And yet, a second option nags at the corners of your awareness. That pesky shadow is still dancing, and though you cannot see it when you look in its direction, what you do notice is a well worn path that winds deeper into a nearby forest. Tall, slender trees lean against one another over the properly maintained pathway. There is still plenty of sunlight left, but a small, black lantern also sits conveniently by the forest entrance. You can hear birds chirping within, which is odd, considering the hour.

Yuan sighs and gently pleads for you to hurry up. He’s hungry and looking forward to a special surprise being cooked up in the village.

Which will you choose?

Eater​

The boy tilts his head, bemused. He looks at you like you’ve asked what might be the dumbest question he’s ever heard.

“Very funny,” he scoffs. “Last I checked, people don’t get amnesia just from being bad at swimming.” As he says this, he grabs your wrist lightning quick, giving you no time to react, and hauls your drenching body to its feet.

Even though the landscape remains swathed in paint strokes, every detail of the boy seems painfully real. Just as you remembered. His hand even felt warm as he had grabbed you, and in its absence you can feel the cold more acutely now. There is a slight breeze rolling in, nipping at your soaked form.

He eyes you up and down in deep disapproval. “Well, we better get you dry before you die of pneumonia or something equally pathetic,” he sighs. Then he turns, and as he does, you realize his body is becoming flatter and flatter, until at some point he is paper thin. Like a page in a book being flipped. Like the moon waning into nothingness before waxing again.

And, just like the moon, his rotation completes with his back facing squarely towards you, and he seems perfectly whole and real again. The boy does not turn around again, but asks instead, “Well, you coming?”

You could. There is nothing stopping you. And yet, a second option nags at the corners of your awareness. That pesky shadow is still dancing, and though you cannot see it when you look in its direction, what you do notice is a well worn path that winds deeper into a nearby cave. Dry strokes of dark, grey paint form the rocks framing the entrance. There is still plenty of sunlight left, but a small, black lantern sits conveniently by the otherwise black maw of the cave. You can hear nothing from within, which means little, considering what might be slumbering in the dark.

The boy sighs and barks at you to hurry up. He’s hungry and looking forward to something special he stashed away earlier.

Which will you choose?

Itchy Fingers​

The voice of the old man did not deign to answer you. Instead, there comes a sensation like the end of a staff jabbing between your shoulders.

As you walk, the strange creature in front of you also walks. Every now and then, it turns back to give you a sidelong stare, and each time it does, you swear it looks eerily flat. Like a paper cut out doll that children would often make out of boredom.

Of course, things only get stranger.

As you come around another bend along the mountain, the path suddenly splits. One seems to go higher up, while the other stretches evenly forward. You can see only more mist above the higher path, but for the other, there is a suggestion of some kind of tunnel or cave entrance. Dry brushstrokes delineate the rocky formations framing the pitch black opening.

Even more bizarrely, the creature has also split. One moment it was trotting in front of you, the next, a second identical creature has peeled away from the first. Now there are two: the original in all blank ink, staring at you from the higher path, and then the twin in all red ink, staring at you from the straight path.

The longer you take, the hotter your bottom grows.

Which path will you choose?

Ghost Boy​

Echos of laughter seem to trail down into the hole as you step down into the unknown. You may have expected to enter total darkness, but curiously, there is a warm, amber glow always just out of reach in front of you. It illuminates enough for you to continue your descent without risk of stumbling or missing a step.

The stairs beneath you appear to be smooth and matte, delineated only by the rough brushstrokes they are made of. Should you attempt to feel the walls around you, they are of similar construction: even, flat black with the occasional evidence of brushwork.

Sometimes, you think you can see a small, shadowy figure sneaking around the corner of your eye, but there is nothing there when you try to focus your gaze.

A great many steps later, you find yourself entering a spacious den. There are plush pillows, rich carpets, and what appears to be a table laden with all of your favorite foods and beverages. Perhaps even things you’ve almost forgotten you’ve once enjoyed. Behind the table is a beautiful painting of a place you instantly recognize. Coincidence? Or something more sinister?

There is a door on the other end of the perfectly round room, and it has been left slightly ajar.

Do you linger, or do you move on?
 
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Am...amnesia. Wasn't a word she knew back when they were kids. Doubted it was a word he knew back when he was still...himself. But there were certain kind of lies you didn't mind, even as you saw through them. Because she could still feel the cold as it bit her. Some illusions were real enough.

Pneumonia...the fakefaced one wanted her to disbelieve. But she could forgive the wrong words and the form that near disappeared, like a page midflip. Because it was more time. She could make herself believe this was all a test she had to endure. And not all trials had to be torture. If this one turned out to be, some pains were sweeter than others. A slice of him that lied was still better than what she had an...hour ago?

Just how much time had passed?

She eyed the darkness that hid. Seemed the correct answer. But he was right there! Kuuga clutched the many symbols at her neck, almost asking for forgiveness. Almost. She didn't want forgiveness. Just a bit more time. Just a bit more.

„I'm coming, don't yell at me!“ She still hesitated to get too close, like touch would crumple what little was left of him. „I'll tell on you!“

And she smiled, while it was still to end. There were different faces for later. But that was later.
 
"Joke?" Kiriko scoffs. A devious little curl twisted up on her lip. "I need not jest, Yuan, we need only look at your penmanship!" the words formed all their own. Spilling free from her lips as easy as breath.

Memories of her time with Yuan filling her mind like so much black ink thirsty to spread across clean water.

How soft, Yuan always was. Kind and considerate. Sure to offer her the best cuts of rabbit, duck, and fish. Careful with how he would shape the rice, so as not single grain was out of place. And the way his face would light up once his hands poured steady what black brewed soy sauce he had made sure to stow away.

She could see all of that, there in the lines so carefully stroked across the plane of his round welcoming face.

But she had not missed the turn of his page. Paper flat. Had she blinked, she might have missed it. Had she not wanted so desperately to remember him, from all those years ago. Before she had danced the Eight Steps of Devotion. Before her own blood had been mixed into the ash and ink. Scrawled across the Moon Glow Scrolls, and burned again so that she might hear the whisper of her vows in the great flames beneath the Hidden Star Dancer.

"Well, are you coming?"
​
But she had not blinked. And so she had seen the lie there in all the soft promise that Yuan offered.

So the darkness called to her. The cold shadow that came when all the fire was gone.

Kiriko did not know when her feet had began to step. Nor when the gravel had begun to crunch under foot. But she heard the morning birds chirping through the growing darkness born from ink wash.

Her hand wrapped about lantern stick. Picked it up, and hooked its end to the Lantern's ring. She brought it to her lips and whispered words of spark and fire to the small black thing. Maker of ash and smoke. Breathed a gentle breath into its walls.
 
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The shadow of the spirit in front of her, the ghost of her mentor behind her. Juusha walked in silence on the knife's edge of the mountain path, feeling evermore like she was trapped in someone else's machinations of fate.

Juusha Khuam was a swordswoman. As the paths branched apart, upwards and downwards, her feet kept padding on evenly. When exhaustion crept in, when movement became rote and only the threat of pain compelled, she could still fall back into the rhythm of her training.

Two shapes against the background. Which opponent would she rather face off against? Would it be easier to see sinister black within the white wash of mist, or a red demon within a dark cavern?

Juusha chose red against gaping dark. Her night sight was pretty good.
 
A great many steps later, you find yourself entering a spacious den. There are plush pillows, rich carpets, and what appears to be a table laden with all of your favorite foods and beverages. Perhaps even things you’ve almost forgotten you’ve once enjoyed. Behind the table is a beautiful painting of a place you instantly recognize. Coincidence? Or something more sinister?

There is a door on the other end of the perfectly round room, and it has been left slightly ajar.

Do you linger, or do you move on?


With slow, measured steps, Momo descended the eerie stairway. Each footfall echoed faintly beneath him, swallowed quickly by the heavy stillness of the place. As one often does in unfamiliar darkness, he reached out, letting his fingers graze the wall beside him.

The surface was strange—matte but not smooth, firm but lacking the cool slickness of stone. His fingertips traced across uneven ridges, bumping over thick, seemingly random brushstrokes embedded in the inky black surface. The texture shifted subtly in places, and each change made his fox ears twitch.

Something flickered at the edge of his vision near the bottom of the stairs.

He rounded the bend quickly—only to find nothing waiting there.

Momo turned to glance back up the stairwell. The darkness above was absolute, swallowing the steps after only a short distance. The only light came from below, casting his shadow long and warped against the wall. He stared at it for a moment, sighed softly, and resumed his descent.

Then he heard it.

A faint chuckle—high and light, like a child’s laughter. It echoed strangely in the enclosed space, thin and distant yet far too close. His shoulders tensed.

Shadows were playing tricks on him. That had to be it.

He continued downward anyway.

The staircase ended abruptly, opening into a spacious and unexpectedly luxurious den. The transition was jarring. Plush carpet muffled his steps as he crossed the room, eyes sweeping over lavish décor rendered entirely in heavy ink strokes. The furnishings were richly detailed, despite their monochrome palette.

He approached a long table laid out in meticulous brushwork. Even in stylized form, he recognized the foods and drinks depicted there. Favorites from his childhood. Dishes his mother prepared during festivals. Even a few indulgences he had enjoyed more recently. Every item was something he loved.

His gaze drifted beyond the table, settling on a large painting dominating the far wall.

He slowed.

The brushstrokes were bold and sweeping where tall grass framed a lake, yet the water itself was rendered with astonishing delicacy. Cranes arced overhead in graceful formation; others waded near the shore. The scene was alive despite being nothing more than ink on parchment.

He knew that lake.

It lay not far from his home—where his clan spent the height of summer, where laughter carried over the water and long afternoons stretched golden and endless.

Momo stood there longer than he realized, staring.

Until movement tugged at the edge of his vision once more.

His head snapped to the right.

Across the room stood a door—slightly ajar.

A door that had not been there before.

Without hesitation, Momo turned and strode across the den, steps purposeful now. He pushed through the doorway, jaw set, eyes sharp.

He was determined to discover whose game this was—and why they had chosen to toy with him.
 
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