The Historical Notes and Scientific Journals of Amthea Faunus

by **Amthea Faunus** Mon Jul 14, 2014 12:00 am

To whomever is reading this...

It has been a long time since I have kept a journal, in fact the last time I wrote in one was probably before the story I intend to tell in this entry. May as well start this off with something like this so that one day my descendants [should I have any] have something interesting to read.

So let me tell you a story, journal. It’s about a young indigo blooded girl, and how she royally fucked everything in her miserable life up by developing a crush on the wrong person.

This young troll is five sweeps old when she realizes she’s different, and by different I mean that she doesn’t have any friends. This was due to the fact that her lusus was determined to keep her from harm, and rather than let her learn from her own mistakes, kept her inside the hive, watching over her like a hawk

So she watches the other young trolls playing outside, making friends, making enemies, and she grows lonely, and despondent, sure that she will never meet anyone in her entire miserable existence because of her overbearing lusus.

That’s until she sees him. She notices him because he isn’t like the others, in fact they notice him too, and are not kind. They never are to trolls of a lower caste when they enter somewhere they do not belong. But still he comes every day, and eventually they give up on their jeering and let him be. Some even go and talk to him now that they are sure he’s worthy of their company.

One day he looks up at her window and spots her, and he smiles. And from that moment she’s a goner.

He’s much older than the others, perhaps by a sweep or two, but he seems more at home with the young highbloods than with anyone else. The other of the children, even some around his age are generally the ones he will speak to, and they almost seem enthralled by his presence.

He’s tall, and rather thin, and his hair flows long down his back. It’s that that the girl falls in love with; his appearance. To her he looks like some kind of god, standing tall, proud, with the flowing locks that shift in the breeze.

He comes every day, and from the first day he noticed her he acknowledges her. A small wave, a smile, often he will beckon her to join them, but she does not, she cannot.

Before she knows it two sweeps have passed, and her time has been divided between staring out her window at him and his friends, and her studies, as much as she can do within her hive, on the powers granted each caste in the hemospectrum. Her powers have as yet been undeveloped, and she hopes that one day she will have something remarkable like all of the things she has read.

So it happens, now that she is seven sweeps old her lusus decides she is ready to go out into the world, because how will she be able to survive if sequestered away in her hive for the rest of her life?

So naturally she the first thing she does is meet him. Of course it is. His name is Tarrok, and he’s nine sweeps old. He’s sweet, entirely too sweet, it would be concerning if she were more aware of how the world worked. But she had a crush on him, foolish girl.

And in the end he had thrown her away like all the others. Only she wasn’t like all the others, she wasn’t about to just be another notch, or rather, if he intended her to be that, well he was going to regret choosing her to be that notch.

By this time in her life she’s already read enough to make a proper scientist crumble. She knows how to make someone live their worst nightmares over and over again.

She’ll make him pay.

And she does. By the time she’s done with her he’s begging with her to stop, he’s been screaming for hours and to be honest she’s not even half done, she hasn’t even begun her favorite part; the part where she makes him bleed to scream instead.

But there’s the thing she’s forgotten. He has powers of his own, and unlike her, he’s had a lot more practice using them.

He’s free. He’s angry, of course he’s angry, and she runs, terrified. She didn’t expect him to fight back.

She didn’t expect him to tear her hive apart brick by sorry brick, and certainly she didn’t expect him to dash her form against the rubble and leave her, broken and for a small while, dead.

It was by some kind of miracle that she came back from the dead. Maybe part of her was still alive, maybe she was sent back. But either way she returned, and with the help of her lusus they left where she had grown up, and found a new home.

She’d be constantly reminded of what happened. She had been scarred in more ways than one from that encounter. Two vertical lines now crossed over one eye in a permanent reminder that if someone can get a hold of your weapon you have a chance of losing the game.

And her other eye had gone completely white. She supposed it was due to her momentary death. Either way she’d lost the ability to use it, and seeing it as it was made her hate herself, hate the mistakes she’d made. She grew out her hair to cover it, to hide it from society even as she hid herself away.

She wasn’t sure she could ever trust again…

But I did learn to trust, and I made some wonderful friends. Slowly but surely I’m getting over my past mistakes and learning to live again. These things take time, and at the rate i’m going I’m not going to run out for a long while yet.
-Amthea

by **Amthea Faunus** Mon Jul 14, 2014 12:03 am

002.

And so with the end of Tarrok began something more. The events that had transpired had been reported to a higher authority and I was approached for what they called ‘special training.’

As it was I knew I wasn’t cut out for being a subjuggulator, and since the incident I hadn’t exactly been on the higher side of the ‘mirth scale’ but still, I remained faithful to my religion, to my righteous brothers and sisters. I would remain ever faithful, my faith was all I had left. It really was all I ever had.

And so I learned that I would begin undertaking Sibilator training. Sibilators were a behind the scenes group, hand picked members of our caste, of our calling, their purpose a bit of a mystery. The only thing anyone knew about them was that they had the ability to make you wish you had never hatched.

To be honest, it sounded like it would be the best thing ever.

There were not many of us in the training group, but we were all girls, which struck me as a little odd, until orientation, until the explanation We’d all been hurt. We all had that anger, that desire for revenge so ingrained in our fiber that we didn’t care who we took it out on.

The events we had all been through had shocked us to our very core and awoken a hunger inside us. One that we would be trained to control and feed until we would be as great as our ancestors. Or at least until I would be as great as mine.

Hours turned to days, days to weeks, and weeks to months. We were assigned training partners, ‘willing’ lowbloods donating their time to us in exchange for their safety. None of them ever left the training room in the same state of mind. We were meant to practice on them, the skills they were teaching us. Supposed to feed the anger that we held deep in our hearts, and unleash it upon our ‘partners’ like we were getting revenge on those who hurt us.

I must have had over a hundred…damn close to two hundred as far as I can surmise. Each ones face blends into the last in my memory, and all of them look like Tarrok. I don’t know whether the trainers picked them that way, suited to our particular tastes, as a way of invoking rage, but it worked. Every single one, torn down, built up and they all left the room screaming.

We were advised that this, what we were doing was not to be done under normal circumstances. This was a last resort, for when normal control had failed. This was to be used on the unruly, to calm, and control, but never to break, and never to kill. For we held that ability in our hands like every other troll in the world. Like every other troll who has ever existed. The urge and ability to kill lay within us tempered and trained over time.

No longer did we feel the inherent need to kill like our indigo blooded brethren. We had learned focus, to push that part of ourselves back, to control it like we could control all others. That is the downfall of the Sibilators. Insanity is the only way out. EventW E K I L L. W E H U N G E R. W E D E S T R O Y.ually the bubble will burst, the little box we keep our darker selves in gets tipped over and the rest is history, the rest is common knowledge.

And we lose who we are. It’s the only way to numb the thoughts and the voices that we have blocked away for so long that suddenly rush at us like a wild cacophony of every little fear we’ve ever had. We are left little more than a shell of our former selves, much like we left all those we practiced on.

I know it is to be my fate, this insanity. That eventually I will succumb to it, and without the ability to release the urges i’ve kept pent up in a calm manner there is no chance I will be able to fight it off. Once it begins there is no stopI W I L L C O N S U M E.ping it and I will try to kill everyone I have ever cared for.

- Amthea

by **Amthea Faunus** Mon Jul 14, 2014 12:06 am

003.

My fall from grace. Or rather, my fall from the church, fall far away from my righteous brothers and sisters, falling from the Mirthful Messiahs I had placed all my hopes, dreams and beliefs into.

This is something hard enough to explain to anyone, not just myself. I’ve never gone back to think on it, only kept going, for if I look back I might regret my actions, and then I will be left second guessing myself.

But I digress.

I began questioning my beliefs when I met someone new. A lowblood who was unlike any other I had met before. Then again I hadn’t exactly met many other lowbloods. I had been in the room with them but I had never truly spoken to them. So the only comparison I had to hold against him was Tarrok.

I keep coming back to that, to him. I guess I’m not as completely over the event as I thought. Or perhaps the remnants of these memories now resurfacing are just posing as reminders and a way for me to escape, to fall back into old patterns and perhaps it is even the beginning of an even greater fall for me. Who knows?

I met this new person, this lowblood, who incidentally was a yellowblood, also a psionic. The very thought of being in proximity to another psionic, even if it were merely a conversation via a chat client, terrified me. I hadn’t forgotten what could be done. I lived with a constant reminder afterall.

But he was kind, he was unsure of himself, and he cared. He was genuinely interested in me, and while he was terrified with the prospect of talking to someone in a higher caste that didn’t prevent him from being one of the nicest trolls I had ever come across. I suppose you could say I fell for him there. You may be right, but in my mind then I didn’t want to know if I had those feelings for anyone again. I just wanted to be left alone, even if it meant my own eventual culling.

He persisted in contacting me, even past our initial conversation, past a few minor incidents with his alternate personality, because that was his falling, as we all have one. Behind the sweet innocent guy that I had actually enjoyed talking to was a harsh, cruel, absolutely disdainful creature who I found myself completely terrified of.

But, surprisingly, I cared for him. This pathetic, and yet somewhat crazy guy. A psionic at that. If there was one caste I had told myself I would never trust it was his, and yet there was someting about him that made me think. Maybe…just maybe the teachings were wrong. Maybe the lowbloods weren’t all bad. Maybe they didn’t all deserve to be culled like we had been doing.

And maybe throughout my teachings, all of those i’d left more than shells…How many others had been culled because their quadrants were now empty? How many had died because of me?

So because of this lowblood, because of Aneris, I left. Because I had realised this. Because rather than being killed for blasphemy I would live, and I’d make up for my past mistakes.

Somehow.

- Amthea

by **Amthea Faunus** Mon Jul 14, 2014 12:06 am

Imagine a box, any size you want, decorative, whatever. Now imagine that it’s full of every memory, emotion, everything that makes you you.
Imagine it’s all filed neatly and carefully arranged. Now. This box is closed and around it is wrapped a bow. It is made out of whatever you want, but it’s knotted tightly, sometimes double, triple, even quadruple knotted.
Now imagine that someone slowly unties this bow, carefully extracts information whilst doing it…and once she does untie it, lifts the lid and proceeds to pull out all the information and scatter it without ado, or shove random memories in places they don’t belong. Pulls out thoughts and learned things and burns them, leaves them aside.
You cease to be yourself with every document that leaves the box. And with every document misplaced she takes greater control
And once the knot is untied it is very hard to get back together.

- Amthea Faunus (on Sibilator training and the various ways of obtaining control)

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