5571/Scholarly Pursuits

Scholarly Pursuits
Date of Scene:	15 November 2017
Location:	Elysium Apex
Synopsis:	Count Kord has a theory. That it was mimics. And they are walking with us, such a total nightmare. Enark has a theory. That it was paintings. And he's a real boy, wait, something isn't right there.
Cast of Characters:	Count Kord, 974

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Count Kord has posed:
    It would've been abundantly clear that Kord wanted to talk to Enark... because he would receive a hand-written letter delivered via weird masked cultist to show up between a given span of time at his office in the Elysium Apex. He apparently has an office, being a Hand of the Concord. He's rarely seen doing anything but be an edgy weirdo, so this may be a strange change of pace.

    Kord figured he might appreciate something more... official.

    Kord's office is not lavish. It's way more intellectual than that. He has his main desk against one wall, with a neat stack of papers, a few odd crystals sitting on it, as well as an ink pot and a quill pen. There are a few maps of Bayern, his home State, on the walls. The seal of Dragoni is stamped on a large piece of parchment that hangs on the wall parallel to the door.

    "Rrrr..."
    Aas the Murkrow sits on a perch that puts her at eye level, so she can properly leer at visitors. She puffs up her feathers if looked at for too long, but generally stays quiet except for the occasional click of her claws as she adjust her footing, or ruffling as she preens herself.

    Kord is seated on a comfortable chair behind a small hardwood coffee table, and there's another chair nearby to the side. The chairs aren't quite aligned with the walls, giving a more haphazard feel to that part of the room.

    The red-haired man has tied his wild hair back as much as is feasible with a few leather straps, and he's wearing a black suit with a red shirt beneath it, a pair of shiny black shoes on his feet. Clearly modernized formal attire. His hands are visible... well, claws, you could call them. The red and black skin and the black claw-like fingers clutch at a cup of something steamy and herbal scented. His tail is draped over the arm of his chair, the end swaying and twitching like a cat's tail.

    Is that... is that a little garden at the edge of the room? He seems to be growing some vegetables in here. It gives the room a damp, earthy smell.

Carna (974) has posed:
    Enark was in one of the dining areas, going over the books he and others retrieved from the Library of Murdered Knowledge. He has come across a lot of information he is still trying to parse, as well as some very disturbing implications he had wanted to verify against other material before presenting to the rest of the Concord. He has also been compiling notes on all of their explorations and encounters so far, for later publishing. This, on top of his research into various samples taken from Lordran that he is trying to gain answers about, have consumed much of his attention, to the extent that he's been absent from recent explorations in Lumiere.

    Though, honestly, who would WANT to go back to the Chopping Grounds of their own free will? Not him, that's for certain.

    When he gets a message delivered by a masked person (scarcely a new phenomenon. Seems like half of everyone he has met in Lumiere wears some form of mask or helmet or something), he looks it over, thanks the messenger, and then starts collecting his things and taking some last notes before the specified meeting time.

    Upon arrival, he knocks politely at the door to announce himself, despite it being open, a modern tote bag full of books and such over one shoulder clashing with his archaic blue robes... Except wait, no, he's also wearing some more modern clothes as well! Just as seeing Kord out of his usual get-up can be striking, it is similarly jarring to see Enark in something other than robes for the first time. It's nothing too unusual or fancy, just a nice blue suede suit with a white undershirt and shoes of a similar hue to the suit. His hair is combed back and the long strands at the rear are tied in a low, brief ponytail of sorts.

    He says relatively cheerfully, far more comfortable in this social environment than the gloom and doom of Lumiere, "Good day, Sir Kord. You asked to see me?" He does have that mild apprehension that seems to follow him everywhere, but given how long he has been in the land of the dead, dealing with its threats, that is understandable. He takes a look around as he steps into the office, finger-waving with one hand at the Murkrow. Perhaps she reminds him of a friend who is presently still missing.

    Maybe he just likes birds.

Count Kord has posed:
    "Count," Kord corrects with a dull neutrality, "It's good to see you show up at all, Enark. Some people are afraid of me, so I never expect to have a summons answered. Could you ever imagine why?"

    He smiles at Enark. His eyes wrinkle with mirth. His inhuman eyes, with black sclera, pale blue irises, and white pupils. His mouth pulls into a cheerful grin... a grin full of his sharper, inhuman teeth. He looks like a demon, with the pale skin offset by his vibrantly red hair. His apparent youth may not help matters. "Sit," he says, gesturing to the nearby chair. Whether Enark sits or not, the door creeeaks and clicks shut behind the scholar, following the motion of Kord's hand. Some shadow-based tomfoolery, there.

    Aas closes one eye and makes a soft 'rrrr' noise at Enark. She seems mellow today.

    "I once accused you of being a construct, Enark," the man begins, "And you have not fully convinced me otherwise."

    "Please, sit down, and explain a few things to me. I am deeply curious about some specifics."

    "There are a handful of ways to destroy a Dead soul. Priscilla can do it, whereas I cannot. Lanterns and Unlit can destroy the Dead. And then... the unpainted copy of me, the one that attempted to strike you down, stabbed you right through the middle..."

    Switching gears, he comes to a nagging thought, "You didn't bleed, Enark. Is that normal for the Dead?" He sips from his drink after that.

Carna (974) has posed:
    Enark seems unbothered by Kord's appearance, or perhaps too polite to show evidence of such if he is. It's not the first time he has seen his ally without his mask, though there was little smiling to be add under those past circumstances. "Ah, Count then. My apologies. I was not aware you had a specific title. Perhaps it is your standing that intimidates? Or, more likely, there are those who do not know you as I do, and judge merely off of appearances or reputation. In either circumstance, I am merely glad to be able to interact with you all outside of Lumiere without some crisis hanging over our heads. It's always refreshing to be able to see the sun again, to taste good food, to smell the scents of life..." He gestures off-handedly towards the garden.

    He turns, distracted for a moment when the door closes behind him, but then turns back to face Kord. It's probably just an automatic door. Such were common in his era before death. The technology level of the world is markedly more primitive than the one he left behind when he died actually. He is in the process of seating himself when Kord brings up THAT topic. His cheer dims noticeably. He resumes getting situated, though with more caution than before, putting his bag down alongside the chair.

    He sits pensively and listens. Eventually, he says, "You made such an accusation, yes. I would not say that you are incapable of killing the Dead. You have succeeded many times against Lanterns and the Unlit. Destroying a soul is merely... Very difficult. And the Lit ARE their soul, as opposed to merely being the receptacle for such. As such, we are strongly influenced by our memories and experiences of life. Generally speaking, it takes quite some time for us to work out all the baggage from before death, tire of the frivolities of a watered-down version of life, and move on, changing into something less like our living selves."

    He folds his hands in his lap. "I think that you have within you the potential to slay the Lit. Not with unusual powers or forbidden weapons, but by understanding. Unfortunately, you will likely have to gain this understanding through experience. And compared to Lanterns and the Unlit, we Lit are very few indeed. Even if you were willing to utilize what amounts to vivisection, to become like the very Crimson King we met an echo of, I would not be enthused with that endeavour, for obvious reasons."

    He looks up again, and says, "I have thought about your accusation. And to answer your question, while it is not necessarily common, there is precedent for the Lit not demonstrating all the qualities of a living body in death. Specifically, those whose mental image of themselves has been so radically altered, that their spirit changes to match. This would generally come about either through extreme trauma or a great epiphany. Those who have journeyed above, to the Candles beyond Lostrata, experience the latter. I believe that I bled in the past. When you all captured me in Escher, in fact. But I can not be certain of that."

    He turns in his seat to reclaim the bag he set down, struggling to unzip it as he speaks. "Whether I did then or not, that I did not bleed this time indicates something has changed within me. That my mental image has been altered. In Lumiere, the mind can influence the body far more drastically than in the Living World. It is one of 'those things', like names having far greater significance than merely what one is called by." He finally gives up, and just picks up the whole bag, drawing it into his lap. "That is the best explanation I can give. And if you require further evidence, I can point you to the Stone Devils, and the children they once were."

Count Kord has posed:
    Kord has a patient smile on his face. There's plenty of information to be picked at, and the very slight way his head tilts as the specifics of spiritual morphology are explained to him brings a thought to him. It's clear that something about that occurred to him immediately. When he's told that he would have to copy the actions of the Crimson King, his eyes lid shut and he flexes and unflexes his hand. Then he takes another sip of his tea.

    He calmly sets down his cup, and then he leans over and calmly plucks Enark's hand up with his own. His claws exhibit a practiced pressure, not quite squeezing hard enough to hurt. He'd try to hold Enark's hand palm-upward, and place the tip of his claw against the palm of his hand... not quite puncturing.

    The patient smile and those alien eyes fixate on the Blue Scholar's face.

    "Just as the soul changes to suit how one sees themselves, or how the world forces it to be, I have taken my own name of my own volition," he explains calmly, "My real name is Jakob. I simply wanted to live a happy life, and be accepted, once. Can you imagine how many times I had to be rejected before that warped my perceptions of myself?" He is strangely calm about it. The trauma is old to him, and become so ingrained that it doesn't seem to affect him... at least, his face doesn't betray it.

    The claw pushing against Enark's skin threatens to breach it.

    "I can't help but wonder which is true, now that you have said that: Enark, the Blue Scholar; or Enark's Mimic, struggling to pretend to be him after consuming his Light. You sure seem quite durable, and lucky. The only Scholar to survive in the entire Library. Perhaps you weren't. Perhaps you have turned other Blue Scholars into mimics, and they are struggling with their own madness right now."

    "I did not survive in the wilds on my own by going mad, though that almost happened more than once. Hunger, loneliness... It does cruel things to the mind. I survived by becoming dangerous. Hardened. I survived by being a scarier animal than the ones that wanted to eat me. So, Enark. How did you survive, when even your own creations wanted to eat you?"

    He doesn't seem intent to hurt Enark. What he's doing is trying to spook him, watching his reactions to this odd behavior, and trying to conquer his own doubts about the scholar's nature.

Carna (974) has posed:
    Enark arches an eyebrow when his hand is taken, and frowns when he has the claw pressed into his palm, but though he does not try to pull away or anything, his anxiety level is increasing as Kord does all this weirdness to him. Perhaps there is cause for fearing him after all if he's going to act so strange. But as of yet, Enark is still unharmed, and Kord has fought to protect him many times. So he decides to trust, even if he does not much care for the topic of conversation.

    He listens to Kord's tale... Or rather 'Jakob's. But any thoughts he might have about it are somewhat preoccupied by the poking and prodding followed by yet more accusations. Enark starts attempting to withdraw his hand, furrowing his brow. "So that's what this is about." he says darkly, successful or no. "I am sorry that happened to you, Count Kord. Despite your doubts, I know what that isolation and desperation is like. It pushed me to create the very Mimics you accuse me of being, despite the risks. I, too, had to make myself dangerous, if only by extension. However, I confess that the reason I remained intact is much more shameful than I care to admit, though nothing like what you have suggested."

    He looks Kord in those inhuman eyes, despite his social awkwardness making it hard to maintain eye contact. "I hid. I hid myself away in a single, barricaded room, and that white space where physics are altered, using my keys to open doorways and avoid the traps I had laid. I did not try to leave. I did not try to explore. I never tried to help anyone, or find out if there were any other survivors. I took care only of my own well-being. My experiments with creating company for myself, humanoid mimics, were a failure."

    He scowls, though whether at Kord or in self admonition is unclear.

Carna (974) has posed:
    "As you saw, they did not even look like people except in the crudest sense imaginable. Further, at the time they were utterly unresponsive. Whatever has become of them now to make them hostile as well, and further to attempt to create their own mimics, I feel it must be an alien influence. For that was not part of my design when I made them."

    He shakes his head. "In short, I was a coward, who hid himself away from any possible threat. And that is what kept me from being devoured for the past however many billions of years, going through cycles of madness, over and over, trapped in the same space, my only refuge the books I had read countless times over, and the spaces I could journey to through the portals in Escher for a change of venue. Fear kept me safe. What the Crimson King wished to instill upon we Dead, so that we would seek to preverse ourselves, succeeded in keeping me from harm, even if long after his own second demise. But this fixation you have upon mimics and your accusations... I realize now what this is really about."

    He glares at Kord and says. "I never took you to be the jealous type. But it seems that you just can't stand the idea that I could have survived far longer than you did, all on my own, merely through my own ingenuity and knowledge. That I could be your superior in some respect, and find a different way than what you had to go through. Well, let your envy be laid to rest. I have laid bare how I did what you could not. Without personally engaging in any violence, any domination of others, or seeking personal power, I survived by hiding. You may call me a coward if you wish. That is what I was then. Perhaps I am even now. I have spent much time harping on the subject in my mind, feeling guilt that I stand behind others when we go out to face the enemy, my only benefit to the group being my support spells, my healing, my occasional poisonous blast, and the fruis of my scholarly pursuits."

    He slings his tote bag over his shoulder, apparently intending to leave soon. "A step forward from refusing to even leave my study, but probably nothing compared to what you have endured. So, sound the trumpets, you need not feel yourself my inferior any more. You are stronger and braver than me. Though, for the record, I only ever successfully made a single mimic who could act like a person. And wherever he went, he chose not to stay by my side, so even he must have been disgusted with my cowardice, and chosen death over spending an eternity in my presence."

    He shakes his head. "I can not turn a person into a mimic. A mimic is just an object. Less of a person even than a Lantern. The template for a person must be applied over one in order to even attempt to make it act like a human, and by the time I had advanced to that point, there was no one else left to copy. Now if you don't mind, I have studies to return to. You can go back to gloating about being better than me at your leisure."

Count Kord has posed:
    Though it was confusion that spawned Kord's own curiosity, disbelief over the man's cowardly behavior and the search for some kind of answer there that he couldn't otherwise see. He knits his brow, and his smile begins to fade, but it isn't anger in his face. He slowly releases Enark's hand, and leans back, silence and an odd tension in his appearance. He had been affected, because this was a form of rejection he hadn't really seen coming. He didn't feel that way, but such a feeling was superimposed on him, giving him a sense of nauseated unease.

    In a way, Enark got the root of it, even if he missed the exact nature of the man's feelings.

    "Jealous?"

    He reaches up to rub his cheek. His red stubble is scratchy under his palm. Scritch scritch.

    "Enark, you are a genius. You have the ingenuity to survive above so many others, even if you could not fight anything directly. Just the fact that you persisted long enough for rescue to find you... It's remarkable. I have seen stories of the wonder the living ascribe to survivors with only a fraction of your cleverness."

    "How to phrase it..." He bends over to pick up the cup, and settles back in his seat.

    He grins.

    "I think it would be 'cool,' if you had figured out how to place your will into something even an Unlit would struggle to kill," he explains. "I get... enjoyment out of the idea."

    "I carry no envy of you. I'm just a madman entertained by how different you are from all of the, well, now scattered Lit that once populated Lumiere. The more different you might be, the more FUN you are to be around. So... if I'm wrong, I carry on with my life anyways. I just don't want to be wrong in this case, because it's boring."

Carna (974) has posed:
    Enark looks confused, searching Kord's face for a reaction that apparently isn't coming. Slowly, he looks down. His face would be flushed with embarrassment if he had the circulation for it. As it is, he looks deeply ashamed. "I... Am very sorry for placing such an accusation against you." He settles back into his seat after seeming to be prepared to leave the moment he had his hand free. "Perhaps my own feelings of inferiority towards all of you, my own shame for my inability -- nay, my refusal to even TRY to help anyone else during all that time, have festered more than I had realized. As I said, I only succeeded once. And while I know there is a memory I am missing, a span of time among all the rest of importance, I grow increasingly concerned it involves my duplicate... Well..."

    He looks to Aas, as though momentarily worried she serves as some kind of spy for otherworldy forces, and leans in closer to Kord. "Count... Or Kord. Or Jakob? Whichever name you prefer. The mimics I made, the attempts at recreating the Blue Scholars. They did not possess the knowledge of creating mimics. That level of sophistication simply was not there. Nor was the ability to cast spells. That they can do both now means, I believe, that someone taught them. And I have a theory about who did."

    He places both palms flat on the desk. "I think that the perfect mimic, the duplicate I made of myself, left at some point, and found the painting that Lord Tharmas created. There has been something that has long bothered me about our journey within the Painted World of Alouette. What Queen Priscilla's Unpainted version explained to us of how it worked. She said that every time we died in there, Lumiere attempted to resurrect us from our template, from the 'us' that first entered that place. It is a reincarnation device that works endlessly all on its own. It can not STOP trying to bring things back. However, as none of you are native to Lumiere, it did not have a soul to bring back, as a Lantern or an Unlit or anything. So it just kept bringing the same people back, over and over, rather than allowing us to pass on. However, I AM a native Dead of Lumiere. And I was the only one who I never saw any remains of within that... Chasm."

    Enark presses down even harder on the desk, until his already-pale fingers go paler. "I think that the 'Unpainted Enark' was there, that my mimic was eaten by him, and the mimic's knowledge and powers were used to extend its reach out of the Painting and into that 'Grand Gallery', corrupting the existing, imperfect Blue Scholar mimics, using its painted blood to control them, and seek out more lives to take in... More worlds beyond Lumiere that it can copy into itself."

    Enark looks carefully at Kord, desperately trying to make up for his faux pas in accusing one of his allies of thinking such low thoughts of him, by sharing a theory he has kept hidden for fear of its implications. "Sir Kord... I think Unpainted Enark is the World Mimic. I think that there were no remains of me, because every time I was recreated, it would eat me whole, to multiply its power over Time and Water and Mimics, and then kill the rest of you so that it would start all over again. And I think that, regardless of Unpainted Staren's plan has any merit whatsoever, the best way we can sabotage it is to kill the abomination that was once meant to be me."

Count Kord has posed:
    Aas looks back at Enark, and makes an uncomprehending bird noise at him, since his glance seemed purposeful but he produced neither food nor attention for her. She decides to resume preening herself while Enark apologizes to Kord and the full truth of his feelings comes to light.

    Kord looks impressed with Enark, brows lifted up happily. The scholar has quite a theory about the World Mimic, covering a nature of it that hadn't been considered before now. He raises his hand and scritches his chin, and ponders that sort of thought. He does have a counter-thought toward Enark's reincarnations not showing back up -- there just never was a scenario before the 'real' selves showed up where he accompanied them -- but it holds some weight. Lumiere's purpose solidifies in his mind, and a few gears apparently click into place for him from all of his exposure thusfar.

    He wags his finger at Enark. "There we go. You did something amazing... and now you get a chance to help us make real progress. Perhaps it has catalyzed an ingredient we need to fix this mess. Perhaps in its destruction we will find the renewal we're looking for. If we kill it, perhaps it will help jar loose a piece of Lumiere jammed ever since that night." 'That night,' meaning the night where everything went wrong.

    "... hmm..."

    His smile is quite inspired by this new information. He didn't seem angry at all about what was said before.

    "Yes... yes, I like this. Finally some sense to all of the madness. A path to walk down."

Carna (974) has posed:
    Enark nods, relieved that his idea has been taken so well. He says, "There is other information I am working on decyphering in those books we recovered, but I am not yet adequately certain to tell the others. However, the possibility exists that we are not the only ones utilizing the Library for research right now. Further, and more worrisome, I think someone or something is deliberately trying to interfere with our own efforts. There are names in some of these books I have never encountered before in any of my research. Names that do not match what should be there. There is a lot of information in the Library, as you know, so it is possible I just never encountered these tidbits... Like the fact that the original Lords of Silence had 'Emanations', a female aspect. Each of the original Lords of Silence was actually a plurality. Four divided into two each, male and female, for a total of eight. Meaning that Los, Urizen, Lord Tharmas, and even Orc must have had a second self, or a mate of some kind. And yet in the book where I learned of this, there is no mention of Orc, or at least not by name. Instead, there is someone named 'Luvah'."

    He shakes his head. "Unless I am missing something both basic and critical, someone may be altering the information in the books to keep us from learning something important. And that means that I am not certain how reliable this information is anymore."

    He leans back, rubbing his face with one hand and drumming his fingers on Kord's desk with the other. "I realize it may seem like I am trying to change the subject, to gloss over all that I just said to you. But I truly am sorry for ever thinking you could be so base as to hold enmity of that kind towards me. While we have not always been... Sociable together, I have trusted you with the fate of my soul many times. I should have simply believed that you asked only out of the desire to know, not out of ulterior motive. I am just glad to have the matter finally resolved."

    Assuming it actually is resolved. Kord never said he was convinced by Enark's explanation, after all. He may simply be letting it lie for now until or unless there is further evidence.