The Baked Beast of Bucharest | 'Băgăreţ' or, 'Interloper'

[Sil]

​

 

[Appetite Ruining Kebab]

kenny durag's mortal enemy

 

[Sil]

 

[Sil]

The role of the Interloper is like that of a spectator, watching the world pass by. But, where the spectator is outside, the Interloper remains within such foreign lands, not just observing but changing too. You are within the story, an active agent able to choose the paths you take and the sights you see, yet no matter what you feel out of place. Rather than the illusion of choice, you have the illusion of dissonance. And yet, still, you must carry on.

Months have passed since the climactic fight. The military has fallen, the trade barons striking with heavy armaments, and just as they planned the ruinous city has fallen into corruption, violence, and complete disarray, ripe for the picking. At least, that is what I suppose has happened; I evaded from my people, my friends, into the night without warning or informing. I had plans, granted, to begin something greater with my compatriots, my kin, but crisis struck and in an act of cowardice I chose to run away rather than stand and fight. Each day it eats away at me, and like Prometheus cast to the rock no matter how much the ravens tear and peck at me I return the next day, ready to be torn once more.

The loss of the Vortessence has driven me, for lack of better terms, mad. I had heard stories of humans struggling with voices, with a constant, cacophonous choir leaving them without peace, yet from my time linked I had suspected that humans were just merely weak creatures who did not know how to handle the voices. The infinite communion that the Vortessence provided seemed similar, but merely controlled and organised rather than the disarray; since being stripped, it has opened my eye to understanding that these voices are not the same. The Vortessence was not an organisation, but a barrier, the filler and knowledge of others acting to suppress your own thoughts.

I keep forgetting things. Memories are foggy, obfuscated by a perpetual blur that no magnification can clarify. The memories formed more recently I keep, solidified in the neurons and axons that scatter across the grey matter, but those from the past are lost. I don't remember where I came from. I don't remember much of who I was. To the dwellers of this planet, I am either an asset to be used or a punching bag. To my own kin, I am either tended to like an elderly human gone senile or cast out and made a pariah for the lack of connection. I don't remember my name, my true name; I cannot share that element with my kin as kin have been able to share. I remember that I am 'Băgăreţ' yet the name feels wrong. It is not a name, not truly, but a mere title that I know I have gone by since being able to speak Romanian. I do not remember this language proper, I barely grasp English, and whilst my fluency in Vortigese has not waned it has still struggled in communicating to others.

When alone I forgo speech entirely, spending days, weeks at a time silent beyond errant and erratic moments of noise I have found myself making beyond my control. I feel the static of the space between the missing neurons trying to find a connection, trying to find a link, and missing entirely causing what would hopefully be something pleasant or functional to be a grunt. Yet, one element that hasn't diminished is my comprehension of writing. The words flow through my head onto paper and slab alike, a transfer of knowledge that may lack tone but hold equal meaning. This journal has been something I keep more for practical notes, recipes and instructions, reminders and memories, rarely more personal thoughts. Yet, this is important, this is a reminder for me and instructions for those who find this when I am so far gone that I cannot ask for help.

I cannot forgive myself for what has happened. For running away. For throwing away plans of a better future out of a sudden striking moment of fear in my heart when the voices familiar became the voices foreign, or perhaps the other way around. I do not forgive myself, but if you find this or I give this to you when I am unable to express proper apology, proper explanation, then please forgive me, for to you I am truly sorry.

 

[deathwolf]

The role of the Interloper is like that of a spectator, watching the world pass by. But, where the spectator is outside, the Interloper remains within such foreign lands, not just observing but changing too. You are within the story, an active agent able to choose the paths you take and the sights you see, yet no matter what you feel out of place. Rather than the illusion of choice, you have the illusion of dissonance. And yet, still, you must carry on.

Months have passed since the climactic fight. The military has fallen, the trade barons striking with heavy armaments, and just as they planned the ruinous city has fallen into corruption, violence, and complete disarray, ripe for the picking. At least, that is what I suppose has happened; I evaded from my people, my friends, into the night without warning or informing. I had plans, granted, to begin something greater with my compatriots, my kin, but crisis struck and in an act of cowardice I chose to run away rather than stand and fight. Each day it eats away at me, and like Prometheus cast to the rock no matter how much the ravens tear and peck at me I return the next day, ready to be torn once more.

The loss of the Vortessence has driven me, for lack of better terms, mad. I had heard stories of humans struggling with voices, with a constant, cacophonous choir leaving them without peace, yet from my time linked I had suspected that humans were just merely weak creatures who did not know how to handle the voices. The infinite communion that the Vortessence provided seemed similar, but merely controlled and organised rather than the disarray; since being stripped, it has opened my eye to understanding that these voices are not the same. The Vortessence was not an organisation, but a barrier, the filler and knowledge of others acting to suppress your own thoughts.

I keep forgetting things. Memories are foggy, obfuscated by a perpetual blur that no magnification can clarify. The memories formed more recently I keep, solidified in the neurons and axons that scatter across the grey matter, but those from the past are lost. I don't remember where I came from. I don't remember much of who I was. To the dwellers of this planet, I am either an asset to be used or a punching bag. To my own kin, I am either tended to like an elderly human gone senile or cast out and made a pariah for the lack of connection. I don't remember my name, my true name; I cannot share that element with my kin as kin have been able to share. I remember that I am 'Băgăreţ' yet the name feels wrong. It is not a name, not truly, but a mere title that I know I have gone by since being able to speak Romanian. I do not remember this language proper, I barely grasp English, and whilst my fluency in Vortigese has not waned it has still struggled in communicating to others.

When alone I forgo speech entirely, spending days, weeks at a time silent beyond errant and erratic moments of noise I have found myself making beyond my control. I feel the static of the space between the missing neurons trying to find a connection, trying to find a link, and missing entirely causing what would hopefully be something pleasant or functional to be a grunt. Yet, one element that hasn't diminished is my comprehension of writing. The words flow through my head onto paper and slab alike, a transfer of knowledge that may lack tone but hold equal meaning. This journal has been something I keep more for practical notes, recipes and instructions, reminders and memories, rarely more personal thoughts. Yet, this is important, this is a reminder for me and instructions for those who find this when I am so far gone that I cannot ask for help.

I cannot forgive myself for what has happened. For running away. For throwing away plans of a better future out of a sudden striking moment of fear in my heart when the voices familiar became the voices foreign, or perhaps the other way around. I do not forgive myself, but if you find this or I give this to you when I am unable to express proper apology, proper explanation, then please forgive me, for to you I am truly sorry.

oh my god how have you made me feel bad for bagarat Harland got away with absolutely zero repercussions for being one of the first 3 to knock you out for your de-powering

 

[deathwolf]

this is actually an insane piece of writing I feel horrid

 

[Sil]

Recipe: Mushroom Stew (DO NOT GIVE TO NICE HUMANS, IT WILL KILL THEM; WE CAN EAT IT FINE)
Cooking time: 35-50~ mins
Serves 3-5

750ml water
1tbsp charcoal powder (use charcoal tablets if raw powder cannot be found)
15g-30g wild garlic, whole plant diced
40g dried common wormwood bark, powdered
150g poultry/avian meat, diced (doesn't matter which one, headcrab can act as substitute)
Equal parts (50g) mushrooms:
Fly agaric, fresh (can be dry if being transported)
Fool's funnel, fresh (same as above)
Scotch bonnet, dried in powder form
Clouded agaric, fresh (only the caps, can be dried but prefer fresh)
Jew's ear, made into paste (can be substituted with similar jelly-like mushrooms)

Salt & parsley to season

Step 1: Set the water to a medium heat. If unable to precisely determine heat, yellow to orange flame.
Step 2: When bubbles start to form, add the meat and the fool's funnel. Reduce heat to medium-low if possible. Allow to simmer.
Step 3: Add the fly & clouded agaric, and the wild garlic. Their forms should start to loosen up and soften.
Step 4: In a separate container, mix the Jew's ear, Scotch bonnet, 20g wormwood, and the charcoal powder together. This will become a crimson-brown paste with a pungent odour.
Step 5: Add the fool's funnel, then add the above paste. Stir until there are no clumps of paste. The stew should be a dark brown colour with a distinct scent.
Step 6: Add salt & parsley. For a stronger flavour, add the remaining 20g wormwood.
Step 7: Let it stew for 20-30 minutes. Longer stewing means deeper flavours, and makes the voices quieter for longer.
Step 8: Serve.

Can be stored unrefrigerated for up to 72 hours before effects diminish and it becomes merely a nutrient source. Can be frozen to prevent effects from diminishing. If frozen, consume within 3 months (6 full moons).

This stew is lethal to humans (or at least very toxic and will make them very sick). Can be used as a poison added to other dishes. 100ml is enough to kill 1 person. Remember, 100ml per person.

If the voices are getting too much, drink some. Standard serving will be relaxing for 2-3 hours, inducing a state of euphoria and making the voices be quiet. It does not restore the vortessence or any vortal links; the green-ness is the delayed visual input of motion, and any other voices are probably people with you, not kin speaking to you via vortessence. You will also feel fatigue and experience strange hallucinations; this is normal, they cannot hurt or help you. The people aren't real, it's you having memories of the attack, just wait it out and they'll go away. Try not to panic, it doesn't help. Drinking more won't make them go away, it will only make you feel more detached.

If I'm feeling down and unable to communicate properly, make this but DO NOT DRINK IT. Seriously. If you're reading this, then I probably don't want you to die, or you've already killed me. The picture is The Enchanted Piper by William Holmes Sullivan. I found it in a leaflet for a museum, and found it nice.

 

[Candle]

oh this is delightful actually! glad to see the effort put in :)

 

[boots]

Jew's ear, made into paste (can be substituted with similar jelly-like mushrooms)

 

[Sil]

he learned the names from an old mushroom book