August 9th, 1879 My Dear Minerval Icarus,
I can scarcely permit myself to pick up this pen.
The things which I must relate hereafter will sound such nonsense, fit more for the gibbering
of a masonic mystic than for the ink of your own Illuminated.
But am I so incredulous that I must take on the burden of a madman?
Shall I begin after but one doubtful night to question my own faculties?
I think I will not.
There is scrutiny that must be paid here, but I have none for that which masquerades
as the supernatural.
I shall therefore grant what my eyes have seen and what my ears have heard, and turn
all question instead upon the foundation of these happenings.
I have spoken to you of Adam Weishaupt, have I not?
If you have bothered to read the texts I have sent you, you will understand his role as
the father of our great work.
It was he who first discerned the wisdom of self-perfection for the perfection of all
man, and he who first established so many of our guiding philosophies in those early
infant years of our order.
And in secret, it was he and his fellows who contrived the erosion of that diseased hegemony
of religious and political institution which so threatens the free-thinking mind.
My esteem for the man is great, make you no mistake.
Have I not been here for the greater part of these two years, my young prot�g�,
teaching you in the revival of the organization he himself founded?
But all great feats granted, he was only as you and I: a man.
This premise, for one cruel evening, was sorely tested.
A lesser mind-or perhaps more rightly, one more prone to fits of dubious faith or fancy-would
surely call what I experienced a "visitation".
I will not.
I will only relate the events in their order.
As I was retiring to bed this past evening, a man appeared to me in the door of my chamber.
He came swaddled in the black of a funeral robe, wearing on his face the gray death mask
of Adam Weishaupt.
My first impulse, of course, was to react as prey trapped before a predator.
You will imagine I was quite caught off my guard.
But I will do away with the garrulous descriptions of the sweat on my brow and the beating of
my heart, for they soon enough vanished.
It was discourse alone that he sought.
Such a strange fellow with such strange intonation and so strange ideas, what was I to do but
entertain?
Our conversation lasted far into the small hours of the morning.
When at length he departed, although I am loathe to admit, I found myself entirely perplexed.
My doctorate and all my many years at T�rbingen were as nothing to him.
He spoke of modern chemistry and psychology the way an artist speaks of the hues of a
painting, as if all reality were mutable and subjective.
He spoke too of philosophy, and of the perfectibility of man.
He spoke, and fairly ensorcelled although understanding precious little, I did listen.
I am left here now with the scattering of notes he bade me take and the ghosts of his
abstractions reverberating throughout my mind.
I will not play at the fantasy that this could indeed be a final message from Weishaupt himself,
fifty years beyond the pall of death.
I know only that my curiosity is piqued, and the thin strata of my intellectual pride thoroughly
eroded.
For all my lacking comprehension, I sense some truth in these notes.
I wish to know better what it is he meant to convey by visiting me.
If you'll have it, I will share my progress with you.
I know the Areopagus would make such noise of this, but I have trust in the confidence
of master and pupil.
Will you join me on this frivolous foray, Icarus?
Write me with all haste!
-Daedelus
-
The mountains began to slow, and then to crawl.
The life at last went out of them and they were again an oil painting mounted in the
window of a sleeper car.
Nathaniel's head jerked with the halting momentum of the train.
Like waking, he felt himself return to his own skin.
He clenched and unclenched his tingling hands.
He couldn't tell whether his mouth was numb or dry, but was either way unhappy to be aware
of the sensation.
The hours between Canterbury and Eisenach had passed in a blur of internal exploration.
Instead of drowning under the tide of anxious dread, he'd devoted his attention to the new
breadth of his mind.
He felt it, reaching hungrily to correlate all it now knew with all that was.
Here was the Rennsteig boundary path, nestled into the Thuringian Forest.
Here was the winding shape of the Werra, cutting a silver line through the trees.
Here were a thousand words of a language he'd learned over the course of a single weekend
in preparation for the trip, spilling out under his breath.
A cursory riffle through a stack of textbooks had been enough to prime him, and the rest
had come as naturally as resurfacing memories.
It was good to have his thoughts away from the sleeplessness, and the waning appetite,
and the slow loss of sensation throughout his body.
Good to think of all the chemical had done for him so far.
He touched the final preparation through the fabric of his breast pocket.
Had it been like the others, he'd have downed it in an instant, trusting the effect to resolve
his developing condition.
All would have been well.
He ran his fingers over the shape of the needle's rubber covering.
Why a syringe, now?
Why all these unforetold symptoms?
And why, why was there no response?
He swallowed back the questions, grimaced, and began to gather his things.
As he made his way to the platform, struggling with valise and trunk against the new weakness
in his limbs, he felt a tapping at his elbow.
He looked, and saw the familiar, rotund face of Minerval Pliny.
The man was wearing an olive ditto suit and bowler.
He smiled with theatric politeness from behind his walrus 'stache.
"Begging your pardon, sir," he began in broken English.
When he saw that Nathaniel's eyes were on him, he aimed a thick finger at Nathaniel's
chest.
"If I might, I am noticing your lovely brooch and am wondering if you might tell me, what
is the species of this bird?"
Nathaniel followed the finger with his eyes to the silver pin in his lapel.
It was made to look like an old Greek Dekadrachm coin, tiny owl staring out with its wide eyes
from the center.
He'd forgotten he'd been wearing the thing.
He huffed through his nose tolerantly and gave Pliny a smile that he hoped wasn't condescending.
"It is no trouble, good fellow," he said in perfect, if not perfectly fluid, German.
"That would be the Athene Noctua, a rather small species from out of certain parts of
Asia and Continental Europe.
We hope soon to see it in Britain as well."
For a moment the pretense of the stilted dialogue fell away.
Pliny stared at him, eyebrows knit together in confusion.
The last time they'd seen each other was a little more than a year ago at the Revival
Conference in Bavaria.
He'd been Nathaniel's host then, and in a limited capacity, his translator.
Now the same dim boy stood before him, speaking the language with grammar that was likely
better than his own.
Nathaniel suppressed a grin.
The shorter man caught himself chewing the corner of his own mustache, deep in thought.
He spat it out and said in German, "Wonderful!
I take it you are also a lover of birds?
Shall I help you with your things and we talk about it at length?"
Gratefully, Nathaniel passed the trunk handle to him.
Although the station was near empty, they continued their performance all the way to
the coach, speaking of ornithology and birdwatching and other small things neither of them shared
any interest in.
Were it anyone else, Nathaniel would have tried to do away with the fa�ade.
He was tired, and didn't want to think of scripts and protocols.
But he knew that Pliny was a good Minerval, and would never suffer such sloppiness.
So he humored his friend, and pretended not to know him until the coach doors were closed
and the horses were clip-clopping down the road.
"Thank you, Berend," he said at last, slouching into the old upholstery.
"It was a taxing journey."
Berend didn't respond at first.
He was busy peeking out through the blinds, as if all the world were suspicious of them.
When he seemed satisfied that they were well and truly alone, he reclined into the opposite
seat and looked at Nathaniel.
He did not smile in his usual way, but with something timid, equal parts caution and curiosity.
His eyes seemed to glitter with questions in the dark.
"You," he said slowly, "have changed.
I see it well enough in your countenance, to speak nothing of your language.
It would not be proper of me to ask, but I will not lie and tell you that I am not positively
itching to."
Berend cast a glance at the front wall of the coach, as if the driver would either hear
or care about anything he had to say.
He leaned forward confidentially, dropping his voice to a whisper.
"What is all this business of sudden change?
What is so urgent that you must break tradition and go hunting for your mentor when you are
well to know nothing of him, hm?"
Nathaniel met his gaze.
He was a good man to prepare so much so quickly, and a good friend to do it with so little
explanation.
In an instant Nathaniel collected in his mind the events of the last month-the strange letters,
the rush of new fascination, the parade of chemicals, the growing spaciousness of his
mind-and knew that as much as he might wish to, he could say nothing.
The great irony in the secret Illuminati Rinascita was that word travelled.
And for all his stringency in the following of protocols, Berend was no closed book.
If Nathaniel spoke now, every chapter from Bavaria to London would be crying alchemy
and mystification within a fortnight.
He would be the next Adolph Freiherr Knigge.
"I won't deprive you your answers, but for now I beg patience.
My Daedelus is possessed of a jealous brilliance.
I cannot in good conscience unveil what he has confided in me, but I do believe him to
be on the brink of something with the potential to alter the way we perceive the perfectibility
of man.
Am I not proof of this?"
The regard of Berend's eyes changed as he looked at Nathaniel then, although whether
they changed to skepticism or to grim seriousness he could not tell.
He went on.
"Now, at the xenith of his study, he falls silent?
I would be a poor Minerval not to distress."
"Ah," said Berend, twisting his mustache between sausage-shaped fingers, "yes, I agree it is
a severe thing for one of our Illuminated to vanish from his Minerval.
But, Nathaniel, it would have been prudent-nay, proper of you!-to leave the matter in the
hands of your peers!
Why not simply let us find him on our own and write to you of his condition?
Anonymity of master to prot�g� is paramount to illumination!
This doctrine should not be a revelation to you."
Nathaniel pinched the bridge of his nose between a forefinger and thumb.
His temples were beginning to throb, vision to swim as with a migraine.
The pins and needles had moved from his fingertips to his palms, leaving them cold and sensationless.
He itched for the syringe in his breast pocket, but instead closed his eyes, and thought of
how soon he would once again be under the guidance of his mentor.
"Have faith," he said, with a tired sigh.
"As I said, there will be answers, but no sooner than I am able to speak with Daedelus
myself."
Berend frowned and crossed his arms.
He nodded.
"Fine enough.
I will trust your judgement.
We will arrive in little more than an hour to Weimar to speak with an associate who has,
so they say, dealt with your Daedelus no more than a week ago."
His tone softened, and he gave Nathaniel a pat on the knee.
"For now, it seems to me that you must rest.
You have the look a drowned dog."
Sleep.
He smirked at the naivety of the suggestion, but closed his eyes anyway, and at least tried
to pretend such a thing was possible.
-
September 2nd, 1879 Icarus,
I hope you will forgive me some exuberance in the writing of this letter.
There are but a precious handful of great epiphanies a man comes to in his life.
I believe now, in the wake of my strange visitor some weeks prior, I have experienced one such
revelation.
How I will begin to explain this to you, I do not yet know.
But my pen has already committed ink to paper, and there is little time for articulation.
I suppose I shall put what words occur to me in sequence, and hope that they will translate
to something meaningful when I am done.
It has always been our admission within the Order that a man is a thing of limited ken.
You may know the words of Weishaupt: "In the stage of manhood alone does the human race
first appear in his dignity; only there are his principles fixed, his connections appropriate,
he sees the full circumference of his sphere; there alone-after we have learned through
many detours, through long, repeated, sad experiences, what a calamity it is to arrogate
the rights of others, to raise oneself over others through mere external advantages, to
use his size to the detriment of others-there one recognizes, believes, feels what an honor,
what a joy it is to be a human being."
These were his words, and this much we all grant: a man's goodness exists only in proportion
to his role on the stage of mankind.
But how can we ever fulfill our role if we know not the performance?
Even within the order, it is politics and alignments and bickering philosophy.
We are ever divided by our lack of vision, and thus must perfectibility evade our grasp.
This sounds like so much poetry and speculation, but it was the intention of the man in the
mask to show me otherwise.
I see that now.
I could not fathom the proposition at the time, so lost was I beneath the impenetrable
speak of substances and the stricture of application.
Now, after more than a week of toil, I have lain out the breadth of it before me in paper
and ink, and I see clearly what he meant to say.
I expect it would be impossible to describe to someone of your learning the precise mechanism
behind the process, but in the plainest possible terms you might call it the replication of
a thought.
Upon consumption of the chemical, the body is seized first by the physiological product
of the thought, and the mind extrapolates immediately backward to discover its psychological
source.
It has so far been impossible for me to make any meaningful correlations between the specifics
of my new ease of learning and the exact preparation these instructions have allowed me to create.
The end result is something like a general broadening of the individual's aptitudes through
a clandestine series of grafts patterned after the experiences of an unknown donor.
Oh, Icarus, I am sorry.
Any attempt to render this madness comprehensible is doomed from the start.
Suffice it to say, I feel we have all this time been standing at the foot of the gate,
and only now have we been given a key.
I am sorely tempted to grant that the man was Weishaupt himself, not returned from death,
but from an expedition to that unknown place beyond the wall of our meager ken.
Suppose we follow, and find what we will?
Perhaps this is indeed the final step before the threshold of perfect unity we have for
so long sought to procure for our kind.
I do not yet know.
I am only so much better for having tried.
Already I feel my own mind flourishing like a tree beneath the hands of a good husbandman.
I would be glad to share it with you.
Expect a preparation of your own in the post.
I will await your response.
Yours with all eagerness,
-Daedelus
-
The darkness moved behind Nathaniel's eyelids.
It was alive with silhouetted lines that seemed to drift to and fro, shadows cast over shadows.
They'd first appeared weeks ago, as benign then as the tiny white spots and lines one
sees when they peer up at a clear blue sky.
He'd taken them as an artifact of his burgeoning perspective, and they hadn't troubled him.
But the days had passed, and night after restless night he'd watched as the dark static coalesced
into something too distinct not to notice every time he closed his eyes.
Rest became the sole product of sheer exhaustion, and when he dreamt, the lines were umbral
pathways leading to countless open doors.
Beyond each of them, the same strange vista he could never quite recall in waking.
However tired he felt, he knew sleep wouldn't come.
He sat awake for the better part of an hour with his lids shut, watching the bizarre spectacle
play out behind them.
As he stared, he began to notice something in the obscurity.
There was an odd sense of depth to it all.
Some of the dark tendrils were nearer and larger than others, some so far distant that
they blended into the red-black canvas of his flesh.
One of them looked almost like one of the pathways from his dreams, stretching out from
beneath him.
It curved up and away from the bottom of his field of view, shrinking into the distance
to join the innumerable, shifting tapestry beyond.
He felt himself lean forward to follow, but then there was something hard on his shoulder,
and he jolted to a halt.
"Good lord, man!"
One of Berend's big hands closed around his shoulder and hefted him backward against the
seat.
"Are you trying to concuss yourself, taking a dive into the bench like that?"
Nathaniel barely heard him.
Barely saw him.
When he opened his eyes, there, somehow visible beneath all the layers of substance that made
up reality, was the faintest impression of a shadow.
It was a single, great, silhouetted line, drawn between him and something far away.
He could still see it, even with his eyes open.
The look on his face must have been madness, because Berend jerked his hand away from Nathaniel's
shoulder as if it were a hot burner, and fell silent for several long seconds.
"Nathaniel," he said at length, voice soft with concern.
He tried for a moment to see what had Nathaniel so transfixed.
Seeming to see nothing, he grunted, removed his bowler, and began nervously to slick back
his island of thinning hair.
"You... do not look well, my friend.
In fact, I might say you look the poorest I've seen a man outside of hospital.
It may be wise to forego the meeting this evening and instead get you in front of a
physician, hm?"
Nathaniel continued to look through him at the new shadow beneath reality.
His headache seemed to bleed into it, lancing sharply through his neck and temples, emanating
outward through his throbbing eyes in a way he couldn't fathom.
The pain streamed out along the dark path like an electric current through a lightning
rod.
He felt it outside of himself, radiating to new and different places miles away.
A new revelation came to him, then.
He knew it as well as he knew the warmth of his own breath, the location of his fingertips.
The path lead to Daedelus.
He blinked, as if that might make the shadow disappear for long enough to find some clarity
of thought.
The vision only intensified.
Closing his eyes was like draping a navigational map over a landscape.
With each passing moment he felt more and more of this dark network, laced into the
fabric of all that was.
He inhaled slowly, trying to fight back the anxious heat rising into his cheeks.
It was difficult to focus on anything with this new visual obstruction beneath it all,
but he looked at Berend.
"He is in Gotha."
Berend's face scrunched up, skeptical.
He was quiet for a moment.
"Do you mean Daedelus?"
Nathaniel nodded.
"How can you know something like that?
You were begging for help to track the man down not one week ago!"
Nathaniel looked into Berend's dark eyes with the last shreds of his concentration.
He thought his fist might be clutching the fabric of Berend's sleeve, but he wasn't sure.
Most of the feeling had gone out of his extremities over the course of the last hour.
"Please, trust me.
You will have answers, but for now, trust me.
Trust me."
Berend stared back at him, fierce for a moment.
And then his resolve looked to break, and his expression deflated into one of pity.
He laced his fingers together and placed them over his mouth, deep in thought.
"That is more than six hours ride.
I am in earnest when I say that I do not know how you will endure the journey.
But if you must go now, I will take you."
Nathaniel opened his mouth to speak, but Berend held up a finger.
"My condition is that we see to your condition no later than you see in the flesh your Daedelus.
You may give your greeting, but then I take you to the nearest hospital."
Nathaniel only nodded vacantly, and watched Berend climb out of the carriage to speak
with the driver.
There was the sound of muffled bickering, but it was so far blurred into the inconsequential
stimulus of his senses that he hardly noticed.
Trembling and numb, his fingers fumbled with his breast pocket to withdraw the preparation.
Looking at it now, the substance in the chamber had a strange quality he had never before
noticed.
It was like a shadow, no depth or dimension, falling against the chamber only opposite
the light.
Still, it rippled and sloshed about when he moved it like any ordinary liquid.
He looked at the darkening shadow path, extending away from him into the distance.
There were the ghostly impressions of others now as well, crisscrossing madly in every
direction.
If he closed his eyelids, he knew he would see them all with perfect clarity.
Six hours.
Only six hours until Daedelus could fix him, or at least put right his broken mind.
He pressed the tip of the needle to the inside of his elbow.
-
September 29th, 1879 It was foolishness to spend precious time
writing out the date.
It is foolishness for me to be writing anything other than the principle matter of this letter.
Pardon me.
It is a great effort to focus my hand, much less my mind.
The whole of reality has become to me a stimulus which I cannot resist.
However, for your sake, I must for a moment attempt to reduce the aperture of my vision.
I will try.
I apologize in advance if pieces of this letter become inscrutable.
Icarus, by the time this finds you I will have summited the high peak of our expedition.
Already I feel the winds of rapid ascent lapping at my limbs and my face.
You must feel the beginnings of it as well.
I cannot offer you courage, only promise that what you endure-what I endure-must surely
be worthy.
I have seen now the truth of man.
We are but fragments of one grand intelligence, fractured and locked away in the fragile prison
cells of ordered nature.
The great perfection of united purpose we have for so long sought after is only the
dream of a mind which longs to be whole.
Humanity is the barrier to its own perfection, and so we make our exodus.
I am sorry.
It is so much to hold this pen between fingers that seem no longer to be there at all; to
reduce myself to something which can see the necessity of such things as a written letter.
I can abide no longer.
I must finish my ascent.
I leave you here with not only an open gate, but a path to follow.
Be brave, Icarus.
Rejoice.
-Daedelus
-
Nathaniel knew the place before they arrived.
It surfaced like a forgotten memory from the back of his mind.
There, he recalled the procession of white ornaments along the roof's frontispiece, the
Corinthian half-columns built into the siding, the faux-marble bas reliefs capping each door.
The years had worn them all from their rococo splendor to the black-streaked relics of a
time since passed.
The last home of Adam Weishaupt.
His shadow-path crawled irreverently beyond the overgrown dooryard and upward through
the innards of the house.
Amid the churnings of the million other dark channels that had since come to overcrowd
his vision, there was no seeing where it lead.
He didn't care.
The pain in his head was blossoming into a confluence of all the world's anguish, centered
somewhere behind his eyes.
Relief was only several dozen footsteps away.
He tried to stand and throw open the door, but couldn't quite tell what he was doing
with his numb limbs and collided fruitlessly against the inside wall of the coach.
His body was rapidly turning into a useless anchor of flesh and bone.
Berend heard the ruckus and startled awake.
"The devil?"
He shouted, looking bleary-eyed up at Nathaniel.
Upon meeting Nathaniel's gaze, his tired indignation melted instantly into an expression of gaping
horror.
His eyes flicked about, as if unsure which precise part of Nathaniel's head to stare
at.
Nathaniel only paid him a glance, and then continued to scrabble in weak desperation
against the door.
When he finally found purchase and it came open, his momentum sent him stumbling ungracefully
onto his hands and knees on the gravel outside.
He thought one of his legs and several of his fingers might have twisted strangely beneath
him as he rose to his feet, but there was no sensation in them and no time to worry.
The door was open, waiting for him at the end of the walk.
He hobbled toward it as if were the only thing his body had ever been meant for.
"But... your head," he heard Berend stammering somewhere behind him, "Nathaniel, wait!
Your head!
You need a surgeon, right this moment!
You... you need a priest!"
He continued to shout, but never left the carriage.
Whatever he was trying to say, it was not enough to compel him to follow.
As Nathaniel crossed the threshold, he noticed that the dark path curled through the architecture
in such a way that he couldn't follow.
He cast his eyes about the place.
Vaguely, above the field of twisting darkness, he began to recognize his surroundings.
Here was the parlor, and the familiar hydrangea-embroidered couch he'd dozed on during so many long nights
riddling out the particularities of his suspicions.
Here was the library, and the piles of strange texts he'd hoped would shed some light on
his visitor's cryptic guidance.
Here was the cellar, where under the absent instruction of a staring clay mask he'd first
learned to distill a thought into something one could hold in a vial.
He stood at the top of the stairwell, leaning heavily against the doorframe.
He couldn't tell whether the memories belonged to him or to someone else.
All was Numbness and pain.
He was become an amalgamate of the two, wrought over with a fever of foreign visions and all
the experiences of a consciousness greater than his own.
The physical, the present, hardly seemed to exist at all anymore.
If he focused very hard, he thought he could see something out of place in the dim light
of the stairwell.
It looked like a system of tender white roots spread out over the walls and the ceiling
and the steps.
They crept slowly across the bricks, the wood, now and then finding one another and melding
with mercurial smoothness before diverging again into a dozen new lines.
As he watched this through his wavering vision, a far-distant part of his mind tried feebly
to tell him something that he could only just hear.
It was as if some final foundering fragment of humanity was rasping out a cry within him.
All the things that did not want to be forgotten gathered in the shade of his fear, begging
him not to go.
A thousand days of waking and sleeping and living for the simple curiosity of the next
day, a hundred thousand words of ambition uttered in hushed tones to his father and
written into the lines of letters to his mentor, countless words and wants left unsaid and
unformed.
Everything that he was and had ever wanted to be rebelled against the blasphemy in the
stairwell.
From this primitive, dwindling bastion of rational thought, there came a pang of truth.
He knew from the pain alone that there would be no return from this expedition.
It was too late for Berend's physician to do whatever he thought he might be able to.
Still, it wasn't too late to turn around all the same.
Better, perhaps, to end the journey knowingly than to forever lose his way home.
He stood silently, feeling the warmth of this last fire.
At last, it winked out, and although he did not feel it, he knew it rolled in a single
cool droplet down his cheek and off his jaw.
He lowered onto his hands and knees, and began to descend.
At the base of the steps, the network of roots congealed into a single shape.
He was entering into a cavern of flesh now, blanketed in gray and glistening tissue.
Just as he'd known the way to the old Weishaupt home, known the shape and the history of the
rooms within, known that he must journey into the cellar, he knew now, even before he saw
the body, that this was Daedelus.
And there, beyond it all, the shadow trail came curling incorporeally through the building,
terminating at last behind the cellar's far wall.
At its end, his dear mentor.
The husk of the man he'd known lay on the floor, as empty and gray as the sloughed exoskeleton
of an insect.
Now Daedelus was something else, blossoming out of his own cleft skull like a giant, gray
flower.
His roots branched from a network of darkness, and from a seedling of cast-off humanity.
His dendritic petals beckoned motionlessly to Nathaniel, and their attention was clarity,
and liberty, and freedom from pain.
His hands and knees could hold his weight no longer.
He rolled onto his back to stare up at his mentor, feeling the ineffable agony climb
to its burning climax behind his eyes.
All the world was slipping away.
He felt himself floating in the vastness of the disordered cosmos, surrounded by the pulsing
axons of the mind Daedelus had become; that he was becoming.
One final vision for Nathaniel, before he was forever lost to the fullness of all time
and knowledge.
He saw it first with his own eyes: a figure, emerging from some place in the cellar, clad
in blackness.
It stared down at him through the death mask of Adam Weishaupt.
"Humanity is the barrier to its own perfection," it said, deep voice resonating impossibly
through ears that no longer worked, "and so you make your exodus."
And then his eyes began to fail, and the figure unfurled into something incomprehensibly vast,
mottled all over with gray pock marks.
It hovered like a gardener among vines, stroking with its many arms the infinitely interwoven
branches of all sentience.
The grey marks were the innumerable remnants of stolen visages, death masks all staring
expressionlessly outward forever.
He knew all of them, but there were only three he truly saw.
There was Weishaupt, and there was one he knew to be Daedelus, and there was one that
had at one point, long ago, belonged to a man named Nathaniel.
And then even the names themselves were swept away on the surging tide of awareness, and
the masks no longer belonged to anyone at all.
Afterword Thus concludes what may have been the single
most taxing story we've created for this show.
If not for our humans, then at least for me personally.
Our goal this time was to do as Lovecraft did when he referenced his own creations,
and use them as the props in a sort of "psychological performance".
I was the unfortunate lab rat for this piece, and there is a lot of me in there.
My fears, my... reservations about what I am, and what I could be.
I'll leave it at that and let you all connect the dots in the comments.
This can be pretty hard stuff for me to talk about at length.
While you're at it, feel free to hazard a guess at which particular symbols and figures
we invoked from the mythos.
You might be surprised.
Unfortunately, this is where our Lovecraft series comes to an end.
But, if you're still itching for more psychological torment and cosmic horror, don't worry!
There's plenty more available-and by far betters narrators than I am-over at Audible.com.
Sign up for a free one-month trial using the link in the description and you'll get access
to two free audiobooks of your choice from Audible's catalogue of over 100,000 titles.
Lately, the Tale Foundry team has been listening to the "Complete H.P.
Lovecraft Omnibus, Volumes 1 & 2", compiled and read by Finn J.D John.
If you haven't yet had a chance to catch up on your Lovecraft, this is a great opportunity
to do it while you drive or work or create whatever art it is that you create.
And, of course, it definitely doesn't hurt that's just a free way to support the show.
For a more intimate way to contribute, you can also join us on Patreon, where you'll
have access to monthly votes to help us decide on themes, sneak-peeks, even think-tank sessions
where you'll get to talk to the team about each video before it comes out.
Without our patrons, this show wouldn't be possible.
So to everyone who helps us make it happen, thank you.
And a special thanks to our top patrons: Nik Maier, JustRenderin, Arch di Angelo, Gwendolyn
Richard, Ariel Teague, RPGgrenade-RocketMooseX, Jay S, William Maitland, Brandon Steed, Vasili
Hrebinka, and Colin Johnston.
Thank you all so much for your outstanding support.
Anyway, that's all for H.P.
Lovecraft.
Thanks for watching, and keep making stuff up!
We'll see you...
next time!
Bye!
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