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A Letter Inscribed In Crystal
Discovered within the Apostates' Cavern, on Mu
by Tana'loof Drum Casimir, the Guard-Captain · Aug 31, 2026 · view history →
[Archie has added the deciphered text - apparently, the key was, in point of fact, ‘SYNOMOTE’.]
O my undoing—
You will say that I am cataloguing again. I am cataloguing again; it’s easier than the other thing. I’ve ciphered this more carefully than I usually bother to; I’d rather not examine too closely why I felt the need to. The Academy instills certain instincts, I suppose, not mine to judge.
First, and least importantly, I am not conceding the northern route. I have looked at the map you sent, and the map is wrong, and I love you, and the map is wrong. Tell Calyx I said so, and tell him I said it kindly, because I am choosing to be the better person about this even though I am plainly correct.
Second, our instruments have been strange for the better part of a month. Nothing anyone downriver would notice, but I sit closer to the crystal than most and I don’t like what I’ve been seeing. Not a fault in the glass; I’ve checked more times than I care to recount. The variance grows closer to the Telesterion, which I have decided to find scientifically fascinating rather than permitting myself the sin of dread; one of those postures is useful to me and the other isn’t. Ask around, if it’s no trouble and won’t make you seem strange for asking. I’d like to know whether it’s felt, as well as measured.
I’d also like to know whether the Stoicheia have an opinion on the matter. Correlation must not be taken to imply causation, of course, but I track the discrepancies in telemetry nearly to the week in which they arrived. Anyder does not have a working relationship with them yet - you and yours do. Reassure me, if you can; I’d be profoundly grateful.
Third, Tekton and Lysios again. You know I try not to gossip about people I’ve never met, and they certainly count, but half the Academy has an opinion this week and I’m too tired to pretend I don’t. The argument used to be entertaining to watch from afar, but now I can’t tell if two souls have finally worn their syzygy to the bone, or if our institutions are coming apart along fault-lines nobody saw. I’m told from where you’re standing it hardly matters which; I find that I disagree — it seems to me it would matter enormously. But I’m not standing where you’re standing, so you may tell me I’m wrong about this too, when you write back.
I am sorry about the Games. I know how long you’ve kept the season clear for it, and I know what it costs you when They are not well enough to preside. The postponement, and the worry underneath. Send me word the moment there’s better news. Send me word regardless, honestly; I’d rather have you complaining at me about nothing than not have you at all for another three weeks.
Small thing, and I nearly didn’t write it, because it sounds foolish and mad when put to crystal. Do you recall the apprentice who helped carry stock, last time I visited? Dark-haired, hopeless with knots, you were teaching them the overhand-and-cross? I sat down to write and thank them for the trouble and I cannot find them in a single record, anywhere. Not the roll, not the guest-book, not even my own notes from that week, which I know I kept. I’m sure it’s nothing. I’m sure I’ve simply misfiled a fortnight of my own damn life, which would not be the first time, and you’re allowed to laugh at me for it. I would like you to laugh at me for it, actually. Do that, specifically, in your next letter.
And since I am apparently making a list of everything I miss and calling it correspondence: send figs, if the trees are still fruiting. Not the ones that are grown along the Anyder for show. The good kind. The kind that goes soft if you look at them wrong on the journey here; I don’t care, send them anyways, I’ll eat them bruised. You know which ones. Split one for me before you seal the crate, like I’d just lost another duel to you and the temenos hadn’t even faded yet and we were celebrating each other already.
I miss the taste of home.
Keep your edge, my love. I’ll keep mine.
— K.
BO SN WSHSGMHW—
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BDRZHU, EAUDMO GAHU VEMDMY GPCGOW. NMVZ PSNX HZ CKOV OMBU BS HNOUMDQW BCSXBU LANQVF HZ’YF YAYFQZ YCBU, GAHU BDFE TAKCCGYPOV BMWSBU, TXBU GBVL BDBV BTTGCYOV GBOU GA NQGMHMOW BDDM VATL GAHU HZ’OZ BSBO CDLCHU BS QKAEAYHU HZ HSOW’BU. BDBV CPDWYCSA STTF BS CA AYEAKCCGMGAP BS NGETQO ILMS EGCP, TXBU OMXZ HZ TBOW’BU EAQVQV DG AUBO YMVKOU GBYF GDAGQVVE XNPM BDCFQZ YNVMFN BS BDBV HBYA, MQ DG SXQZ GMTDDCSDHMOY CPBV BMCRAP GWCPBU EPMOHW GEVKBU-RFYAOU OMHBFS NTXZ. HZ’OZ BSKF ILMS XGCLBV NMVZ’LC TDGAFDAP DC GBKIVE NCBUEAKM XGRIQO; HZ GDSG BDBE HZ FDNTIPBVBV — DC YTCYOU BS YC DC XNVKHU NCBUEAQZ AYMQSMSTVE. TXBU HZ’OZ OMBU TDGAFDAP XGCLBV NMVZ’LC TDGAFDAP, YM NMVZ NCOV EAQVQV YC HZ’OZ ZPMOHW BCSXBU BDDM BSBO, XGAY NMVZ ZPDCBV CBTR.
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GAHU MDMABV HZ CN GWWGLCSAVE NCRDAP BW RFTD YH FYCLSEIDAP HZ CROUOU GAHU TBQVRFAP DC BMQZLCNKMOFTMABV: YTSG GDDN, DG BDBV CKBVTY CPBV TDFRQV ILZDCDAP. OMBU BDBV MOTY BDBE CPBV IPNXOW EPMOHW BDBV GASFCL HYQZ ODNX. BDBV HNSH RDSG. BDBV RDSG BDBE HNTY YMDE DG NMVZ QYSQ BE BDCY ZPMOHW MO BDBV HMZKYAOV FBLC; HZ HSOW’BU TBLC, YTSG BDCY GANVENOU, HZ’QVQV ABBU BDCY CQZDYTHU. NMVZ PSNX XGRIQO MOTY. NKRFBU MOBV HYQZ YC CAHYLC NMVZ YTEP BDBV IZBEBV, RFLT HZ’HU DZTD QYTD GASBFBQZ KSFV BS NMVZ GAHU BDBV EAYCOMOU GBGS’BU FYAY GEFTHU EFBU GAHU VA VALC TAVFCQBEGMHW ABBI SBFBQZ EPLCTGOV.
HZ CROUOU BDBV EBTDBV YH QBYC.
LTAL NMZK TFFA, SN QYYF. HZ’QVQV LTAL CRYA.
— QU.
ꙮ Although you can certainly take a moment to futz around with the keypad now that the lock’s been disabled. The door does slide open when you gently shove on it, though - inside, the dead man’s shelter. The broken, curved crystal screen, on one side of the main room, a bed in the corner. Smooth curves, cool metal, white surfaces made of some gnosis-sensitive substance. The table’s still glowing, and the lights are on - you can’t see the source of any of the lights, just this soft, everpresent diffuse glow.
ꙮ The mysterious dead man is still there, on the couch facing the screen; nothing about the scene has been disturbed, and Aurelius even gently slid the etched crystal tablet under his hand where he’d found it, after he copied down the message. His watch is on the table, where Aury left it. The only thing that’s really changed is that the boxes of supplies have been taken out of the room. There’s a thin divider, separating off part of the room from the rest; you can see the foot of a carefully-made bed behind it.
ꙮ Salme - on the wall next to the bed, obscured by the divider, there’s a watercolor painting of a man’s face. Darker skin, light blond hair drawn back in a ponytail, piercing green eyes and an aquiline nose, with the suggestion of a smirk on his lips. It’s impressionistic, the work of a dedicated amateur.
ꙮ Incredibly composed, a serene expression on his face. Reaching out towards the etched crystal tablet. The suit he’s wearing would be the envy of any tailor in Almachadta, and it’s not a cut or a style you recognise; it seems formal, almost– not military. Not monastic, either, exactly. It looks like he was crying, when he died.
ꙮ He’s got shockingly loud blue hair that matches the colour of his suit to an astonishing degree, and a tight metal collar that looks like a single piece of rounded metal, conformed to the shape of his neck, tucked under the collar of his suit.
ꙮ There’s a box of figs on the table. It hasn’t been touched, for some reason, when the supplies were taken. One of the figs has been cut, neatly, in half, and packed in the box prominently. It’s still perfectly fresh.
ꙮ When you touch the collar, you feel a questing pulse of gnosis, a complicated, shimmering weave. If you had the counterweave to it, it would fit like a key in a lock.
— And then he was wearing something quite like a tomestone on his wrist, and once worn, it showed the following:
ꙮ The face of it lights up, and a bloom of gnosis unfurls from it. For Salme’ eyes only, imagery flickers into the space in front of her. A desk, with locked drawers. A little model of a white tower that you feel like you could pick up with your hands and hold, you swear, it’s that detailed. An outline in the air, a suggestion, like a vivid sketch in three dimensions, looking down on the desk and its occupant with a faintly-amused smile on his face - the man from the watercolor, rendered even more stylistically perhaps, but still recognisable now that you’ve seen it.