künstlerroman
"arma virumque cano"
The following is an initial recorded report:
It has, from my estimation, been over a fair month since I've been deployed. Albeit, I use the word "fair", when there's really nothing fair about it. Murderers, cowards, and the shadows of men walking the streets... There's nothing fair about this "situation".
One becomes instantly reminded of H.P. Lovecraft... No, not "Herbert West" - instead, the first few sentences of "The Call of Cthulhu." It seems, at least, we've plunged ourselves into oblivion for the sake of sowing together the cross-stitched fragments of science.
I, undoubtedly, am guilty. I confess. While I was searching for materials in the hospital, I came across a discarded Necro-Tech manual... It's taken me a couple days, what, with the normal patrols and rearmament. I've yet to make my way down to the buildings, but I'm pretty sure I can figure out the machinery by now. One can hope that after years of reading my Blake, I'd be up to the task of following a little instruction manual.
Anyway, this sector certainly isn't what I had expected. The debriefing before deployment had warned us of a shoddy sort of organization in their midst - as if the soul had fled with the glossing of the eyes, but the devious mind remained - but I've yet to see it in full force. Now, not to say there aren't rumors floating about, but certainly nothing verified. Yet.
"Then there were saints who came to these people, weeping, and talked to them of their pride, of their loss of harmony and due proportion, of their loss of shame. They were laughed at or pelted with stones. Holy blood was shed on the threshold of the temples." - "The Dream of a Ridiculous Man", Fyodor Dostoevsky
signed August Twenty-Sixth, Two-Thousand and Six Anno Domini
More would be recorded in hopes of reaching a commanding officer. None would.
aether years
In time, the post at Foulkes Village would be abandoned, as the line of communication with the outside world was clearly severed.
The following months and years proved formative. As the days creeped by, it was clear that the authorities were useless in the pursuit of a better society. The echoes of military marches would never be heard again. Working under the structures provided by the Surrealists of Malton, the goal soon became the defense of art. Where stands tyranny, generate beauty.
transmutation
Eventually, a communique was delivered to the Philosophe Knights. The following is a fragment:
Nevertheless, I've recently given up on expanding the minds of Malton's rabble artistically, and focused more on... well... perhaps... mythologizing is the word. I used to run a wonderful little theater troupe in Foulkes Village. It seems that, between the drab Crew Avenue Police Department and their lackey do-nothing law-lovers, no one's got the taste of art any more. So long to my cinema dreams, as well. The undead got a taste for Jarmusch's Coffee and Cigarettes. Literally.
Dialogue was achieved.
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