[The following are voice recordings by Investigator Garamond Blanc.]
* * *
Day 1.
Upon Lady Lucidia’s request, I am tasked with the observation of Gaelic Blanc.
Medical reports confirmed that he’s powerful enough to be registered in the list of active Seers. However, he has no interest in joining the force proper.
My cousin’s mental condition is delicate to say the least. He refuses to cooperate, and our hospitals have no resources for his long-term care.
She thus proposed an uninhabited island for relocation. Placing him under supervision on known monster territory will ease the hearts of many.
I understand her reasoning, but I do not approve. Alas, there’s little I can do to stop this ‘experiment’ now that it’s begun.
…To think fate would bring us back to that accursed place.
* * *
Day 2.
When I walked by the beachside, nostalgia accompanied me every step of the way.
The sailors of yore call that place ‘Wyrmbrood Island’. A secret lush haven with plenty of food and water. But this richness hides many dangers. Countless ships have met their end there. Survivors tell of wyrms swimming underneath the waves, intelligent enough to smash their boats.
There were never such beasts, but the claims of peril were true for different reasons. Shallow cold-coral reefs weaved around the island, forming mazes of serpentine peaks. They look like dragons from above. More so to those delirious from thirst and hunger.
Shipwrecked sailors had wandered into the southern fishing settlements before. Lives were lost on either side. The Magi had to silence the human survivors: either by sword or by pen. Many would pay mounds of gold for Lemuria’s location.
Deterrents have since been installed around the borders. A mix of illusions and current shifters ensured that no human could wash up on Wyrmbrood Island ever again. As such, this remote wilderness remains untouched in the 21st century; it became a nature reserve of sorts, valued mainly by local ecologists.
Upon Awakening at five years old, Gaelic ended up on this very same Wyrmbrood Island via a series of portal hops. It wasn’t intentional. He was a confused, panicked child in pain. It's likely that he ran until he hit a dead end.
What happened after that was the true mystery. Instead of accepting rescue, he fled deeper into the wild. We tried bringing his parents to shore to call him back.
He doesn’t recognize them. It’s possible that the ferocity of his premature Awakening tampered with his memory.
Days became weeks. Weeks dragged to months. No one thought the child would survive… except for Sir Scott Wiley, one of the best Trackers in recent history.
He prepped to camp there for at least a season. If not two. His plan was to search for Gaelic. Then, earn his trust the slow way.
He succeeded. At the eve of winter as well.
I was relieved, since it was right before the harshest season.
My uncle and his wife were delighted beyond words. They had their son back after so long. But, their celebrations were dampened by Sir Wiley’s warning.
Young Gaelic had lost all his social skills. He couldn’t talk. It's doubtful that he understood speech. Furthermore, his first reaction to food was to plant face-first into it.
His behaviors had more in common with a wild animal than a person.
It will take conscious, deliberate effort to rehabilitate Gaelic. Even then, Sir Wiley had his doubts. ‘A tamed wolf is not a dog,’ he said.
We had hoped that his young age was an advantage toward his eventual recovery. Now, thinking back… I wonder if we had been too arrogant.
* * *
Day 15.
Gaelic still refuses to see me.
I go to the beach, he climbs up the mountain.
Up the mountain I go, he scurries down to the lowlands.
It appears he has enough presence of mind to consciously avoid me. However, none of the tools I left for him were taken. Going minimal again. From personal experience, that’s never a good sign…
I returned the rest of the equipment to Scott Wiley. That man still has his edge, but he’s laying his days to rest. Age, injury, and obligations had caught up with him in recent years. He has a daughter of his own; she needs him.
Lady Lucidia accepted my report without much questioning. I could tell she’s burdened by a thought. But, she refuses to disclose it, apologizing for the lost time instead.
* * *
Day 31.
Nowadays whenever I check on Gaelic, I’d bring food and water. Perhaps he had a good breakfast. Perhaps he had not eaten for three days. It didn’t matter.
Offering nourishment was what enabled Scott to win his trust, so that’s what I’ll try. My best bet would be to replicate the positive association.
I would place the bowl on a rock and distance myself. If needed, I will also render myself invisible. Then I will watch him eat in private.
A friendly bond won’t form so soon. That’s fine.
I am patient.
I am determined.
* * *
Day 70.
From my office I often stare out toward the ocean, pondering. Out of habit, I light a cigar to calm my nerves. Nicotine affects monsters the same way as humans do… along with all its toxic drawbacks.
To think this was a necessary tool of health back in the olden days. Humans said that it protected them from dementia, when in reality it killed countless before the onset of the disease.
I don’t know how many years I have lost to this outdated practice. Not enough, perhaps.
‘Old habits die hard’ as the saying goes. That said, I wonder if there’s anything so different between Gaelic and I?
He was a good boy. That’s what my uncle would say.
It’s hard to deny it either. He was obedient: did his chores, stocked the bookshop, and stayed indoors whenever his parents told him to.
Perhaps the biggest mistake was to assume that there was nothing wrong behind his compliance.
And when they passed away… that’s when I saw the return of the beast Scott had plucked from Wyrmbrood Island.
His parents had tried hard to teach him the skills to live on after their passing. Gaelic instead misunderstood those teachings as the means by which to earn their approval. After they were gone, he saw no reason to retain the knowledge anymore.
He had missed the point of their love.
By the time we realised this, it was far too late.
Too many times I was forced to leave Lemuria for work. As a result, my influence on Gaelic was nowhere near what my uncle had hoped for.
I don’t know if it’s too late. But, I have to try to set things right.
* * *
Day 71.
My origins had their own tragedy.
If you spot this story on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.
I was born out of wedlock. Through fate and fortune, the head of the Blanc Clan adopted me as his own son. I grew up in an environment full of love. Everyone thought of me as the chief’s golden boy and treated me as one of their own, even though I'm not.
I wouldn't know the truth until I had my Eyes awaken. The Blancs are known for their lack of Lich ancestry. For me to bear two… I realised couldn’t ever be of their lineage.
It became my goal to reconnect with my biological parents. If they were not prepared for me at birth, maybe they would accept me ten years later?
So, I launched my investigation in secret. Asked around. Saved money. Bribed for intel. Read what records I could get a hold of.
After a year, I found my parents. But my presence was rejected still. My mother had married someone else. And my father… he’d rather jump into the ocean than to talk to me.
It’s difficult to realize that I was a subject of shame. The Blancs comforted me. Reassured that I am family no matter what my origins were. Since then, I stopped chasing after that childish dream.
However, my sleuthing had caught the attention of the Seers. They were impressed that I had the talents to track down my parents, more so for my youth.
They offered me a recommendation to train as an Investigator, one of The Magus Association's Observer specialists.
With the support of the entire clan, I accepted.
In time, generations changed, and I remained the only one left alive from that era.
To think that Gaelic, a true Blanc, got shunned instead of me…
…I wish it was reversed.
* * *
Day 109.
Latinoros called me to the cafe. Knowing him it’s to air his woes. One might expect this to take place in a pub, but he’s not fond of anything more bitter than tea.
I first encountered him as a child over Gaelic’s school incident. A year his senior, if I’m not mistaken. Later in life, we met again as members of the field of Law.
Somehow, we became friends. It happened gradually over time. First, we worked together as colleagues. Then, he started asking me for advice. We exchanged contacts.
Perhaps I’m one of the few with the patience and understanding to make sense of his ranting. It’s usually about the latest family custody cases: messy affairs.
When I arrived there, I found Latinoros in a rather strange state. Less of his usual frustration. More… conflicted.
We had our drink in silence for a while.
On any other day, he would start talking the very moment we sat down. Something’s up.
I asked if anything happened at the children’s home.
He shook his head. Nothing that his family couldn’t handle.
It’s a relief.
But then in return, he questioned if I had seen Gaelic. I told him that I didn’t.
‘Do you recall the 19th century?’ he later enquired, starting an unusual query. ‘How was society’s outlook on life back then? What did it mean to be a ‘person’? Did the world change for the better or for worse?’
I answered to the best of my ability. It’s been a long time, to the point where I can’t trust my own memories. They could be tainted by nostalgia.
One thing was sure: it was different compared to the 21st century. Better in some ways. Not quite in others.
Latinoros told me that some of his kin had been theorizing Gaelic’s unusual mentality. Skeletonkind, both Lichborn and Blanks, descended from humans. Therefore, anthropology and human psychology were considered relevant subjects.
Is he a mere mental patient? Is he a symptom of genetic degradation? Or should he be considered living proof of this age’s evolutionary theory?
I can see why it troubled Latinoros. If it’s true that Gaelic’s condition is a sign of gradual corruption, all those with the Eye could be at risk. It had already been noted that those further away from their roots tend to be less human in their proportions.
On the flipside, if Gaelic is proof that humans evolved from the beasts of the wild… where then do we Seers stand in monster society?
* * *
Day 110.
It took some persuasion, but I managed to ask Lady Lucidia for her thoughts. We agreed that she would only answer what she wants to answer. Even though it goes against my Investigator’s tendencies, I respect her wishes.
Is there a purpose for her experiment? I wanted to know.
She replied: ‘Do you consider Gaelic as a person or an animal?’
I had to choose my answer carefully. Lady Lucidia may not have Justice as her trait, but her mind is sharp. I want to be as honest to her as possible.
I told her that I consider him family, no matter what others say.
She was glad. But, the joy didn’t last. Her expression soon darkened.
The following clip is her recording. She insisted on including these statements into whatever archives I chose to keep.
To her, it’s an interview. Thus it must maintain integrity.
“Sir Garamond, others don’t think like you do. Objectification and dehumanization runs deep.”
“For better or for worse, Gaelic is a living curiosity. His extreme condition and unusual beginnings are a wealth of valuable information. What happened to him was an accident. Therefore, there are no legal restraints.”
“If I hand him over to others, his treatment will be at the mercy of the head of the experiment. Perhaps it would be holistic. Kind. Perhaps it would be unethical. Cruel.”
“Do you remember one of Sir Latinoros’ cases? Where a pair of children underwent unspeakable horrors under the misguided quest for science? If a parent could do such thing to their own offspring… perhaps it’s better that I say no more.”
“There’s a thin line between torture and research. Anything could be reasoned away with the right mindset. I imagined that there are many willing to take the risk.”
“This is why… I made Gaelic my personal study. I’m the only one who can control my own actions. The experiment I had set up is the best balance between security and freedom.”
“Sir Garamond, please pardon this childish selfishness.”
End recording.
…Her logic is sound. Sad as it is, we can’t trust others with Gaelic’s wellbeing.
I’m reminded of that blasted den. Of how they manipulated him into modifying his face, and selling everything to pay a surgeon of questionable integrity.
That wretched hive of scum… they saw Gaelic’s flaws as scrumptious honey.
They sought control, imagining that they had overpowered a creature of the wild.
They craved submission, played by romanticised ideas limited to fiction.
They offered ‘love’, only to seize the opportunity to groom for the fulfillment of their fantasies.
He became their toy. Their pet. Their object of desire.
His exotic allure was too irresistible. After all, he had the body and was eager to learn: a wild, untamed bubbling broth of passion.
…Disgusting.
They cared not for who he truly is. They cared not for the person curled up in a hole of his own making, drowning in agony.
I was so outraged, I would have gotten an assault charge on my name if it weren’t for the discretion of my colleagues.
I told Lady Lucidia that perhaps one day Gaelic would get tired of the island and come back to his real home.
That would be the best outcome, wouldn’t it?
Lady Lucidia just nodded.
I could see the lack of hope in her downcast shadow.
* * *
Day 150.
In the 21st century, the influence of human society has become omnipresent.
Media, from books to movies to the internet, enticed monsterkind with ideas of excitement. Why settle for the dull, quiet modicum when more could be had?
The results were mixed. On one hand, art and knowledge blossomed. People told more stories now than ever before. Art revitalized our settlements. The choices of music increased. There was more colour. More beauty.
Both the young and old watched videos of lands that only once existed in paintings. They saw creatures that were more fascinating than myths, plants that defy expectations, and the wonders of why a sky changes colour. They too learned how the determined live their lives, and how they shaped the human world.
As a collective, this prosperous generation learned more than their foreparents ever did.
But as with all knowledge, there’s a dark side. Mixed within the wholesome are the corrupted.
There will always be some who chose poorly.
I spent the centuries wading through the dregs of blood, conspiracies, and decadence, fishing out criminals from the mud in which they hide.
I had seen much, and wished that it would all remain outside of my homeland.
That’s unfortunately not the case anymore.
Before I knew it, vice trade reached the shores of monster society, taking the peripheral islands by storm. Those with excessive boredom were enticed by the darkness. They got involved. Hooked. And with enough demand, businesses thrived.
Madam Oya (pseudonym) called me at five in the morning. There and then I knew Gaelic had escaped from Wyrmbrood Island and returned to her hive of villainy.
I don’t understand why he keeps coming back there. Their depravity knows no bounds. All they had done was to hurt him in the guise of pleasure.
Could it be the food? Madam Oya fed Gaelic for free. She pitied him, I suppose. I’m thankful that she tried to care for him in her own way. Though, I still can’t condone her establishment.
As for others, they will gladly buy Gaelic’s body. After all, a transaction of lust in mutual agreement is cheap compared to what they would pay for a similar professional service.
By the time I reached there, Madam Oya had closed shop for the morning. She didn’t want her customers to bother me. I was not welcomed by some, while others were overly ambitious in their courtings.
I appreciated her thoughtfulness. Again, I wish she didn’t choose this field of work. It’s a waste of her character.
She led me along the shore. Said that there’s a storm drain nearby. Gaelic's favourite resting place after the ‘happenings of the night’.
It’s in the middle of a shifting tide. Waves crashed against the barnacle-encrusted rock hills. It's dangerous for those unfamiliar with terrain traversal. No wonder it became his personal safe refuge. Kept the ‘unsatisfied’ away.
Madam Oya told me that she’ll wait nearby for my return, handing a small basket of boiled eggs, a bottle of water, and a glowstick. Understandable, since she lacked the physique to enter.
Despite their rough texture, they’re wet and treacherous steps. I had to resort to bone magic, turning them into makeshift pickaxes for extra hold.
I spotted Gaelic further down at the first intersection, curled up on the ground.
I called from the mouth of the tunnel. It’s important to maintain distance just in case he fails to recognize me.
He scrambled on his limbs, back against the wall. Growling.
My heart sank. His mental state had deteriorated further over the night. He’s not recognizing his own name anymore.
I rolled in an egg to further test his reactions.
Gaelic sniffed it with cautious suspicion. His forked tongue poked it for further confirmation. Once he recognized it as an edible object, he gobbled it whole: shell and all.
I thus placed down the basket of food at the mouth of the entrance. How would he react to my presence? Does he consider me a friend, or a stranger?
At first, it went well. He’s hungry enough to take the risk of possible ‘imagined’ danger. But when he got closer, a glint of recognition flashed through.
…Gaelic retreated in great distress.
‘Go way.’
‘Leave me’.
He’d say between his whimpers. Again, and again.
I tried to approach. Get closer. Remind him that he’s not completely alone.
It just made things worse. He screeched. Hissed.
He then screamed above the crashing waves. Questioned if I’m here to laugh. To lecture. To humiliate.
I was the one who had his life together.
I am a standard he can never reach.
My mere presence is a fire that burns too hot: a painful reminder of his failures to be a sentient being.
Thus I bode farewell and went away.
In retrospect, perhaps my past rejection continued to haunt me even after so long. I’m left wondering what would have happened if I chose to stay.
I will never know.
* * *
Day 260.
When the outer nations bloodied their land with destructive war, we build.
When they discard their young, we preserve ours.
When chaos became their ways, we kept balance.
We did everything we could to ensure that what little territory we have can sustain life.
And yet, here we are: standing on the same fragile pillars as the outer nations.
Judge Pashowar revealed to me that he had discovered a disturbing lead: the tendrils of corruption have jeopardized the integrity of Mu’s infrastructure.
Funds aren’t tallying. Materials, mismatched. False security systems. Missing itenary. Suspicious offshore workers.
The full level of compromise, unknown. All we know was that it involves the outside world.
The Observers established an emergency taskforce to depart for Atlantis. Immediate, upon nightfall. Since all Atlantean and Lemurian technology derives from Mu, straight or adapted, there will only be trouble for us if key defensive systems fail. We don’t know what the enemy is preparing for. It could be another invasion. Or, worse.
They seek one more member. I was one of the top recommendations due to my extensive knowledge on human affairs. Few other monsters could understand this paper trail.
I wonder if Gaelic might think that I’ve given up on him. Should I expect him to understand that this is also for his own sake?
No. Probably never.
* * *
Day 261.
Uncle.
Your brother had adopted an unknown like me.
There are two hundred other members of the clan who are better for the job. And you chose me to protect your only child.
Yet, I’m leaving him behind.
…I’m sorry.