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Rogues One and All
Rogues One and All


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Log File for: Wifelier Docht

Date: 2795 DSP (Dark Star Paradoxum)

I am Wifelier Docht. I have been scribe and servant to the God-Machine for well over 300 years. I feed it data and in return the God-Machine creates life. My sole purpose is to collect and record the histories of these newly birthed creations.

This is my first entry in a secret journal I am keeping hidden from my master. I’m scribbling these words on a piece of parchment that had been rejected as impure, and instead of it becoming waste to be expelled, it now serves as my private log.

Not an easy feat if you consider I am tethered permanently to the most powerful being in the universe. My veins pulse with Embrosis, the bio-organic material that aids the transfer of neurons from my celestial host to me, through the tethered-line connected to the back of my head. I have not aged in the 300 years I’ve been bonded to this entity, this thing that is part flesh, part machine.
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My Sweet Sybella,

I pray that this transmission meets you, whatever place in time or space that may be.

How long has it been for you since I left the ivory cliff-sides of our homeland? How long has it been since I took to the stars and left you behind, my dear sister?

Time runs on a different clock out here. It feels as if thousands of years divide us— every minute another mile that keeps me from ever seeing you or my home again.

It brings me no shame in admitting that you were right in the end. Perhaps it had been the folly of youth that drove me to the stars. Perhaps it was fate or destiny or the stars themselves that propelled me into the arms of the Collective.

So eager I was at their invitation. To join with them in their pursuit of all that universe had to offer— all the wonders and sights to be seen out there in the undiscovered areas of space. An infinity of knowledge aching to be gathered and collated.
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The stories are all I have now.

I had a past, but it has been taken from me. I remember nothing, and the void of it is so complete it makes me question if I ever existed prior to the first memories I have of The Collective. I have no reason to believe that my future will deviate from my present, so this place has effectively excised that as well.

There is only the work. The ceaseless reading, cataloging that now fills my days. The human spirit I am left to read about is ubiquitous in prose, and yet again absent in any other direction I look.

I suppose that anyone reading this would be best served with a context for my present. Only if you understand that you can understand the perpetual melancholy contained within this infinity of fiction.
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If you could perceive time as I do then you would know it is not linear, nor is it curved like a bell. The simplest way of explaining it is to imagine a needle and thread held above a cloth. The needle pierces the present from some unimaginable future and dives into a past unseen only to return a passing stitch towards a similar yet undefined future. The seamstress knows little about what they do not see, but with the right tough the stitching concludes in one sturdy, beautiful stitch.
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