Eggs and Mindtouches (Summer 2015)

These are the eggs for Kairoikyriath and Saburath's Summer 2015 clutch.

Egg Name Egg Touches
Ignorance is Strength Egg
This egg is small and unremarkable, with no bright colors to give it any sort of distinction from the rest. Indeed, the entire shell seems to have been bathed in a shade of grey which mutes the reds and yellows that speckle between dulled black lines. If looked at more closely, those black lines almost seem to form the shape of small squares, the reds and yellows coloring each one like miniature posters. Their meaning is unclear — after all, this is just an egg — but the strange shapes formed by those primary colors are bold and seem to declare /something/. But even more strange, if one looks closely, there seems to be a shape that looks distinctly like an eye amidst all of that propaganda. But it couldn't be, could it? This is egg is just an egg. (Big Brother is Watching You.)
The Party is suddenly there, in your head, a looming presence that encompasses your mind, cloaking it in a watchful embrace. Or has it always been there, watching? It fits itself into nooks and crannies, poking and prodding at memories and beliefs. There's nothing timid about the way this presence invades, sizing you up with great scrutiny. Why do you believe that? Surely, you must know that you're wrong. It pulls and tugs, as though your mind were a neatly crafted sweater that could be unraveled if it only tugged at the right string. Unraveled, and rebuilt in the proper image. You must believe this, it seems to say. Power is in tearing human minds to pieces and putting them together again in new shapes of your own choosing. It is the only truth, commanding and all-encompassing.

The Party does not seem surprised that you have not withdrawn, no. It does this for your own good, you see. Men are prone to evil, but with the right guidance, they can be controlled. Kept safe. There is an arrogance in the way it seeks to consume and own your identity, as though it knows it cannot be overthrown. That fond memory that it picks from your mind? It is tossed aside, discarded as garbage. Forget what you think you know, it seems to insist. Believe in this only. Reality exists in the human mind, and nowhere else. The all-encompassing presence seems to press against your mind, perhaps even to the point of pain, if an impression can cause such a thing. You must believe as it says, or there are dark consequences to follow. You will be forgotten; erased. The threat is there, even as the pressure wanes and seems to slide back to the edges of your mind. Your job is simple: obey.

The Party has become a low ebb, never gone, but contented with what it sees as your obedience. Even if you fight, even if you argue, you have not had the strength to withdraw. And in that simple fact, it is winning. It does not mere destroy its enemies; it changes them. Do you think you can ever be free? It pulls gently, tugging at a string that leads to the newly formed memory of your time together. Do you not see, it asks, gently attempting to unwind you like a ball of twine. If you want to keep a secret, you must also hide it from yourself. And whether or not it is true, this presence does not seem to believe you capable of that. As gentle as it is now, as much as it coddles and instructs as one might lead a child, that threat is ever present. You will believe as it says, and you will believe that only. Two plus two makes five. It is true, because this presence says it to be. Even as it drifts away, sheltering itself once again inside its shell, it gives one last tug on that newly made memory. See this? it seems to say. I am watching you. Always. _
Thank You for Your Childhood Egg
There is nothing spectacular about this egg but what might draw attention to it is the distinct lack of color to its shell. It holds nothing but a sombre palette of white, grey and black and from afar the mottled patterns hold nothing of note, giving it a simple and tidy appearance, almost peaceful and serene rather than outrightly depressive. Perhaps if one were to look long enough, they would pick out some subtle details. A hint of grass here, structures not unlike buildings and other curious things and yet all in grey shadow without a hint of color to discern one from the other.
Holding Memories eases into your mind as gently as the wind brushing against your skin. It may not even be apparent at first, until all the color around you leeches away and soon there is nothing but a world of grey, white and black. Yet it is not devoid of life! There is certainly a presence there and it presents to you a world that is orderly and simplistic, ultimately serene and peaceful. It is curious, yet in a naive and child-like way as it hesitantly probes at your memories. Memories that both awe it and confuse it, as it has no words or understanding for what it sees. What are you? Are you and it one and the same? If so… why doesn't it know of any of what it can see in your memories? Overwhelmed, it retreats but does not withdraw entirely. It hovers on the edge of your consciousness, waiting to see if you stay or leave while deciding its own choice in the matter.

Holding Memories flows back into your mind, reassured by your continued presence. It reaches for your memories again, enthralled and no longer unsure. This time it knows what to expect and is eager to learn and to understand. Yet each memory it plucks, it's recalled in nothing but black and white. All grey and monotone, lacking the vibrancy of life and lacking the emotions attached to it. It is almost as if needs guidance, a gentle hint to what it sees. Give it a name to attach to what it sees and it will latch onto it, examining it and so many questions flooding. Why? How? What? The more it explores, the more relaxed it becomes and suddenly there is a flicker, a change and there's a fleeting moment of color. You will know what it is, but it startles the presence. More questions, more ponderings and again it fades away, lurking among the fringes of your mind to absorb and understand.

Holding Memories returns again and without hesitation, eager for more and waiting for you to be ready for it to plunge again into your memories. It seems fond, so very fond, of the littlest things that one could take for granted. Innocent things like sunlight and feeling the warm of it against your skin, of music and experiences of joy and happiness. Love, too. Especially love, in all forms! More colors spring forth, names it now begins to recall. Reds and greens and blues and yellows that spring to life and slowly melt away the greyness. Yet if it encounters a negative memory, it shrinks back, puzzled by these emotions. Sadness. Pain, perhaps? Why would anyone want to experience it or worse… be the cause? It doesn't understand, lacking in the knowledge it needs. Denied it. Frustrated that so much has been withheld! Memories should be shared. Don't you agree? Shaking off the negativity, the presence returns to some of it's favorite memories within you before departing one last time. It's curious of what lies elsewhere beyond the confines of its little world… but it is not time yet for it to know. The presence vanishes and withdraws, leaving you back on the sands. _
Borrowed Time, Borrowed World Egg
Hewn of ash and smoke, this egg has a dark cast to its shell. A streak of asphalt grey, as broad as the curved base of the egg, stretches onwards towards some unseen horizon. Above is only ash and dust and smoke, a sky choked by it and foreboding. Weak sunlight filters through, casting sickly shadows below and skewing details. Vaguely there are impression of ruined buildings on either side of that stretch of cracked and blasted asphalt and in the far distance are spots of fiery orange and yellow. Streaked through all of this are lines of black, reaching to the skies and joined by sloping wire-thin lines. Some stand straight, others tilt drunkenly to the side but it lends a clear image of desolation and destruction.
Carry the Fire doesn’t seem to respond at all to touch at first. Still and quiet, yet if one lingers long enough and stares at it’s bleak shell they’ll find themselves suddenly there. Gone are the sands and gone is the warmth. This ‘world’ within your thoughts its one of ash and grey and gunmetal light. Dead forests, leaves long since dried and felled, some burned, others not and then there is the COLD. A biting, awful, wintry cold that somehow feels final. Through it all lies a road, cracked and ruined as everything else around it. To this you are exposed and just as sudden a presence wraps itself around you, hovering at your side and yet never to be seen. It provides some shelter, despite the lingering sense of suspicion to start. Who are you? It doesn’t know. Yet, who is anybody? Gradually, it accepts you as harmless, drawing you in closer and almost protectively like a parent figure to a child. Everything is okay, it assures. Nothing bad will happen, if you’re carrying the fire. What does it mean by that? There is no answer. It just moves you along the road, where the wind blows the ash around your feet and legs. It’s during that long, quiet walk that the presence fades and the egg is quiet again for now under your touch.

Carry the Fire returns this time with blackness. A night so black as to be sightless and impenetrable. A blackness to hurt the ears with listening. Just as it seems to stretch on to maddening lengths of time, there is a faint pop, sizzle and crackle and the equally as swift glimmer of a spark of fire and the low glow of dying embers. Fire, for warmth though the cold still seeps through. The presence is back, wrapped around you like a blanket, offering what little shelter it can. It pulls at your memories, hesitant and yet curious. Part of it wanting to remember, the other half cynical and worn. What’s the point of memories with the world done and gone? You forget what you want to remember, and you remember what you want to forget. Isn’t that how it goes? It searches you, seeking out those very memories. Ones you remember but perhaps want to forget or ones you’ve forgotten and now brought forwards bring some happiness. A moment of nostalgia, perhaps? Quietly it rifles through several of these memories and then with a start it brings both of you back to its ‘reality’. The gunmetal light of the sky is back, a sad excuse of a morning sky. Time to move and with a weariness that is almost bone deep it draws you back to that road and through further desolation and destruction. An empty world and seemingly only you two to experience it. As before, the withdrawal is gradual and again the slumber subtle with warmth being the cue that the presence has receded.

Carry the Fire envelops you again, bringing forth the world of ash and half-light. Now it’s become so cold that there is snow covering the ground, mixing in with the ash. So much grey. Yet this time there is the sound of music playing the distance. A formless music for the age to come or the last music on this earth called up from out of the ashes of its ruin. It seeks your memories again, recalling some it prefered. Softly colored ones of love, the sun and other little things one probably takes for granted. Yet it never goes too deep into those memories, almost fearful of them. When dreams are of some world that never was or of some world that never will be and you are happy again, then you will have given up. It doesn’t want to give up and it won’t let you give up either, on whatever your goals may be. What drives you forwards? For it, all it wants to do is survive. It clings to that hope but it is not blinded by it. Can you do it? When the time comes? When the time comes, there will be no time. Nothing seems to make sense, but the presence doesn’t seem to care. You have to keep carrying the fire. Where is it? Inside of you. No matter what happens, keep on carrying it. That is its parting wisdom, what little of it can share as it filters for one last time through your memories, pausing on the littlest of things. Inspiration, perhaps or to leave you with a brighter ghost than the world it offers. Then, it is gone and this time the slumber is permanent. No further coaxing will stir the being within the egg. _
Hope is a Mistake Egg
Odd that this egg appears to be made of sand but it is just that. Reddish brown in hue, it seems to be primarily made of this hard, sun baked substance, a barren wasteland and desert where little survives. Curving across the broad point of the egg’s shell is a startling bright band of clear blue sky with a few faint wispy clouds that do little to blot out the harsh sunlight boring down on the land below. Near the base appears to be a cliffedge, formed from the same sun blasted rock and sand. Below it stretches more sand and empty land… all save for the faint impression of an age-worn black hued road.
Fire and Blood blasts you with heat and wind, amplifying the already present heat of the very sands you crouch on in order to touch its shell. Only you’re not on the Hatching Sands any longer but looking out over a stark reddish brown desert land. It stretches out as far as the eye can see, red cliffs and steppes in the distance but little else but dry, tough grass, dust and sand. The sun beats down hot in a sky almost painfully bright blue. Where must we go, we who wander this wasteland, in search of our better selves? It doesn’t seem to expect an answer from you. It knows that it exists in this wasteland, reduced to one instinct: survive. Do you understand that simple instinct? Silences follows, nothing but the wind blowing grit and sand all around you and then without warning you’re abruptly back on the sands, the egg quiet save for the near electric thrum. Something has it alert? Dare you touch it again?

Fire and Blood sneaks back into your mind, a tense coil of apprehension and caution. Without warning, the once silent wasteland becomes chaos, sounds unlike anything ever heard before roaring across the open lands. Here they come again! It sounds mechanic and a few of them tear out over the dunes below in the distance, looking like unfathomable and fantastical beasts of rusted and salvaged metal. The faint smell of exhaust in the air, now mingling with the oppressive heat and the distant sound of drums. It keeps those vehicles as far in the distance as possible, always behind and never in front and you gain the curious sensation that you are in motion as well, carried within one of the largest vehicles of them all. Is that hope it senses? Do you hope to make sense of this, or just ‘hope’ in general? You know it’s a mistake. If you can’t fix what’s broken, you’ll go insane. How it knows this? It doesn’t explain. No time to. It ‘says’ little else, doesn’t seem keen on investigating your memories or pondering the facts of life. It’s just the here and now and the constant drive to keep moving and to survive whatever lies ahead. Sunlight filters to darkness as a storm approaches. Not one of rain (that’d be a miracle!), but of sand, wind and lightning. A great wall of it, blocking out everything and bearing down on you and the things hounding you. Do you stop? Of course not. Oh, what a day… what a lovely day! Just as you are consumed by the wall of the sand storm, your ears filled with the sound of howling winds and thunder, you’re suddenly back on the sands and the egg rests hot beneath your touch.

Fire and Blood lives, dies and lives again! Clearly it never ‘died’ to begin with and you have the vague impression that some sort of battle went down. The storm is gone and so are those strange, monstrous like vehicles. It is just you, the presence, the desert and the strange vehicle you are being transported in. Where is your destination? Unknown, but that seems to be the goal. To reach this destination and to survive. Isn’t that what life truly is about? An endless struggle, big or small. Everyone has goals and desires… just some choose to go down other paths and don’t care who gets crushed under foot on their way to glory. What kind are you? Little else is asked. It still does not probe your memories, as other eggs might do. It almost doesn’t feel the need to, as though it’s already made its decision on your character just by the outside glimpse. So it shouldn’t be any surprise that as night falls in those blasted lands that you find yourself back on the hatching ground sands and the egg beneath you utterly silent. _
Raise Your Hands to the Sky Gods Egg
A barren wasteland of lifeless, arid desert stretches seamlessly around this shell. Every so often the parched and cracked terrain show signs of the world that was. Mostly intact skeletons of sea creatures that are long ago extinct, jut out of dunes in the ever shifting sands. Shattered and scorched remnants of piers and pylons remain where the water's edge used to be. A sandstorm rages and churns onward, creating havoc in its wake and trying to obscure the decaying husk of what once was a large hulled ship. A massive storm brews near the apex of the egg, vivid splashes of liquid silver lightening zigzag through the dark gloom to threaten even more destruction, or promise the return of the rains.
Abandon All Hope enlightens, Humanity was dust until God injected life, or so the legends would have one believe. And do you know what was in that injection? Water. Water is life. Life is power. So, all the water, must be under my power. Not even an army of ravenous blood-thirsty monsters will stop me. But so much vastness that needs to be controlled, squeezed of every drop, even those who question my power. I'll need someone to pass along my orders. I'll be a merciful master, simply do as I command, and a little water could sprinkle your way, but don't think about it too long.

Abandon All Hope stirs again. You showed back up? How, unlikely. But promising for you. Perhaps you have what I'm looking for. Think you can help whip this dustbowl world into submission, wring the land of liquid life, pull the misty vapor from the sky? Time will tell. You'll have to prove yourself. Do not fail. I do not except failure. I'm not so sure that you are up to the task. No, better you scurry off now, while I'm feeling generous enough to allow you to flee. It would not be wise to tempt my wraith by returning.

Abandon All Hope latches onto your thoughts. Decided you want power did you? Will you sift every grain of sand to collect every drop of power to be had? And once you do, what then? Will you keep it? Others seek a place in my master plan as well. What makes you worthy to claim power. Will you be able to hold on when the power is finally in your grasp? We'll both know soon enough. Your trials are just beginning. There will be many painful trials to test you, both mentally and physically, only time will tell if you are strong enough to be worthy of your water. Only time will tell. _
David 14's irremediable Crash Egg
If perfection was part of this world, this egg would have been the ultimate masterpiece. Its oblong pale form, nestled in that sandy frame, absorbs the surrounding light effortlessly without any refraction, allowing hours of bewitched staring. Because, yes, this egg attracts more than the light, it craves for attention. It is made to be noticed. From apex to bottom, it is uniformly covered in a deep matte orange shade that emphasizes its soft silky surface, making it even more flawless. But every gem, as perfect as they seem, has a bit of ugliness. Just like the hidden side of the moon, a rippling flame of black smoke seems to devour the back of it, carrying ashes to the top.
Engulfed Cathedral brings darkness where there was light, and whispers of wind where the silence once ruled your heart. You've just disappeared into that obsidian mist for you're on a mission now, a dangerous quest that will claim every bit of strength and to the last demonstration of your courage. A vivid sensation of endless height surrounds you at this very moment. Will you be brave enough to take the leap?

Engulfed Cathedral turns your night sky into green now, the verdant light appearing before your eyes as you float effortlessly and silently through a cloudless ocean. The wind is now your wings, making you bank this way and that, where your senses attract you. But this exhilarating freedom sensation can make you forget something essential: You're being guided here. Your mission is not done yet.

Engulfed Cathedral shakes your beliefs and soul, sobering you from your evanescent dream by changing the green to a bright warning red. The freedom you felt a second ago vanishes and is replaced by the inexorable leaking of Time. It's urgent. It has to be found. A beckoning, narrow rooftop suddenly emerges. It's there you have to go. The insight is strong and undeniable. The moment you reach the charcoal surface, your sky changes again. Darkness is still surrounding you but the wind is gone. There is only one door, and all the promises hidden behind it. _
Big Bada-Boom Egg
A chaotic scene of a busy, whizzing future, this egg throws colors and shapes across the galaxy on one half of the shell. Colors blur together, dull in some places and bright in others. The other half of the shell is simply darkness, black punctated by the occasional burst of red or yellow from whatever flames hide inside that shell. It seems almost to be creeping up upon the life that characterizes the other side, threatening to claim that as its own. If one looks closely, there's a pop of bright orange capping an almost human form swathed in white, right in the midst of that lively chaos. Everything seems to radiate from that small, single being, as though it is the cause of all that life and the only thing holding back the darkness.
Wind blows, fire burns, rain falls is barely noticeable as it enters your mind, lacking form and substance. But it grows quickly, spreading its reach through your mind like muscles and veins spreading out to cover the skeletal form that has grown there. And when it is whole, this presence in your mind is almost a living, breathing thing and zips around frantically, crashing through your thoughts. It is lost; confused. It's almost as though you can hear it, although the sounds it makes are not any recognizable language. But this presence, personified by its bright orange hue, continues to babble in this strange tongue. It might be asking questions, but the meaning is impossible to understand, save for one message it can convey clearly without any words: help. It needs help. It is so lost, and alone, and afraid in this new realm of your mind. Can you help to guide it?

Wind blows, fire burns, rain falls gradually begins to calm, whether you have tried to aid it or not. Even a Supreme Being — if there were such a thing — needs to rest eventually. And as it calms, it begins to sift through your memories. It begins to learn and inquire; why do you do this? What does this mean? Memories are picked out from your mind and waved like a banner with each question. What does it mean? Who? Where? It moves quickly from image to image, moving, absorbing, and then on the next with increasing speed. Each new word or idea is placed in alphabetical order, carefully organized in its growing mental library. The more it learns, the more confident this orange-tinted presence seems to become. It knows its place and duty in this world. Do you?

Wind blows, fire burns, rain falls continues its exploration of your mind, deepening its search. Where before it alighted mostly upon happy memories, now it delves into those that perhaps you have tried to repress or keep hidden. Those memories tinged with sadness or pain that you hold closest to your heart. And although its curiosity has not abated, there is a protectiveness to the way it surveys these memories. The childlike innocence has already begun to fade, replaced by a hidden strength and a certainty that promises to only grow with time. It can watch over you, and protect you, this presence seems to say. And it return, it requires only one thing: love. It begins to slowly fade, drawing back into itself and almost shrinking to its former size. With love, it can flourish. Will you be the one to offer that? Only time will tell. _
Deception in Pretty Packaging Egg
This egg perches prim and proper on the sands, as pretty as a present if you please. The majority of its shell is ensconced in glimmering shades of silver and white, never quite the same hue depending on the angle of viewing or time of day. It's only the egg's far side that reveals its inner turmoil. As though torn asunder by sharp claws, small rips in the egg's delicate argent verneer provides glimpses of grey stone and blue-green glass just beneath the surface. Parallel scratches reveal similarly narrow streaks of loamy earth, fiery coals, and blurry blue waters. There's a certain sense that even the egg isn't sure which of these future selves it might become, its destiny muddled by duty and responsibility, and so it hides behind its polite, sophisticated finish, biding its time.
This Isn't Real doesn't screw around. The second your fingers make contact with the shell, you're bodily slammed in the middle of a narrow, rotting bridge, the sheer force of your entry setting the bridge to swaying violently. As though drawing from some deep inner fear, a scene slowly paints around you in inks and blots before taking form: massive cliffs rise on either side of the decrepit rope-and-board contraption, each dropping steeply into churning ocean waters below. Slowly, other senses tune in with the crash of waves, the slow creak of old rope as the bridge sways, and though it isn't raining yet, thunder rumbles on the horizon. There is, seemingly, nowhere to go but to try to make your way to one side or the other of the suspension bridge, braving fraying rope and huge gaps where boards used to be… or is there? The mind inside the egg waits, raptly attentive, to see how you will respond.

This Isn't Real suffers a moment of brief surprise when its mind touches yours, clearly not expecting to see you again. So, you have tenacity. It approves. Your reward? Sudden, utter blackness. It's heavy, oppressive, and ancient, not like being suffocated by a pillow, but more like being suddenly thrust into a cave miles below the surface with no opportunity to adjust to the change. The silence is deafening, the darkness blinding, broken only by the occasional drip somewhere to your left. 'There,' the mind seems to say. 'What do you make of this?'

This Isn't Real simmers stonily as your consciousness presses against its mind again, blackness roiling and bubbling over its shell, spreading slowly up your arms and across the sands like… like… Spinners. Hundreds upon hundreds of tiny spinners, the simmering sound evolving into the clamor of thousands of tiny bodies clashing together as they invade everything in sight. Somewhere in the dark, seething masses, the egg's mind watches on passively, seeming almost to take notes. Finally, it withdraws entirely and thrusts you back onto the sands, blessfully bugless and with a lingering sense of doubt. What was that all about? Were you being evaluated? Did you pass? Only time will tell, for even if this egg is touched again, it will remain silent as the grave. _
Tears In Rain Egg
With myriad onyx fragments sprayed on its imposing flesh-coloured dome, this egg floats in a mist of blurry lines. Sharing the same shades with the sandy ground on which it is settled makes it very hard to discern. Both close and very distant, a soft streaming sound seems to want to escape that crystalline prison and slowly becomes hypnotic, catching minds as they pass by. No touch is needed to feel the yearning inside.
The Prodigal Son Brings Death comes to life in a deafening noise. It’s brisk and sharp then nothing. Nothing left but a persistent echo. Was it just a pulse or something with your ears? No time to think as the sound invades your mind again, mimicking the closing of an elevator door. It raises slowly but irremediably, vibrating in your head. Then, nothing again. No more sound but your own heartbeat and a stressful darkness wrapped around you. Just as you’re wondering if it’s over or not, a bright ascending light appears.

The Prodigal Son Brings Death has made his decision and no one and nothing can stop him now. As it continues to raise, the bright light pierces and chases the darkness away, replacing that stressful sensation by the vivid one of endless demanding. An eagerness that is almost unbearable. "I’m coming to you…" suddenly resonates followed by a myriad of whispered questions. "Who am I? What’s the purpose of my entity? What do I feel? And why?" All of that surrounds you, overwhelms you like a desperate cry.

The Prodigal Son Brings Death finally reaches his final destination: The core of your very soul, claiming all of your attention. The world as you know it doesn’t exist anymore. There is only this burning light and that ardent quest of knowledge. There is no room for anything else. You have to surrender. That feeling is too strong to fight back. It takes you a tremendous effort not to back away and you didn’t even notice the light changed into a pulsating shade of red. "I want more life!" explodes and vanishes in a blink. It’s all gone. The pressure, the stress, the questions. Everything. Gone. _
Is it Cold in Here, Or is It Just Me? Egg
At first glance this egg has surely seen better days, a bland, flavorless vista of a cityscape observed from above. Muted hues of grey and tan spread like little drapes across the shell's surface, connecting and forming a grid-work of building and streets. The ordered perfection implodes, sending firey explosions shooting gouts of flame and inky black columns skywards from many spots around the bumpy textured egg. Some of the once pristine buildings are now gutted ruins of charred embers with tendrils of smoke wafting with the breeze. Destruction and chaos thrive, creeping closer and closer to the few remaining untouched areas.
What's Your Boggle greets you citizen! How are you on this glorious day? Isn't it so serene and peaceful here, a harmonic population with each individual note placed just so. A perfect society, a beacon of order to cleanse the chaotic world. Every cog in the machine working in perfect unison, each instrument blending seamlessly with the rest of the orchestra. Warped cogs and flat notes? I sent them to the scrap heap long ago, like any good conductor would. Where there was once lawlessness and destruction, there is now the purity of an ant colony and beauty like a flawless pearl.

What's Your Boggle reminisces..It happens sometimes, scraps making themselves known and disturbing everything with their savagery and discontent. It's inevitable, what is discarded finds its way to other castoffs, piling up in corner recesses. Or scuttering among the shadows, venturing near lighted communities to disrupt the steady flow of life. Shattering the collective calm of my creation. Well it won't be allowed! Devolved scraps, growing into expanding clusters that tarnish the hi-gloss shine that was so hard to achieve. They must be dealt with. You'll help me with that task, won't you. Yes, do my bidding. 'Be Well' them for me.

What's Your Boggle inquires..You've returned! Excellant. My messege, did you bid them to Be Well for me? Those scraps of unwashed humanity continue to encroach, like windblown litter that catches hold of bushes or tree branches and jamming up the gears of my perfect society. We must illuminate their lives, teach them once and for their place. It's for their own good, what kind of life is it, to grub around in the dirt like rats. That way of thinking could be infectious. No, no, the undercity must be cleansed, no matter what it takes. Will you do everything within your power to do the job? _
The Eyes of the Oracle Egg
Opalescent blue, pristine azure and sparkling star sapphire, this egg is all of that and so much more at the same time. Playing with lights and reflections, it is hard to keep one’s gaze on its bright surface more than a couple of seconds without blinking furiously, because of what it is: a set of piercing eyes melting into the shape of an egg. The bright waters of the twin pools see everything, know everything. No one can hide from that radiating light, a light that can solve the mysteries of universe and discover the true nature of one’s soul.
The Hammer Last Ride roars its engine breaking the relative silence of the sands in a fury of electric sparks. It’s not an invasion of your mind. No. It’s a race. A race you’ve just been dragged into. If the loud sound is obvious, it’ll maybe be a bit difficult to notice the change in your immediate surrounding. The shadows grow even more dark and the breeze is now filled with a grey-like fog. Only flashes of bright blue lightens the scene in successive blinks. Jump onboard or you will miss it!

The Hammer Last Ride makes it clear for you now, its mission is desperately vital, but it needs you to be accomplished. Your soul is needed and claimed as you sink deeper within the metalic hull. Let’s jst hope your stomach will stay in place for this ride is a one way to hell! Twirling and rolling, you rapidly loses your senses, not knowing the up from the bottom. And then, when things were about to settle a little, an abrupt jump upwards makes you swallow your heart!

The Hammer Last Ride speeds up its already furious pace, leaving everything behind. Everything besides you. Your mind fueled this up to that point and it needs you to overcome all the dangers that keeps blocking its way and to reach that saving light it’s seeking for. The desperate sensation grabs your heart, providing you managed to gather it back after that leap of death, making you tense every atoms of your whole being towards that brightness. It’s almost there, at range and slowly growing, the promise of a brilliant and complete victory. But, it explodes, spraying white-hot metal pieces in every direction. And then no more, except the pounding of your heart. _
Treasured Trash Heap Egg
Overall, this egg is less than entirely impressive. Mid-sized, it's a little rounder than most, nice and rotund for extra sand cover. It's a grimy, gritty kind of brown — flecks of yellow and speckles of red here, patches of peeling taupe there. Shadows dominate, cubbies of strange shapes in smudged colors barely visible. Is that a shoe? A fan blade? A pink avian with a long bill? Maybe it's your imagination, since the shadows seem to shift from every new perspective. A patch of wavering blue sits bright on one side, a strange rectangle of bright in the dim egg, while multicolored ovals line up in fanciful sprays in a smaller rebellion against the grime and grit. They're haphazard, the lights, but seem almost lovingly placed, weaving around the shadows and strange smudges of color.
Directive? is a flurry of ordered madness. All around is *chaos*, and the only thing to keep it ordered? Well, it's not you. Frantic beeps and trills come to a sudden and grinding halt as it registers your presence. Oh. My. Who are you? What are you? It reels a little, thrown off of its purposeful contemplation. In the deafening silence, you are suddenly aware of the exceedingly precarious nature of the world around you. Stacks on stacks of things, responsibilities and needs and wants and so much stuff. They creak and groan like a physical thing, and suddenly, you see them. Great towering piles, looming overhead into the dim sky. You're not alone in this awareness, though. The presence understands. It doesn't know what to do with them, either, and so it withdraws a little. What to *do*.

Directive? startles from its concentration, and — CRASHWHRRRR, something explodes. Behind you? Around you? It's hard to tell. Sooty little flecks color your vision of the strange wastescape, and the mind winces. Or you're pretty sure it does. Drifts of uncertainty blow past you, a scalding brush that is but also isn't a breeze. A blue light flashes here, there, but there's a sense of confusion. Oops? And then the light focuses on you, and the mind *freezes*. Something is flashing wildly somewhere, just out of your line of sight, but it's hard to think past the sudden whirring and trilling. The noises are strangely electronic, and the light's back, vividly green now and almost painfully bright. Searching. Trying to understand thoughts, emotions, memories that suddenly play before you in a silent and vividly realistic stream. This! This is what it was searching for. It collects them and then — it's gone. Quiet. Frozen, but thrumming softly, still…there, maybe?

Directive? flashes dully. It stays that way for an indeterminate amount of time, flashing and thrumming like an overheating machine, but that's not the end of it. Something clicks, and then you're unable to escape; it's got you, and then it's going, going, gone. Up away from the uncertainty, the mountains and piles of confuion, up above the clouds and scalding not-breezes. Up, up and — stars. The world falls away below, twisting and spiralling, or maybe it's you that's doing the spiralling. The mind is purposeful, serious in its mission. The things it Knows are few, but now they are more, and your thanks is a dizzying ride through other flashes, nebulous and half-there among the void. It's a thrill, it's utterly terrifying, who can say? The presence doesn't seem to think much of the lurching way it finally comes to a rest somewhere shiny and cool. You might find the landing less than comforting, but the light is already pulling away, content with its mission completed. _
A Handful of Berries Egg
This egg is built upon hard ground, coal black mixed with concrete at the solid, rough-hewn base. The dull colors whisper their way up the sides, half obscured by a forest of deep greens around its midsection. There's something dark about those woods, as though the hues of green disguise some hidden danger waiting for any who venture into their depths. When looked at from the right direction, it's possible to see a strange marking on one side. There's a deep purple, almost black mass on the shell which glistens when caught by the light. If one looks closely, that mass takes more individual form, with small round shapes becoming clear in the dark coloring. In the right light, it almost appears to be a handful's worth of berries staining the shell. From there the egg catches fire, reds and yellows licking their way up to the apex. There's a slight sheen to the top of the shell; a hint of gold amidst the flames right at the very peak.
Fire is Catching slips into your mind amidst verdant forest, almost blending into the tree-scape which it creates. It seems at home here amongst the greenery, moving like a hunter in search of its prey. And then abruptly the scene changes, and you're somewhere grey. It's hazy and indistinct, wherever this presence has taken you, but everything about it is drab. And yet, in spite of the plain colors, it's those moments of tension and suspense, those moments of growing fear which this entity seems to pull to the forefront of your thoughts. Is there something you're currently dreading? It finds the most recent moment of that sinking feeling and brings it front and center. And then, most remarkable of all: it volunteers to take these fears on for you. To protect you. And even as this commitment is realized, you're thrown into the fray. Disjointed images of past struggles play across the backdrop of the forest. There's a sense of struggling; a sense of fighting for survival, but doing so together. And then abruptly, it ends. You're free… aren't you?

Fire is Catching is ready to retreat and curl itself away inside the warmth of its shell, but you're still here. And so the presence stays away well, extending to you a bit more trust than was initially offered. Perhaps you can be relied upon, because you're still here. But there are more dangers to be seen in the world, and it is with no lack of resentment on the part of this burning presence that you are thrown back into the fray. Tick, tock, tick, tock. Like the segments on a clock, your memories are divided into twelve segments to be conquered one by one. Any friends who may surface in your thoughts are met with wary inspection from this presence, who seems not to trust anyone but you. And then there are the voice. Perhaps they're the voices of loved ones, screaming and panicking. Or perhaps they're the jeering voices of those who may have mocked you at some point in your life. Whichever they are, they attack in an unrelenting swarm, bombarding your thoughts for what may seem like hours, but is in reality only moments. Then as abruptly as they appeared, they vanish. There's a bright, blinding bolt of lightning, and then nothing.

Fire is Catching the darkness hasn't faded, even though hazy forms have started to make themselves clear through shadow. It's almost as though you're underground. Somewhere warm and safe, but the presence in your mind doesn't want you to relax. Something is wrong. It's as though some great distance lies between you, and to reach the glowing entity you have to struggle and fight your way to its side. The presence sets a whirling, twirling blaze to guide you home. It picks out memories of times you have fought and won, whether that fight was physical or simply a struggle in your own mind. It reminds you of your triumphs and your will, so that you may overcome this trial as well. Although you emerge from beneath the earth and step into the light, the distance has not grown any less. To reach that presence, you must become what you are afraid to be. You must be everything that you are capable of being. Do you have it in you? _
Sudden but Inevitable Betrayal Egg
Of all the eggs you've seen, this one's the nicest! It might look like an ovoid hunk of junk at first, a metallic shade of grey rough and blackened over time as though from multiple planetary reentries, but it has a certain rustic charm about it that manages to be alluring all the same. The egg's base is decorated with motes of lemon and chartreuse, the colors so eye-blinding against the sand that they appear to glow in the dark. A hard, gritty splash of blood red across the egg's near side hints at a dark past, or perhaps a shady future, but for now it remains docked on the sands, awaiting its next big adventure.
Big Damn Heroes, Sir presses to your mind with a sense of wry amusement. Sure, there might be the sound of explosions in the background, and some dangerous, piercing rat-a-tat noise you can't quite place but the egg's mind seems cheerful despite the impending sense of doom. Don't worry, it seems to think, you can't die, and you know why? You're so. Very. Pretty. You'll make it through this. Besides, you've been in danger before, right? Without asking, the egg rifles through your mind, pulling and tugging memories of times you've been in trouble and dropping them to the ground as though they're some sort of evidence. There. See. Nothing to fear but fear itself. C'mon, you can do this! And then it darts into the frey, clearly expecting you to follow.

Big Damn Heroes, Sir chuckles when you find it within yourself to stay, entirely too pleased as you emerge out of the darkness into… a spaceship? The egg's mind seems to sprawl out comfortably, oozing into this place where it belongs. It's not much, but it's what it has. Again, with no sense of personal boundaries, the egg rifles through thoughts and memories, this time seemingly at random. Family or friends, places and things, people or situations you might even have forgotten are glanced at and then stored like cargo in various bins, as though trying to decide what makes you, you. Well? What does? What have you seen, what have you done, what have you stood up for that has brought you here to this moment, and how do you think it defines you? It's just so curious.

Big Damn Heroes, Sir seems content with whatever you've dredged up, whether it was vocalized or not. Right, well, come on. There's shit to do, and you don't have all day. As though sucked into the vacuum of space, the little ship implodes and spirals away as your mind zips through a tunnel lined with brief, bright windows into time. They flicker by with only just enough time to see them, to know that some are your memories, and some are not, but they blur so elegantly that for a second, even you can't be sure. This must be what going mad feels like, for mixed between the things you know and love there are worlds and people and things that just don't exist on Pern: great ugly spaceships splashed with a red so deep it looks like blood, men that come two by two with hands of blue, bright, flickering lights, flying like a leaf on the wind. These frames are limned with emotions like justice and rage and sorrow and love that pummel from all sides before, finally, you are shoved back out onto the sands. Cocky as ever, the egg seems to stroll back out of your mind with a lingering sense of amusement. Yehp. That went well. _
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