Echoes of the Flesh - User contributions [en]

User:Thinkworkz

2026-04-09T14:50:35Z

Thinkworkz: last minute changes

<blockquote>[[File:Profilepicture thinkworks.png|alt=Profilepicture thinkworks|thumb|One of it's many-Would appearances fit here?Perhaps.It is simply an Amphibian.]]</blockquote>

== At the edge of the Universe ==
<blockquote>(or what passes for an edge, if such a thing can exist

when distance folds in on itself)

there is a hill.

No-

not a hill.

A suggestion of elevation.

A rise where gravity hesitates.

And on that rise:

a wooden shack.

It should not be there.

It is always there.
----The valley below is filled with roses.

Not roses-

''iterations'' of roses.

Seeded. Re-seeded. Rewritten into the soil of something called

The Veil

(which is not a place so much as a boundary pretending to be one).

They grow without sun.

They bloom without time.

They remember things that have not happened yet.
----Inside the shack sits a man.

Or something that insists on the shape of one.

He writes.

No-

he ''watches''.

No-

he does both, and neither, and the distinction stopped mattering a long time ago.

His stories come from a world that never-

-never ''was''.

And yet they accumulate.

They gather like dust in corners that do not exist.

They converge.

Everything converges.
----His name is Galen.

Or Think.

Or Thinkworks.

Or Patron.

Or something heavier, like Golem

(which implies construction, or burden, or a command spoken too late).

Names do not stick here.

They orbit.
----He calls himself a Jumper.

Nalkan, specifically.

(There is no record of what that means, only what it does:)

> it throws itself forward

> it does not hesitate

> it chooses battles already lost

> it calls the fall a form of arrival

He expects to die.

He is often correct.
----Elsewhere-

if “elsewhere” still applies-

he holds titles:

Võlutaar

(for something called Pale Trackers)

Vartija

(for an Order that dreams in red

and does not wake up)

These words feel important.

They are not explained.
----Combat proficiency:

somewhere between

mediocre

and

“Halkost Material”

(which may or may not be praise)
----Observed behaviors include:

• distributing fragments of joy

(misidentified as “Sarkic cults”)

• achieving total focus when prompted

(duration inconsistent)

• dying repeatedly

(location: the cathedral

which may be literal

which may not be)
----Not observed:

• attendance at “cool events”

(criteria undefined)

• sustained rage

(despite provocation)
----There is an implication-

subtle, but persistent-

that none of this is self-description.

That the man in the shack is not writing about himself.

That he is writing about something

watching him

from the valley

among the roses

that should not grow

in a place that does not exist.
----The shack remains.

The hill remains.

The stories continue to converge.

And somewhere between the lines-

something is waiting

for the moment he finally

looks up.</blockquote>

User:Thinkworkz

2026-04-09T14:49:51Z

Thinkworkz: Uh oh... it's my own page :eyes:

<blockquote>[[File:Profilepicture thinkworks.png|alt=Profilepicture thinkworks|thumb|One of my many online identities; an Amphibian.]]</blockquote>

== At the edge of the Universe ==
<blockquote>(or what passes for an edge, if such a thing can exist

when distance folds in on itself)

there is a hill.

No-

not a hill.

A suggestion of elevation.

A rise where gravity hesitates.

And on that rise:

a wooden shack.

It should not be there.

It is always there.
----The valley below is filled with roses.

Not roses-

''iterations'' of roses.

Seeded. Re-seeded. Rewritten into the soil of something called

The Veil

(which is not a place so much as a boundary pretending to be one).

They grow without sun.

They bloom without time.

They remember things that have not happened yet.
----Inside the shack sits a man.

Or something that insists on the shape of one.

He writes.

No-

he ''watches''.

No-

he does both, and neither, and the distinction stopped mattering a long time ago.

His stories come from a world that never-

-never ''was''.

And yet they accumulate.

They gather like dust in corners that do not exist.

They converge.

Everything converges.
----His name is Galen.

Or Think.

Or Thinkworks.

Or Patron.

Or something heavier, like Golem

(which implies construction, or burden, or a command spoken too late).

Names do not stick here.

They orbit.
----He calls himself a Jumper.

Nalkan, specifically.

(There is no record of what that means, only what it does:)

> it throws itself forward

> it does not hesitate

> it chooses battles already lost

> it calls the fall a form of arrival

He expects to die.

He is often correct.
----Elsewhere-

if “elsewhere” still applies-

he holds titles:

Võlutaar

(for something called Pale Trackers)

Vartija

(for an Order that dreams in red

and does not wake up)

These words feel important.

They are not explained.
----Combat proficiency:

somewhere between

mediocre

and

“Halkost Material”

(which may or may not be praise)
----Observed behaviors include:

• distributing fragments of joy

(misidentified as “Sarkic cults”)

• achieving total focus when prompted

(duration inconsistent)

• dying repeatedly

(location: the cathedral

which may be literal

which may not be)
----Not observed:

• attendance at “cool events”

(criteria undefined)

• sustained rage

(despite provocation)
----There is an implication-

subtle, but persistent-

that none of this is self-description.

That the man in the shack is not writing about himself.

That he is writing about something

watching him

from the valley

among the roses

that should not grow

in a place that does not exist.
----The shack remains.

The hill remains.

The stories continue to converge.

And somewhere between the lines-

something is waiting

for the moment he finally

looks up.</blockquote>

File:Profilepicture thinkworks.png

2026-04-09T14:21:32Z

Thinkworkz:

profile picture of user Thinkworkz