Solomonari:Fables/Tales/Gluttony, Avarice, And A Damned Pyromaniac
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//: [Gluttony, Avarice, And A Damned Pyromaniac]
SparkySlime1311 | 2/10/2026
CONTEXT: Conversation between “Sparky” and ███████ immediately after Agent “Gordon S.” dialogue on ██/██/████.
It is currently unknown how this record was sourced. Currently looking into referential data regarding what was spoken of in the [DATA EXPUNGED].
ADDENDUM I: Journal believed to belong to “Sparky” was recently uncovered and brought before Foundation archives, the following record was written in legible [REDACTED], a language that is still undergoing translation attempts. The original explorer who turned in the written record is still being looked into as to how they anonymously sourced the record.
What do most seek when they dream? Actually. Let us rephrase. What do YOU seek when You dream?
Before us now, with that dead body broken through unnecessary force?
He asked an unnecessary question.
That “Agent”...uhm,
“Gordon”, was it? Those silly Foundation explorers thinking they could outwit you? Our dearest little prize.
But. Seriously. Regarding those nasty little dreams… it seems that even now you-
How come you still remain “Dad”, even after you…left?
I Hate you. You left us. Left “Uncle”, left Toby, left-
Even now you lament, and lament. “Hate”? What a silly word. Something that a silly child like you no longer requires, we say.
But, yes. We left. Left in the fire…the fire that tore down not just us, but those that sought to-
Not just “Dad”, not just…any of us. Lamenting is all I have.
Lamenting you. Lamenting an old life I now scorn in remembrance of.
Lamenting-
“Welcome to the Seeding Chamber.” Spoke the voice of one who was leading that outsider around the Kiraak that Sparky had taken residence in.
She currently was stood stock-still, staring at some wall like they usually tend to do, staring, drowning in their own thoughts, drowning in the silence as internal static bleeds past whatever other dialogue may be shared between Aria and the outsider.
Whatever else could they do? This was her punishment after-all. To constantly forget, to drown in-
Those that were lost…I am almost certain of my relief in Toby’s guaranteed survival from the fire.
Toby. The twitching child, we wouldn’t be surprised if he set the fire again. It is his purpose, after-all.
Just like Your purpose. Your dream. Which- remind, us, child. What IS your purpose now?
My purpose is the will of the Grand Ion. The will of those fellows who follow Nälkä and their purpose for me.
Speaking like you know your place. Silly, silly child…we knew your position in all of this long, long ago. Yet you demean yourself even now.
How could I not? It would be greedy otherwise. To want- to dream- to yearn for more than my betters allow.
“I don’t recall allowing you to stray away from me.”
That familiar voice of Aria was yet jagged, deeper and far oppressive. She, Sparky, could yet presume that the outsider was soon to either be exiled or punished like she had punished that “Gordon” for his transgressions…when was that, anyways, a week ago? A month? Some time far in the-
Pondering over the weak man that you slaughtered, silly child? Why bother yourself over something so menial. Yet, we understand the need to lament, it is all you do after all.
To wonder, is it yet truly pure avarice want for such things? We cannot say such, no matter on if we know such. That is not for us to dictate.
I must wonder-
“Sparky. Hellooo?” A voice she barely recognized yet was belonging to one she definitely knew, Aria was before her now, standing with an expression- no, nevermind. Sparky blinks, realizing that she was in fact alone…yet, she definitely heard that voice. A hallucination, perhaps.
“Hello?” Her voice, one that she rarely utilizes came out scratchy, dehydrated as her gaze sweeps the Aokigahara Forest she now found herself. She, herself, was far too familiar with forests of course, but…this forest, this palace of grief and shrubbery was one she hadn’t bothered to learn its ins and outs.
So, perhaps, she was lost? Maybe. …No. No she couldn’t have been lost, couldn’t have been hallucinating given-
Why time passes. Why you still remain, retain. Retain, “Dad”.
Silly, silly child. We retain because you depend on us. Your purpose. Your dream, cannot involve others. You lament involving others, playing “victim”. Silly, silly child, you do well to see it as it is. “Victim”. “Hate”. Such silly, silly words.
Of course.
You agree. Yet you still question ceaselessly.
Child, your obedience cracks thin. Child, your dreams foolish burn bright.
Silly, silly child, you continuously persist before the starless night.
Oh child, lost “Sparky”, lost warrior weakened before her years-
Shut up. I hate, “Dad”, I want “Dad”, to SHUT UP!
The fact that she was standing near another nondescript robed figure. A fellow “Gardener”, perhaps playing the role of “Caretaker” or “Housekeeper”, Sparky was uncertain to the certainty of such a thing. Yet, what could be certain? The idea that they were standing before her, speaking with such a similar voice to Aria’s yet beholden to a face that was most certainly not hers.
“Hi!” They greet, face shrouded in robe despite the friendlier voice…with noticeable grain. A roughness causing her, Sparky’s hairs to stand on ends.
What was before her, was mimicking the voice of Aria mimicking the posture of-
Oh pitiful, shameful, silly, silly little child. Shame. Feel the pain of your betters, of those that were lost, of those that deserved to survive. Not you. Never you. NEVER-
…does, “Dad” hate me too?
Never. We don’t “Hate”. A silly, silly word. We shame. Shame the silly, silly child that survived. Shame the warrior that fell before her betters.
Does. “Dad”. Hate. Me. Too-
Sparky immediately makes distance, a simple flick of the heel finding her a yards pace away from the robed freak before her. It stands silent, head inclined, almost like a predator calculating if the caught off guard prey was even worth it.
It matters not. Flames conjured, licking at the hands of her fingers that they cast off at the robed freak; the fire hits…and the robed freak remained stock-still, as if the fire hadn’t touched them at all.
“Aww! Are you upset at me Sparky? Dear, it’s okay-” the continued words, a noticeable grain bleeding into every word–much akin to someone speaking through gritted teeth–of the robed freak were cut-off as they’re forced backwards; Sparky stabbing her hand into the ground, leaning down as three blood-coated vines stab out swift like spears-
…We refuse to give you an actual answer. Child.
For we are simply in your head, what you recollect of your “Dad”. The breadth of shame, the reach of our disappointment in you for the fire that resulted in our oblivion, the entire collective’s disentanglement was detached the instant you slaughtered all of us.
This is your penance, child. From the mangled Kiraak to our ruined existence.
It is your fault. You know this. It is why we refuse “Hatred”, child.
For we don’t need to “Hate” you. For You “Hate” yourself. It’s almost gratifying the levels you used to go to accrue “Hate”, isn’t it? That greed, that feast of negative emotions you held on to-
“Heh, Siiiigh. Sparky. Cease this silly-” the robed freak’s mimicry is ceased upon a few simple movements. Driven by emotion. Driven by an internal turmoil that was impossible for the robed freak to know, yet the precipice was all the same. Her, Sparky’s rage was all the same, her staff pulled free as with but a few simple flourish, it flew true, utilized much like a javelin.
“Shut up.” The rasped words, painful and gargled past the lips of the lone Sparky as…oddly, the robed freak remains still. So still in fact, that one would be understood in their foolish presumption that that was all it took to take them down – yet, Sparky was not a fool-
…I do hate myself. I never did hate “Dad”, did I? …I refuse to agree to such. No. There was never a moment where I did not, ever, feel his hatred. “Dad”’s hatred. “Dad”’s disappointment.
I’m sorry.
…We accept that. And only that. Your apology, your first recognition of your sins.
And so, in the gleam of the early morning sun, in the cold of a deep forest…both figures would soon vanish, the only lasting remnants of the robed freak would be the inflamed material. The ashes of the cloaked beholden to the mimicker, to the skinwalker. Sparky too would vanish. The only lasting remnants of her would be the sunken puddles, swirling pools of heterogenous, blood and tears long melted deep into the green into the soil. Her lasting mark in this very section of the forest.
I’m sorry. That is all.
ADDENDUM II: While it is currently not as understood the nature of the external versus internal transcript that ended up recorded to the given journal, it is to be of note that the record lines up with the later newly formed Kiraak that took root during [DATA EXPUNGED].