Girl

[Hathor]

Portrait here.
The bio entry which was previously in this post has been removed.

[Hathor]

The fairytale of Rhodopis, as passed down from a time before the Pharoah's fall

Spoiler: show

//Adapted from the Egyptian story of Rhodopis

Once upon a time, during the reign of a pharoah whose name has been forgotten by we mortals, lived a slave girl. Like some slaves, she was not Akiri or of the typical slave stock, but a foreigner who had been purchased long ago. As such, she did not look like the Akiri or even most of the slaves, and stuck out horribly among them. She did not remember a time before she was a slave, when she was among people who looked like herself. Her skin was not bronze like the beautiful Akiri women, her skin turned red and burnt in the sun, and her hair was not straight and flat as Akiri beauty demands. The other slaves mocked her for not looking like a proper Akiri woman, and the other girl slaves especially would torment her in every way they could. There were, after all, few they could safely pick on.

Rhodopis endured the torment thanks to one secret belonging she had managed to keep from before she was a slave. Two, really: a pair of red slippers. She hid them from the other slaves and from her masters as if her life depended on it, and every night when she was alone she would sneak them out and view them in the moonlight. They were beaded with beautiful red stones that glittered when they caught the faintest light, and their beauty gave her strength.

One night, Rhodopis was exhausted from the extra chores the other slaves had managed to pile on her, washing and cleaning while they attended to the more exciting tasks in her master's party. Everyone was awake, so she snuck to the rooftop to view her precious red slippers, holding them up to the moonlight. Suddenly, a great eagle as big as herself swooped down and snatched up a slipper in its claw! She clasped a hand over mouth to stop herself from crying as it flew off over the horizon with her slipper, far away. She hid her last slipper and no longer dared to take it out, for fear she would lose it too.

Far away, the Pharoah of Har'Akir sat in his verdant gardens, listening to his Vizier explain the news of the day. He was troubled, being without a wife, and finding himself unable to trust any of the families who offered him their daughters. To their surprise, an eagle flew in to the garden and dropped a beautiful glittering slipper in his lap. It was no less than a sign from Ra! Whatever woman owned these slippers must be wealthy indeed, and therefore a suitable match. The gods themselves had given him a sign. So he sent his Vizier to search for the other shoe, knowing that whoever had the second slipper must be the woman the gods had sent him.

The Vizier searched far and wide, for many days, but no one had heard of a woman wearing glittering red slippers. The Vizier began to lose hope, and visited the houses of each family in person, questioning them at length. As he questioned the family of Rhodopis, she dropped a jug of hnqt and it shattered at the Vizier's feet. "Her head!" he demanded, and she threw herself at his feet, begging his forgiveness and explaining that she had lost her red slippers. The Vizier did not believe her, but perhaps she knew of the secret queen who owned them. So he followed her to the rooftop, where she showed him her secret hiding place. The Vizier was stunned: this was the match he had long sought, and he explained to the family that the woman who owned the slippers would become the wife of the Pharoah. Rhodopis wept with joy.

"These are my slippers," explained her master's daughter, snatching them free. "You have been stealing again, Rhodopis." The family's other slaves gathered around and agreed with the daughter, knowing well that Rhodopis was a foreigner and could not be trusted.

So the Vizier had his guard behead Rhodopis, and sent her master's daughter to marry the Pharoah.

[Hathor]

Hathor, lady of gold, mistress of joy and song,
steadfast friend of minstrels, I praise and honor you.

Moonhead.

Once a week they meet, and Girl pours herself into the practice.

Florin claps twice. "Bene. Continue."

She is practicing moving up and down in the scale with the same sound: Satin. A soprano, her voice moves easily into the sugary higher notes. But descending, she falters, too focused on projecting, on not being quiet and small. Her lips thin a little in anger, at herself, at her old training and all its added weights.

"Bring your voice to the front of your mouth. Do not fret over projection." Projection comes naturally, now that she knows the method. It is a mental block now, a reminder in the back of her head to remain quiet. Florin has to speak over her; she immediately launches into the practice again, determined to get it right no matter how many times it takes.

Sa-tin. Sa-tin. Sa-tin. Sa-tin. Sa-tin.

Now back up.

Sa-tin. Sa-tin. Sa-tin. Sa-tin. Sa-tin!

It is harder than it might seem, harder than it seemed at first when they began their training. The notes must be perfect. And now finally, after her exhausting weeks of attempts, she gets it perfect. She allows herself a smile.

Florin cups his hand together in a clap. "Capital."

Without fanfare, they move on to a practice performance, and sing of murder and freedom well into the night.


"Colletta" clutches the dagger to her chest, her teeth a little bared, her face a grimace of hate and bitterness. She has just murdered her mother. Mother was cruel, and Colletta is overwhelmed with relief, but venom, too. Her mother's corpse lies still and lifeless, but years of repressed anger come pouring out...in typically operatic song. She berates the corpse with seraphim voice.

"--to your bosom your riches you clutched," she sings, imagined pain winding its way into the notes. "And nary-a hem-lock for your dau-ghters's twain!"

Florin paces absently, encouraging up or down with his hands gesturing, conducting. His fingers flutter upwards as the song reaches its crescendo, they practice again and again.

Seshat, she who scrivens, mother of language and consort of Thoth.
Mehyt, she who massacres, the reclining lioness, she of the bloodied mouth, bringer of the moon.

Nepthys, barren vulture of the air, consort of Set, she who holds the dying, she who wears the mourning cloth. Dark twin of Isis, night and day, growth and decay. The same moon, shadowed and lit, waxing and waning.

To Nephthys, great friend of the dead, I offer my praise.
Sister and companion of Isis in her sorrow,
rider on the night boat, granter of renewal,
you hear the laments of my mourning; you are the solace.

[Hathor]

Spoiler: show

T̶͓͍̖͆̍ͮ͛͑̌̽h̷̯͚̻̺ͫ́ͪͯ͛er͎̆e̖̘̯̣͎̫̬͋̆͆̂̈́̚ ̺͇͈̍a̗͎̓͜ṙ̳͍͇̬̰̱̱̅̌̑͗̓ȅ̡̼̫̳͒̿̽ͨ̂ ̖͈̪̯̠͓͔̿ͫͩͧ̒̀m̞͖͎̠̑͘a̷͈̰͒͂̈͂̃̀̈́n͖͖̫ͮ̄̎̚ÿ̷̘́̉͐͒ ̴͈̪̻̲ͧͅb̘͚̞̫ͯ̑͊a̶̰͙̋́ͧd̗̗͕͈̫̠̰͟ ̸͙ͥp̡͒ͦ̊̈́̾̚e̲̹̞̤̜͐͌͊̆ͯ͂́o̭̬ͦ͐͐̑̅̐p̭̣͎̐̅ͭ̋̿̇̑̀l̡̜̪̱̬̥͖̾̅̑͂ͅe̲̙̼̰͔͔ͮͦ̽̎̉ͦ̈́ ̺͕̖͑̓̈̃ͅoͦ̈́ͣ̂̑̇͏̭̜û̝̤̲͇͇̲̣͂̆́ͣt͚̳ ͉͙̜̜̦̒̈͋̀tͥh̨̟̓́́̐̏ė͂r͓̝̞̝̠̪̺̔ͮ̆̍͋̾́e͖̦̙̯̱̤͛͠,̼̠̗͙͍̻̘͑ ̛̝͗̊ͣ͂i͍͕̱̇̓ͨ́͡ͅn̜̪ͯ͋̃̇́ ̰̺̳̩͕͎̃͑̐̉̓ͥ͐́ͅt͍͎̣͆̈̿͊̍hͫ̾ȩ̩̤̦̹̌̒̉̓̐ ̗̖̰͓̮͛̌͒ͭ̎͊̿C̸̾̂̾o̙̽̕r͍̼̜̮̮̾͒ͥͦͮ͛ͭḛ̳̤̯͈̣̽.̯̯͝ ̮̩͎̖͊́̌͒ͮͅS̤̯o̞͎̩m̲͈̬͉ͤͭ͐e̟̭͌́ͥ͒͑̄ͤ ̝̫͖̍̄͢a͇̓́r̝̣̱̔̉͊̽͛e͚̯͓̜̣̲͙͘ ͎̉̄̿͋́̔̚ṁ̻ȍ̳ͪͧ̓̒ͯr̡̟̦e̡̗͉͎͕̝͉͉ ͒͊̈́̕p̖̰̦͂́͗̔̄̅̌ͅǫ̱͒̽ẁ̜̦̼̙ͅẹ̙̃͛r͐ͭ̃ͦf̮̄́ͨ̂uͩ̉̅́͝ľ̖̺̻̙̆ͦ̃͜,͇͙̗̬͉̟̦ͫ̽ͥ ̗͙̝̜̬̞̾̏̌̆͢sõ̪̖̥̗͈̹m̙͇͖̫͍͙͊̑̀ͅe̖͚̤̠̗͓̻ͥ̓̊̔͂ͫ̾͢ ̧̂ͥͦ̈͛á͍̜̒ͯ̌̈ͭ̚͠r̐̓ͬe̠̥̦͕͈̾ͤ ̨̃̄̏q̘́̀̍u̜͓̙͓̝̟̿͗̐͑̐͊̚i̝̺̔̃̓̿cͧ͑͂ͪk̸e͈̳͓̟͇̱͊͊͘ṟ̹̩͖̟̈̌ͤͨ̓͗̚͞,̢̪͕͖̗̹̤̺ ̨͖͒͒ͦ̌s̹̘͖̝̈́̅͊̍ͅm̷͈ͥͨ̑a͎͍̦͇̗r̘̈́̿͐͐̃t̯͎ͭ͛͌̃̈́̆̌e̪̲ͩͮ̐ͅr͉̼͎,̧̱͈̺̹ ͖͙̦̙͙͖ͣo̡̤͎̹̖̟̮r̴̘͍̖̩̾͒ ̫̞͍̝͉͙̯́͂ͭ̌̒͡s̟̗͕̲͙̼ͤͬ̓ͤ̾p̯̟̠͕͒͐ͣ͗͛̔̓ē̬̥͛ͩ̎ͨ̓̓aͤ̃ͭ̍ͨ̓̒͡k̙̹ͩ͐͋ͨ̍͠ ҉̣̜̜̘̫m̙͇̖̜o̷̜r͑ͩ̑̈́̾̈́e̓̓̑͏͖̜͍͓͕̦ ̖͍̆͛̏̈́l̷̽̄a͕͎̻͉̜͎̐͘n̡̗̳̩̂ͭ̉ͦg̙ư͌a̩̻̘͙̓ǵ̞̞͙̱̠̠̩͊̃̄̐͜e͇͒ͩͧ̎̎̍̃s̺͂̀͂ͯ̋̃͢.̚͝ ̤̰̂ͯB́ͬ͡ŭ͇̖͕̖̼̪̮ͤt͇̠͑́ ͔̝ͦ͋̽̅̽I̧̙̯͚ͤ̚ ̩͓̲̖̯̙̌͛̀̍̚p̧͍̙ͤŕ̜̊o̶̩͉͖̮̓ͨ̌̓ͤm͈̀͒͌͒̾i͓̲̞̖̝̪͖̅͐ͧ͗̅̎s̭̻̳͒e̻̗̘ͧ͆ͪ̂ ̰̉ͫ̔̚͢ẏ̜͔̻̪ͧ̓ͪͫ̾͌o̦̼ṳ͇̘̳̾ͮ̕,̝͈̦̗̝͊̈ͥͦͧ̚ ̴̗̄̄ͮͥ̾̔̚g͚̎ͯ̆̒̽̐̐ͅi̼̥̯̠̺̬̺͛̀͐͛̎r̞̲͚̘̭̤̳͊̋ͣ̏̍l̳̦̲̰̮̻͍ͨ̂͊ͭ,̶͖̮͙̪̭̲ͦ̌̉̑ ̹̱̲͇̠̲͎̍̌̒́͑I̶̳̽͑̏̀̚ ͚̯̜ͮ̅ͩ͌̀a̛͑ͮm̱̩̦͎͑̔̅͂͟ ̠̗͙̲̯͍͈̐́ͨ̐̈́̊͑tͫ̑͘h̫͕͔̄̉͐̾ͪ͐͒e̢̙͐̚ ̜̼̱͐͢w͍̯̜̠̙ͫ͌ͣͅȯ̗͕̻̲͙̫̅̂̑͐͂r͈͚̞͈̟̠͊s̤̩͈̦̪̗ͧ̎̆̿͒̏ͦt̞̊́͂̎͊ͨ͟ ̦̱̳̯ͤ̿ͯ͊ͮ̉ͦ͞o͚͖̹̟̩͎͖ͭͨ̃f̴̹͙̹͙̦ ͩ̌̌̐́̅͏̲̱̥̣͙ṱ̫̋̅̅h̏̃ͪ̂͐͏͔̟̲̼̙̱ȩ̇̌̽̽̃m̘̼͎̹͈̃ͩ̄ͭͪ̀ ͩȧ̳̱̦͎͛̀̔ͬ͜l̹̫͕͑̾̀̈́͑̚͘l̻̝͉̣̩ͨ̍͛͂.̷͙̳̣̯̇̅̉͆ͅ

...by removing the irritating, ever-present sonic layer which impedes my efforts.

The sonic range of most interest is the one we ourselves produce. Animals, nature, do not touch our souls, though I'm noting a tendency to hear human sounds from clearly non-human sources. Experiments are a bit beyond me, but I think I nearly have one figured out which can be conducted fairly easily.

Non-heard music still producing effects, on the same layer as subsonic and that of bats...

Y̷̢̮̯̰̖̼̅ͩ̂ͅo̵͓̯̗͍̙ͥ̃u̶̦̫̤͉̹̣̮̥̍̋͑ ̃̃̏͏͝҉͈͈̞̥̰s̺͍̗̥ͯ̈́̈̅ͮ̒̂͂͐́ͅa̷̢͓͇̐̆̽ͩȋ͎͐̓̈ͯ̀ͤ͜d̸̵͂̃̑҉̙͍͙ ͭͭ̈́̅̐ͫͥͩ̇҉̡҉͉̰͕̺̟̦y̴̬̻͕͓̥̞͂ͪ̌͌̂̍̍́ͅo̴͈̦̬̥̫̿̊̋ͥ͘͞ǔ̢͙̖̻̬̮͎̘̑͊̿̇ͩ̆ ̟̟͎͔͚̱̝̥̿ͤ̄̏̆̀ͅn̞͈̫̹̥͎ͫͩ̔̏ͫ̽̚e̮͔̗̥͉ͤ̇ͪ̅͂ͧ̕v̨̧͎̳͍̤̳̝̙̫̂ͥ͆̎ͯ͞e̤̱͍̓ͩ̏̆̋ͩ͂ͦ̕r̵̡͎͇ͣ̐̿ͭ̍̈́͢ ̪̲̼̳͈͍̖͙̻̾̄͂w̮̆̕a̷̿̔҉̥̟̟n̫̭̙͉̲̬ͣ͢ṱ͎̣̾́̽́̑̈̈́ͬ͝ ͗̊ͧͮ̄̐͏̦͇t̮̞̰̯̺͙ͥ̈́̒̄ͮó̟̯͔̑ ̷̱̞͕͌d̮̝̺͐͑̍͝ͅȯ̟̩̹̘͒̍̃ ͎͉͇̟̝͚̮̓͌î̇̈͢͏̲̣̩̬̠͍ͅt̼̜̥̟͉͍̼̗͗ ̨̺̱̥̜̙̲͉̮̫͒a̷̰ͬ͆ͤ͛͛͐g̘͕̹̑ͩa̢̫͓͖̘̼̓͐ͮ́̀̀ͨ́͞i͚̬̠̫̘̭̩͎ͮ͆n̊̈́̇͐̂̓ͫ̓͏̴̧͔̦̼̗?̸̱̲̦͚̞̾ͧ͐̊̽͠ ̜̔ͯ̑̒T̨͕̭̹̰͚͎̙̫̔̏̒͊ͬͤ̀h̛̯͇ͤ̓̾̾́̀a̲͈̞̣͚͂̉͆ͪ̈́̃̋́̚tͩ̎͗̋͏̵̙̺̘̺̩’̛͎̟͔͓͙̃̔̑̂ͥ͆̆̾͢s͚͎̬͉̲̭͖̋̆ͬ̆ͭͤͤ͠ ̧͍͖͕͕̗̘̞̔ͪͅͅs̘̩̜̩̺̞͕̗͛̅̓̀͑͡t̷̩̲̻̞͗̎́u̧̜̲͙͚̖͇̗̒̌͒̐̍p͎̺̻̮͎̪̗̫̀̐ͫ̆͘͢i̛̙̳̭̲͖͈̗̇ͯ͛ͦ͞ḑ̻̈͗̏ͬͧ̓̄.̛̮̬̖̙̻̼͍̖̊͜͡ ̧̋͌ͧ̌̀͠͏͎̣̝͎̲̫̬ͅY̺͎͕̲͓̞̭̥ͮ̌͝o̝̮͎̺̹̠̊ͩͤͥ̐̅̒̚͜ͅͅu͍͓̭̥͕̞͕ͧ͗̔͢ͅ ̢̜̮̺͈̩̪̻͕͐͑̐͝a̙̣ͫ̓̓̚r̞̹̺͈̯̞̲̭ͭ̋̓̎͆̏̍ͅe̹̣̺̞͎͎͕̬̒̈́͑̌ͤ͡ ͉̭͈̿̿͑̈͢g̼̙̍ͯ̉ͨͪ̅̄͊ǫ͇̪̮̍̅̄ͫ̏̊̓̏i̫̼̪̠ͮ̽ͣͤ̅͌ͯ͜ņ̭͖̞̳̦͍͖̞̩̊͒ͥ̏̎́̈́̋̀͜g̵̠̲̬̜̘̩̪̙͖̉̆̅ͦ̅̽̌́͘ ̧̠̣̊̋̓͒͘͟t̋ͧ̌ͨ̓̊̓̿͏̘͡o̤̙͙͕̯̞͌̏͌̑͞ ̞̹̜͇͌ͩ̆ͩ̋̀̽̉̀d̨̞̬͍͔̅̎͋̈́ȏ͔̣͈͈̘͍̻̺͋͋ͪ̚͟͟ ͍̮̈̒͛̽i͈ͣ̽͗̈́́͝ṭ̨̢̔̑̑ͬ͗͛͝ ̲̬̤̬̤̭̗̫ͦ̅ͨͥͤ̐ͯ̇̌́͘a̷̛̤̞̭̟̗̾ͬ͆ͭ̃ģ̦̺̺͎͍̩̫̑̇̎͗͆̇͟͝á̵̯̜̣̖̱͋̔ͮ̆͛ͪi̞̦͓͖͖̫̙̬̓ͭ͂̉ͦ̀͡n̶̸̰̠̭͂͆ͪ̌͟.̧̻̜͇̲̹̱̥͉͋͒̎͆͋ͮ̚ ̴͉̟̣̜̦̬̰ͨ͂Aͧͮ̓͑̏̋̂͏̢̟͉̮͞n̝̙̥̳̈͊d̘̩͉̖̾͗̃̓̊́͜ ̸̛̣͉̪̜̤̩̳͕̂͂̿͂̊̄̚ạ̲̘̪͚̲͗̋͂̎̄̈́̏̚g̙͕͇̊̍̇ͯa͈̱͓̺̞̥͕̺̎̊i̱̜̾̏̆͂̆ͦ̈ṇ̪͉̭̯̆ͨ̍,̴͚̯̐͑ͣ̍ ͎̽ͨ̿͂̅a͂ͯ̽̽̅̋̀͝͏͈̙̜̞͍̹n̛͇͖̘̩̥̺̠̲̓́d̠ͩ̄͛̀̃̍͢͢ ͉̤̰̭̭̺̣͓̔ͯ͒͢a̲̮̅̑̌͆̈ͅĝ̛̛͙̹̖ͮ͋̃͛̔̾ͅͅa̘̟̩̰̟͊̿̌̑͐͑̏̕͜͢i̦͖̜̣̫̱͒͆̈̅ͪ̑̋̚͢ͅn̢̮̩̼͈̜̻̜ͫ̊̾ͨ̂ͤ̊̄.̡̿̃̇͑ͦ͠͏̬̱͔͕̯ͅ ̴̳͔̦ͯ̋̌̑Ỷ̷̠͚͑ͭ͆̍͌̃̐͢o̶̴̩̜̱̟̬̔̉ͬ̃̋͋̂̓̾͟ū͗̚̚҉̴̳̲͍̱̱̬͖͘ ̷̼̭̒̋́̍̓ͨ̀a̭̬̭͇̝ͥͩͮ̇̽̂̈́̃̌͝ŕ͕̲͓̥̓̏̾e̛̬͇̘͆̔͑̿͗ͮ̉̐͢ ̷͕͈̼͎̩͚̇͢g̶̒ͦ̑͌ͪ͏̗̜̠̘̱̣̠͝ò̓̓ͨͫ̃̿̑́҉҉̞͔̰ḯ̸͎̻̪̤̹̟͑͋ͯ͘͠nͩ͒͗̀ͯͨ̈́ͯ̈́҉̩͇̯ġ̰̱̪̻̬̐̑͋̚ ̴͙̈t̜̟̪̻̒̒͗ͧ̃̓o̡̨͚̹̩̔̇̓̈ͫ͒ ̢͈̼̦̥̺̹̼̄̀ͣ͊̉ͮ̕ͅḑ̴̰̝͇̬͔̝̗̾̐̔̂̏͑͞ơ̴̩͉͍͖̰̱̭̰͇̇͐̓̏͟ ̈́̎͜͏̰̟ͅi̷̛͖̗̹ͨ̎͑̇͌̆ͩͅt͕̜̳̫̘̳ͬͩ̓̂̈́̀ ̳̖͓͕̫̦͖̙̠̉̿ͧ͆̈́͘͡s͎̠͎͖ͫ̃̔̐̑ͮ͆͆ͦȯ̡͈͚̬̔̉ͫ̏ͫ͑ͩ̅͟ ̛͙̰͖̲̒ͣ̽ͣ͊ͤ̎ͨ̇͞m͎̪͕̰̬̠̓͌̆ͭ̔͢u̱͎̘͎̞̭ͬͩͨ̈c̸̼̖͚̑͂̔͂̐̈́͞h̸̝̱ͦͯ̀̆͟͡,̵̲̗̠̱͆ͫ͜ ̛͙̝͈̼̜̋̐̒͒ͪ͛́͢ȳ̶̭̘̠̮͕̅ͯ̒̿o̤̳̟̘͖͈͉̓̀̄͑ͤ́́u̡͕ͭ͋ͥ ̴͒͆͆͂̆ͦͬ͌҉̩̜͖͇̣̠̹w͑̄͊͌̍ͯ̏͠҉͉̬̣͍̞ǫ̷̛͈͍̅ň̳̫̜͙̖̥̦͍̱ͯ̆́͝’̑͂̊͗҉̛̛̻͓͉͈̪ť̹̍̉ͪͤͬͤ̃̀ͅ ̰̘̤͓͕͂̃̅̊̓́̓ͪ́͠ę̨̣̖͉͇̟̰̯̟̍̒͊̈́v̴̼̤͔͓͔̼̯ͯ̃͟e̶̞̖̬̯̲̟ͪ͗̍̔̒̾̑̚ṇ̪͚ͮͩ̇ͤͯ̑ ̢̙̥ͮͩ̚͡h̡̭̦͔̪ͭ̉̌̚a̹ͣͮ̕v̈́ͪ͊͏̨̞̣͈̲̼͔͖̀e̵̘̺͇̝͆̒̅̃ ̟̩̟͕͍̂͢ͅt̼̩̫̠̝͍̮̑̀̽͒̆͌͟o̴̞̖͉̩͈̼̺͖̓̍̒ͩ̊ ̜̖͓̽͢tͣͫ҉̭͖͚̱͎h̥̩̠̰̻͕͕̠ͧ͐̃͂̐͋͒ͤ́i̩͚̦̜̣͎͙͕͋̍ṋ̪̟͂̍͠k͚̜̀ͮͬ̏͟͠ ̢͇͔̲̺͚̹͈͎̏ͥ̋̽̓̈́͋ͤo̙̖͕̿ͮ̂ͮr̸̡͎̟̞̟͇͇̂ͧͨ̿͜ ̨͙͓̘̘͚͒̊́f̨͉͙̼̆e̴̛̦̝̯̞̘͚͗̈́͡e̖̟͚͔͚̓̄͐͒ͨͫl̷̻̘̫͖̣̳͇̪͂ͤ͑̈́̀̔ͫ̒͘͝ͅ ̿̑͒̑͏̱̹̳̘a̩̝̺͈̘ͧ͆͑ͦ͊͑͟n̸͊̉͞҉̳͇ͅy̴̨̩̘͚̪̘̔͗̉͑ͬͬ̔ţ̩̘͗̉̃ḩ̡̛͎̼̗͇ͣi̡̺̻͍̹̦̒ͮ̐̃̒ͦ̒n̎͒ͬ҉̵̢̺̯͍̬̣͕̩ḡ̸̮̩͖̱̹͂̋͠ ̦̮̑ͮ̾̕w̢̰̞̞̹͙̣͓̋ͪ̇̀͟h̸̛̩̺̫̘̬̔͗̃̋ͧ͞ͅę̩ͣ̊͜ͅņ̤̭͉͐̾̉̅ ̛̫͎͎͔̲̐̆ͮͥ͑ͬ̅̕ͅy̵̛̗̩̰̳̜̐̆̑̀o͇͂͌̾͡ų͈̺̹̫̟̏͐͂ͅ ͈̖̜͓̤̯͐͐̾͗́͘ḏͬ̎̂ͪ͆̂̅̕ͅo͍̤͗ͧͮ͠͞ ̞̪͎ͥ͛ͯ͋̀͞ỉ́̅̈́ͩ͗̕҉̶̩̝̟̫͈t̷̬̺͓̖̝̠̯͇͑̐̽̑̔.̷̭̺̤̲̣͎͙̰̺̅̓̈́̋̍ͤ

Melodic intonation therapy. Intonation of music triggers responses even in the brain-damaged who struggle with language. Healing observed. Quite similar to the invoking of gods, but which is the actual cause of the effect? Gods cannot be observed.

I am not sure what to make of the effects of the anechoic chamber. Similarities to Duat and the Shadow Plane, prolonged exposure alongside alongside complete darkness has had unfortunate results, noted below. I'll need a volunteer.

Y̴̵͙͔͎͙̭̻ͫͦͨ̿ͩ̔̐ͧͦ̒̚͢ō̡͙͙̘͎̖͓̳͙̜̟̣̪͈̮̯̝ͣ̓̿̋̒̊̅ͦ̋̏͊̅͢u̵̶̅̈̀ͪ͂ͭ̇̊̾ͥ̿ͬ̈́̿ͧ͌͌͘͝͏̻̪̖̫͍̰͙̣͎̟ ̸̸̧͉͓̳̱̮̯̣̹͌ͥ͑ͫ̍̔̒ͫr͒̇ͧ͆͌̒̀҉̨̛̗̬̘̘̯͓̜͎̟̯̫̤͉̤̼͞ę̶̝͙͍̣̳̪̟̥͇̠͓̪͎̉͛ͫ̓͌͗́͆͂̂̌ͦ͂͑̇͑̉̉ͨ̀͟ͅa̧͉̼̺͕̰̭̘̝͓̩͔̙͔͆̊ͫ̽͆̌ͅl̡͍̬͍͎̩̍̊͆ͯ̒͛̔͊̉̚͟͞ľ̴̡̨͎̝͓̦̖̘͕̜̳̬͈͈͍̘̯̝͒̊ͬ͋̍ͤͧ̎̓̈́̉ͯ͌̀̾̌ͮ̈́̕ͅŷ̧̃ͨͫ͑̽̂̇̋͜҉̱̤̪̙͎̲ ̨̮͍̼̯̳̩̘͖̼̗̬͓̝̳̱̳͉̓͆̿͊̕͡ā̵̃̏̎͂̀̿͒͠͡͠҉͓͎̖͖̞̻̯̫̭ṙ̛͕̩̣͔̩̼͇̘̜̼̰̖͔̜͔̹͔͓̹͗̃̔̊̾́͝͞͡e̢͚̝̮͔̙̯͎̤̙͖̘͍̭̬͉̮̭͗̍ͣ̉̒̓ͪ̿͌̀ͅ ̦͓͎̮͙͎̖̬̱̗̻͈̭̪̲̖̿̅͂͛̈͗͌͒ͣ́͝c̸̹̩̣̫͓̤̙͕̤͎̥͋̋ͫ̋ͭ͗̉̊̒͊͌̒̎̄͛͌̿̍̕͟ͅû̈ͫ̿̊ͦ͒͊̾͑̾̿̏ͥ҉͙̯͇̰̱̮̳͉͇r̷̽̅ͨ̂̄ͨ͌̾ͮ̒͆̊̐ͧ̇͐̚̕͝͏̴̬̜̞̭͙̻̤̱̯̖̜̤̻̞͖ͅs̪͉̥͓̪̠̫̮̹̎͌ͧ͐́ͧ͊̔̾̆̍̚͘ͅĕ̓́͋̾͊̃͂͋ͣ́͏̢͙͉̺͓͎͓̖̠̳d̪͍̳̱̠͉̥͎͓͕̦̹͈͙͙̺̪͉͐̇ͣ͊̑̍͆ͣ͋ͬͯ̍͘,̸̨̢͕͔͇͉̹̬̰̪̳͍̇͂͆ͪ̈́́̋̍ͣ̏ͤ̅̇̈ͯ́͟ ̟̲̙̣͕̠͚̭̉̈ͥͧ͋ͩ̀̀a̧̓ͦ̎ͩ̾ͭ͗̈́̎͒͌͐̌̿͏̮̙̱̤͎̝̖̼͔̣̪̮̜̦r̷͎͈̥̰̣̭͙̤̻͓̟̞̤̤̮̓ͥ̓ͬ̃ͭ̎̎̽̓̄̎ͤ̊ͨ̊̌́́͘ě̸̃ͩ̒ͪ̿̈ͪͭ̉͋ͬ̈ͧ͡҉̶̫͉̦̰̣͖͕̙̩̖̦̮̦͈̘̀n̲̣̯͈̱̻̞̥̤͓̰̺̤̼͚͔̆͗ͪͪ̊ͯ͒̾ͩͩ̂ͮ͜͞’̛̟̣̮͍̫͓͍̠̝͓̙̻̩̲͇̐ͧ͆̋͗̊̂ͦ͊̋͆ͫ͊͂̒͆t̳̻̭̤̼͈̲͇̦̞͚̲̓̓̆̉͘͘̕͠ ̘͔̤̣̹͉̮̺͇͕̠͎̅͊ͥ͗͛̅̒͋ͪ͆̒̈́ͫ͗̃́̚y̷̨̛̛̖̟̞̟͎̰̮̪̬̤͕͇̯̬̱͚͔̦̝͒͂ͬ̓ͤ̈̓ͯ̑ͮ̌͗ͭ͑̾̌͛̊o̵̜̠̯̜̦̲͓̞͇̼̥͐͐̄ͯ̓͗̆̈́ͦ̋̓̈͛ͫ̄͡͝ủ̏̈ͬͣ̐͏̶͙͙̱̭͕̘̯̫̰̕ ̸͉̣̪͉̱͖̪̮̯̺̹͙̒ͨͥ̈̓ͪ͛̍͌ͤ͆ͮ̿̑̿̿̚͟g̴̻͈̩̬̦̭̠̳̞̠̼͉̜̣̝ͮ̃̉̂̋̇̓̇̉̓̓̃ͮͤ͌̾́͟i̧̙̖͕͙͚͍̜͍̩̣͂̇̿͑ͭ̍͠͡r̴̡̫̯̭̼̦͕̯̣͍̜̫̖̓̃̿̋͊ͤ̈ḽ̸͎͕̣̼̳̮͓̜̦͔̣͚̱͔̐ͧ̉̿̓͋ͯ̌̆̆̌ͨ̅ͦ̈́ͭ̃ͣ͠͡?̢̦̗̗̘̬̣̗̏ͪ͗̎̃̈́̑͆ͫ̑̆ͤͣͥ̕ ̨͇̠̹̥͉̙̻̖͔͇̝͕͖͈͉̜̞̉̈̋ͭ̂̊̽ͭ̔͌ͭ̿͒̆C̶̰͇̹̝̙̭͚̟̞̫̙͙͈̓̐̾ͯ̾ͥͣ̾̎ͦ͟͞a̵̲̝̭̠͙̎̓͒̒̈̓͊̈́ͣͦ͆ͫ̓ͬ́͠͞n͂̈́̏̊ͧ̌͊̒ͤ̑͒͂̔̇̏͆҉̡҉̛̫̟̮͈͎͔̪̜̫̣̪͈͈̼͞ͅ ̸̨̞̭̱͕͎̗͕̘͔̮̙̥̱̙̩͇̆̿̌̂͌̄̌̒͞ͅy̸̸̴̭̯͇̥̩̺̪̹͚̻̯̻̘̘̜̎ͩ͆̏̀̀͢ọ̶̯̞̱̗̹́ͪ̏̈ͩ̿͌̏͐u̷̧͉͖̰̖̣͙̭̘͓͓͉̬͎̱͓̹̯̎̏̋ͤͪ͋͘͘͞ͅ ̴̴̡̮̰͔̹̺̘̜̹͈̪̦͔̺͈̮ͦ̈́̓ͤͦ͆ͮ͆̆͞ͅh̒̎ͥ̉ͤ̅̾̑͜͏̱̩̗͔̪͎̦̠̼̟̪̟͔̱̙̹͖͔͟ͅȇ̡̡̛̛͍̠̭͉̊͛̂̿̚͜ḁ̵̡̺͇̙͚̰̘͚͓̩̺̱̻̣̼̔́ͭ̃̄̕͜r̨̛͇͓͚̺̰͖̝̼̩̲̞͙͇ͣͩ̾͐̍͞͝ͅ ̷͚̼̞͖̪͉̫̲̞̮̠̯̤͔̎̀̈̍͂͂̌ͩͧ̈́ͤ̄̑̀̀͘ͅm̵̵̶͖̩̲̰̙͔̘̜̯͕͍̮̜̙͆̅̓̔͒̌̈́͂̍̉̀͜ͅȩ̡̱͚̱͉̼͒ͥ̑͞,̨͌̊ͭ̉̊ͪ҉̡͖͕̯̱̣͙̣̥̤̗̮͈͕ͅͅ ̸͔͎̭͖̣̫̪̪͚̂̓͆̒̈̽͒̏̈́̀ͤͣ̍̿̅́̕͢͝c̢̢̲̱̬͙͉͔̠͖͍̖̩̪̞ͣ̒̄ͭ̓͟ữ̷̵̯̱̼̝͍͖̱̥̪̣̜̘͍̹̪͍̯̑̈́̌̓̈̊̆̂͐ͧ̄͒̆͋͌̈́̚̚͡͠ͅŗ̬̱̩͍͕̠̥͌̀ͭ͗̿͑̑̅̀s̸̢̧̫̤͔͉͇̘̗̘̫͕͍̽̓ͭͭ͊̎̏͢ẹ̴̢̢̙̟̼̼̬̫̫͎͙̩̯̬͉̩ͫ̓ͩ̈́̈ͩ̎͑͗̔ͤ̓̂͟͞ͅd̡͊ͪ̑̉̚͘҉͈̣̗͍̦̦̟̯͎̪͇̦̼̫̜̦ ̧͔͔̫̣̜͉̖͎͖̜̉͐́͗ͥ̂͂͊̑͒͋͊͂ͨ͐͛̀͞l̑͂͌ͦ̐̈́͛̈͊̿́͛̀̚̕҉҉̹̩͚͇̜͎͚̦͇̩̯̝͚̤̫͖̫̲͘ͅḭ̵̠͇͕͕͈͚̳̰̺̜̦̬̞͍̘̎͊̊ͣͣ̿̾͆̂̌̏̆ͭͨ̉́͐͘ţ̜̟̭͚̲̻̥̬̦͎̹̔̈̽ͧ̃̈́́̋ͨͪ͆̍͂ͪ̾̂̾͢͠ͅt̨̑̏͌ͮͩ̂̀̒ͦ̽͛͐͢҉̺̰̝̗̯̻l̰̱͇̘̲̯̰̭͓͔̖ͣ̔̇́͢͝e̢̡̪͈͖͉̰͇͈̟̻̠̬͓̰̣͇̮ͫ͌ͮ̄͆ͥ̉̇ ̴̡̛͂̉̀̊͌̔̅̓̒̃̍̓͌҉̰̭̮͕̜̜̥̣̖̪t̨̡̛̹̘̰̭̫̘̰ͤ̔̏̃̑̐ͥ͛̅͊̓͊ͥ͛́̄ͬ̉̚͟͜h̶͎̜͕̮̪͉̪̫͍̱̱̠̘̹̦̞͉̪̘̆͆̎̍̈ͫͪ͞iͥͧ̂̊̈́̓̊͆̐́ͭ̎ͫ̔̀̚҉̧͍̤̲̤ͅn̻̟̦͕̻͈͓̻̭̩̜͖̥͍͖̠̱̩ͧͭ͑́̾ͦ̓̒ͮ̃̄͑̿̈͗͌̀̽̕͜͟ǵ̑ͧ͐ͮͯ̎ͥ̓̆ͬ͒͆̓̌̽̃̍̚҉̬̤̥̘̲͎̩͉͍̻͇̲͕͙͖̙̼͟͠?̷̢͚̰̦͕͖̐̏̃͡͠

Spoiler: show

[Hathor]

Sing, sing, let me sing again.

Please, ẁ̡è̶͝ ̀͟͠w̢͜á̕n͏̀͝t͞͡ to sing again.

An eternity without so̥͎̝̠n̳̮̼̜̠̻̘͝g. They're deaf. Can't they hear us?

We are forgotten. Am I dust? Par Ezra, just one aria again. It was all I wanted.

"Hush," she murmurs, leaning into the mirror to paint shimmery kohl over her eyelid. The changing rooms of the Grand Opera Nationale bustle around her, full of music and noise. Someone is saying something that is probably important. "We'll sing. But hush. I am trying to listen."

She's going to let us sing. You're going to let us sing? I want to sing. She's lying. We're going to sing again.

"Patience."

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---

Thrum-thrum-thrum. It came first from beneath our feet, that Cthonic sound.

What began as an impossible, droning hum and drowned out all thought begins to make sense. Yes, there is a rhythm to it. Yes, a cacophony, but a cacophony of voices, a choir, discordant and mind-numbing at first but resonant with the soul! Thrum-thrum-thrum, an endless, pulsing song which refuses to be put to paper no matter what I try. I hear in it the rattles of sistrums and the pounding of drums and the toning of cathedral bells, the howling of wolves and the high elegant notes of the soprano. The choir of the forgotten. It all begins and ends with this noise.

---

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She pats the red ochre on her lips and checks in the mirror that her face is painted just right.

[Hathor]

The Muhar of Akiri dreams is glittering and golden. Lapis lazuli and turquoise dangle from perfumed nobility, sistrums and bells from a sea of dancers. The sun sets peacefully on the kingdom of Ra, the Dead dream of what once was.

The Muhar of Akiri penance is a pauper, and Ra is quiet these days. Girl's harp is not adorned with turquoise or gold, her clothes are simple and worn. She is lucky to stay inside out of the heat, to be able to keep her delicate face. She rings three bells and then places her fingers over the harp strings. A small breath, and then the lament:

Bethink thee of joys
Till that day has come of landing
In that land that loveth silence
Where the heart does not weary
And the fields are golden
Your Ka light upon the scales

The Dead are laid to rest, though it does not seem as if the rituals work much anymore.

-

The Dead dream of the glories of old Har'Akir. Manishie watches the sun set over Muhar and plays the old songs, mourning with them that beautiful vision.