Down is a novel written by Euranalymus Arse. It tells the story of the WHB Einar Solberg and his descent into the Salterryrian caves under the guide of the MYS-1 Ee-san Vegan-Garde.
Quoted from Pleasure in Liquid Measure:
Arse’s second novel, which once again features Whorenourable Einar Solberg. It takes a significantly darker tone as compared to The Price, diving extremely deep into the consciousness of Solberg’s character. Unlike The Price, Down is not a re-telling but is an original piece, for details of the life of Einar Solberg after the events of the war against the Devilish Time Pit are vague and close to non-existent.
The plot involves Solberg’s encounter with the MYS-3 Ihsahn and their descent into an abyssal Salterryrian cave known as the Hole of Indifferentia.
Recovered Portions of Text Edit
Arse's novel used to exist as a complete text, but as the years passed, portions of 'Down' became lost to time, resulting in the fragmentation of the entire text. Only some sections have been recovered as of late.
Silent Waters Edit
Unknown and lost.
Whorenourable Einar Solberg stood silently against the shade casted by the desolate watchtower. His tired eyes were fixated on the landscape; the whitish hues of Salterryria. A great desert of undulating greys. Many can mistake it for a wintry barren tundra, but unlike most wastelands the Salterryrian lands had an air that was neither unbearably hot nor cold. It was an atmosphere that Einar found to be rejuvenating. He enjoyed the tranquillity of the calm winds, for such winds were seemingly rare. The other planets trembled too violently with an excess of life and noise, but Salterryria never once quivered in the slightest. In fact, it hadn’t quivered since a very long time ago. Dick Executioner Salterry had long vanished from the surface of this planet. Just like the myths recited, the man who was exiled to the realm of salt became one with the very ground, finding within the salt a pleasure like no other. He used to guide quite a sizable and complex settlement on the planet, but all of his followers probably ended up imitating his fate. It made Einar feel a slight melancholy whenever he gazed at the rolling whites and greys, for it was nothing but a graveyard of men driven mad by pleasure.
When the three suns finally crossed over the horizon, gradually blanketing the sky in ethereal shades of purple, Einar returned to the watchtower. He had made it his abode for the time being, for he had to rent out his moon to the esteemed Whorenourable Robbie Rotten. He would have objected to such a thing in any circumstance, but the loaning was an order from one of the higher councils in Elbinia (the name of which he was not made known to for the messenger deemed it to be at the level of a mystery). It took Einar a while to bear with the discomfort of leaving his precious moon. Fortunately, Robbie was a man he could trust. The fellow whorenourable is a meticulous tinkerer, known to stick to instructions in a highly precise fashion. That is very unlike a majority of whorenourables he had encountered on Elbinia, though. A bunch of lazy turds that never even bothered venturing beyond Elbinia ever since they arrived there right after being whored graciously by their PCUMs. That is one of the reasons why Einar went to live reclusively on his moon in the first place. Salterryria was similarly as quiet as his moon, to his pleasure.
Not many shelters were left on the barren planet aside from mines, barrows and watchtowers. Einar had heard stories of other intrepid whorenourables getting lost in the twisting underground mines and barrows.In particular, the Head Bestial on Elbinia filed a missing-person notice throughout the whole of Penile Undulation a month back about a curious Whorenourable Jessen not returning from his mission in Salterryria. Einar did not believe himself to be one that is easily frightened, but after coming across the gaping ominous entrance to a barrow when he first landed, he decided that he’d rather not subject himself to a looming uncertainty and unease that could be fatal for his sanity. Even now he still felt twitchy thinking about the peculiar blues of the barrow, dripping and spilling out onto the grey aboveground so unnaturally it seemed like a massive throat; about how a fellow whorenourable had been consumed by the barrow, never to leave its belly.
Einar cast the thought aside and reached for his scent. Smegmatic Enthuser, classic flavour. He took a whiff and let the strength of the sour odour envelop his sinuses, his chest, his body. He exhaled satisfactorily when the sensation ebbed into his temples. His muscles relaxed, and his mind felt comfortably numb. His thoughts dimmed, his body ready to rest for the night. However, there were still things he had to take care of.
In the pyramid-shaped watchtower, Einar strolled over to the corner to the left of the entrance. On the salt-bricked wall there he had etched the days he had spent on the planet so far. Fifteen days, most of which involved watching the suns cross the sky; watching the greys turn to whites and back to greys. Exploring the desolate planet did not really interest Einar. Maybe it would have if he was still in his younger years, but he is a man that had took in the world for a long time already and currently wished for tranquillity until his time to depart for the Pleasure Realm comes. With his steel-edged brass cutter - standard issue for all Elbinian personnel - he nicked the sixteenth white marking on the dark wall.
Sleep came fast.
In the secret hours, he found himself against the Elbinian cross, beholding the pitiful silhouette of its prisoner. It screeched in what was obvious as agony, flailing uselessly, features contorted beyond what could be possible in reality. He approached it, attempting to converse. The words that left his mouth were incomprehensible, but somehow his tongue was nimble in forming that alien dialogue. He received the same order of clicks, wheezes and hisses from the thing, the taut orifice that seemed to be its mouth expanding and contracting with every cluster of sounds. They continued this back and forth until the first proper words impossibly emerged.
“What are you?”
He puzzled, but then curtly muttered, “I am me.”
The thing scowled.
“You have changed.”
Reduced into tears, cold winter gust.
My disease, your time to shine.
Since the start, upholding the trust.
Search your heart, it is mine.
Urgent and unaccidental, broken foe in my sight.
Structural, sentimental, hard to see, clear and bright.
Innocence bleeding, sudden, foreseen.
Dismounting heathen, stagnating seed in.
Lawless you say, directions still unknown.
Go down this way, you're on your own.
He awoke abruptly to a noise. The throbbing of his temples; the aching in his joints; the dryness in his throat; the crustiness about his eyes, he fought against them and scrambled out of the ragged sheets. The humming was there, a low pixelated kind of sound sustaining and not seeming to falter. He sought after it, sternly lurching outside.
He was greeted by the glare of the three suns, as well as a silhouette. As he looked more clearly he could make out more details in the figure. The man was squarish, standing with his hands calmly locked over in front of him in the most professional looking manner. This was further complimented by his neatly tied up black hair and the similarly black sunglasses and beard that shaped the rigidity of his face. The suit he adorned heaved an air of authority, affecting Einar by rooting him in slight awe for a moment. He recognised the striking symbol on the rings the man brandished on his pale textured fingers. No way in the least did he wish to be fisted by a man with knuckles so intimidatingly solid.
“A mystery,” Einar whispered to himself, to the man, to the air in general. The man shifted his face in what seemed to be a grin but it only formed halfway before falling back to rest neutrally. He barely moved when he breathed, further confirming Einar’s assumption.
“Whorenourable Einar Solberg of the 1st Solar Iceberg.” His voice intonated complicatedly yet precisely, the confident practiced voice of an experienced orator of Pleasure Tongue. “Though, was of the 12th Bilateral, 7th Aeolian Passing and the numerous incarnations of the Lecher Affinity. Past mentor to the then PCUM - now Shartmaster - Oystein Oilecocke and then Whorenourable - now Dick Executioner - Bruford Boilitingus. The seeker of the prize off the moon of Baalbuous Growthonpeenes. With the divine vocal chords, turned the moon to his own. And most importantly, familially tied to the woman that I court. Cervicavent Ihriel Solberg of the 7th Aeolian Passing.”
Einar narrowed his eyes, tightening his features. Not many knew of his associations with Shartmaster Oystein and Dick Executioner Bruford or his familial ties. The former was a meeting on the desolate Salterryria years back, the latter highly secretive due to his sister’s work as an Analitic Agent in the Memetic Dimension. Her job made it so that she had to be considered non-existent. The knowledge of such details indeed drives the conclusion that the man was an omniscient mystery, but it also raises questions about why he is interested to the point that he had to manifest physically in front of Einar.
“You are silent, but that may be because I have yet to introduce myself. Apologies. Mystery Enigma Ihsahn Ygg-Tveitan of the 2nd Nightside Eclipse. Observer of Penile Undulation, player of one much further off. And most importantly, gracious libertine.”
Einar feared slightly to speak. It was indeed a mystery. He was in the presence of a god.
“A monologue I will not let this become, whorenourable. I stress that there is a matter of great urgency that I have to share with you and seek your aid with, though silence on your part will not be assumed as consent in the slightest. Choice is a human gift I respect, and I can only continue if you would be kind enough to confirm this offering of kinship with words from the mouth that is your own.”
Einar managed to regain control over his tensed lips. “Kinship, you say? This is quite… the honour, coming from a mystery such as yourself.”
Ihsahn seemed to grin, though the hardness of its features made it look like a scowl at the same time. “Then I take it that you accept my proposal of a romantic union with the lovely Ihriel.”
“I have no qualms for the matter, though it is quite shocking for one as humble as myself to be approached by one as noble as yourself for something as monumental as that.”
Ihsahn’s features darkened. “I wish for you to understand that a brotherly kinship is not all that I seek.”
Einar tensed. The air seemed to pause its light consistent sighing for a moment.
“You see, whorenourable, from my investigations into your history, it has occurred that you possess numerous talents which would provide great advantages to my plan.”
A dramatic pause of sorts, expecting Einar to egg him on, but he only tightened his breaths.
“A plan, to be the Emperor.”
Another pause, but this time a little longer, forcing Einar to give in. “Emperor of?”
“An Emperor of what? Even now I do not have a clue.” His brows furrowed, the black in the shades stirring. “This is a tale that is lengthy and I can only indulge in divulging it after a more pressing current matter we have to deal with. Come.”
The mystery guided the whorenourable far from the tower. They traversed hills and hills of salt, the colours slowly shifting from the greys to a lighter shade that had tinges of cyan. While their journey was lengthy to the point of the three suns crossing to the final quarter of their semi-orbit as perceived from their point on the surface, they conversed not a single word. Einar feared to speak and Ihsahn felt little need to until they vanquished the trouble pressing his mind. Throughout their hike, Ihsahn manned a pair of manispheres that were small enough to be guided between his index finger and thumb. Einar observed in slight wonder as the mystery checked his bearings in a fashion that was most alien, sliding the manispheres from the tip of his index finger to the lowest point of his palm that his thumb could stretch to, going back and forth at varying speeds but without any sudden stumblings. They would always roll perfectly back to the initial position at the tip of the index finger, and sometimes Ihsahn would raise them at exactly 45 degrees to the sky, muttering a stream of digits under his breath. Commonly, he would repeat the numbers 6 and 9, and when the numbers started to veer off into randomness, he would seem to squint and Einar would begin to hear him murmur the two notable digits once again.
They arrived at the foot of a plateau. Einar recognised it immediately, for it was the place he had engaged with Shartmaster Oystein and Dick Executioner Bruford. As if snapping out of a trance, Ihsahn coughed loudly once before slipping his manispheres back into his coat pocket. He seemed to become a bit more animated in his motion to regain a sort of consciousness before inevitably resuming his the stoicity of his features from before.
“Pardon me, whorenourable. I must have lost myself for a while there. Fatigue hits me quite unexpectedly nowadays.”
“Age is a frail thing, yes. But now to the main topic of conversation: What is the meaning of returning to this place?”
“Tales can become distorted as they travel through light years, whorenourable. As you know, I come from a world that is quite distant from this one, and many a time stories end up becoming mere fables that are bound to disappoint.”
“Pardon my inability to comprehend, but what is your point?”
“You have talents I wish to gaze upon. Atop that plateau you shall exhibit them. Now go, and show me what you got.”
Ihsahn vanished from his sight before he even realised it. Einar’s head throbbed a little and he felt a slight rising of bile. After a moment it dawned on him that he was teleported atop the plateau. He glared down the edge and saw Ihsahn smirking, or was it a scowl yet again? It was difficult to tell as usual.
However, there was something more alarming at the moment. Atop the plateau with Einar was a creature most revolting. It seemed to be humanoid, though its formlessness was confusing and disturbing. The skin of the creature seemed to fold in on itself constantly, like waves crashing on the side of a beach before another comes washing atop it and so on. These ever-shifting dunes of skin seemed to sink into this one defining feature of the creature, which was its grotesquely pouted lips. They seemed ready to spew a language of degrading filth, so horrid that it would send a civilised being into convulsions from the unimaginable levels of disgust it would feel on perceiving the moist noises of those meaty lips slapping at each other. It may have even turned on those who indulged in such things, though Einar instantly blocked out that thought.
The thing spoke in a tone of dripping slurs. “Pleasure person, I am what you may know as a Seelenbrechen. Now that you have been unfortunate enough to hear my mesmerising tongue do its work, you are a slave to my song.”
The mouth contorted in a variety of dimension-defying ways, exhaling a noise most guttural. It seemed to cut through the air with a frequency-splitting effect, making it seem like it was of two voices, not one. Despite the initial disgust and pain it inflicted upon Einar, he stood his ground against the tempest of sludgy alien reverberation. Digging deeper into the twisted movements of the seeming melody, Einar detected that the creature was singing an ancient Promegian hymn. He could make out the common bodily sounds that a master of pleasure tongue would create, specifically in a mood of great distress or depression. Whatever it was, Einar defined it surely as a song that was of a most negative nature.
Motivated somewhat by the sorrows prevalent in the melodious cries of the creature, Einar himself took to accompanying the song. His voice severed the air about them in a high crystalline blow, caking the murky noises of the creature with his glossy sheen of added melancholy. They both cried in unison, growing progressively louder, their melodies intertwining and playfully countering each other in the complicated 15/16 time signature. Eventually, they arrived at the climactic final note, where Einar screeched to the point of shattering the sky and the creature writhed in a spiral of descending notes until they landed powerfully to the lowest frequency that it could stretch whatever vocal cords it had to.
Much training went into Einar’s vocal muscles for him to be able to belt out such shrill notes that were seemingly relaxed and pristine. He would tense them and relax in his daily warm-ups about twenty times around the bottom of his throat, then move progressively higher till it hit just at the back of his nose. Then would come the cry as he faced the towers of Elbinia, in the distance like toothpicks propping up the cream of the sky that billowed gently as it baked in the allure of the pale sunlight. Those days he would sing as he watched the colours churn themselves from day into night, and from night into day. It upset him slightly that he feels no more the obligation to even hum little tunes anymore, for all he has on his mind is melancholy.