故事档案

The archive is composed of pre-Hirk era Vy'keen literature, much of which has already been purged by various inquisitors across the centuries.

A sample of poetry:

They found the Zath'keen, my people. They come to kill them. They bring warriors.
Blades and cries ring of honour. Daksin is on one world, I on another.
When the acid fell, when glass tears tore the veil,
The priest held me. Their absence makes me sick.
The Vy'keen, our brothers, our friends, a people sundered.
Honour is not born from loneliness.
Remembrance heals the world, our song, our wish.

The terminal is full of Vy'keen philosophy, setting out a code of ideal behaviour.

Justice is not a thought. It is not a river, ever-changing, ever running. Justice is the truth of the universe, the wish of ATLAS, the testament of HIRK.

Like gravity, it brings itself into being. The task of the warrior is merely to fall, to feel its pull, to fire that weapon that must be fired.

Vengeance is as a meal after a feast. Unnecessary, if the task is done correctly. Unnecessary, if the warrior is swift and true. But enjoyable, sometimes, to be a glutton.

The young must not follow such temptations. But the old?

Grah! They shall hunt and they shall rend the bones of those who wronged them in life, just as they shall battle the hated in death!

A young Vy'keen warrior speaks within a fighting pit, the bodies of fallen cowards, failed recruits, and other criminals at their feet.

They have fought for 50 days, given Grahgrah gas after each battle, fed from the flesh circuits during each night, denied all rest.

Brothers! We fight upon a lie! We take blood across the universe for no more reason than the word of a dead coward! I have such friends, now - such a family.
The Sentinels are not our enemy. We just lack proper instruction. We -

The Vy'keen pauses as a shadow falls above the pit. Hundreds of blades fall from the cargo-door of a passing merchant's vessel, impaling the heretic.

The malfunction was deemed another miracle of Hirk, in spite of the pilot's inebriation, and the ship's status as Gek.

From other references in the archive, Hroth appears to have been an early king of the interstellar Vy'keen.

Grah! The death had doomed old Hroth,
The plague that hides beneath the stars,
Atlas-agony, monolith-born, the two-in-one,
The good king saw them in the end,
Heard the words of ancestors all their life,
Gave hunt-gift, honoured with battle-song,
Wished the fallen warriors to life, to sing
A chant of glass and heaven, of honour
The Sentinel-Bane faced a final horror,
Grah! So did old Hroth perish in malice.
That was a good king.

This appears to be a philosophical tract circulated through the worlds of the Outer Edge.

The Ancients speak of the Gek. Of their change. Of their crimes. But dishonour is unchanging. Crimes marked in blood do not fade. We do not forget. But we accept.

'We accept'. What does acceptance mean, cubs? How can evil be suffered to live? Why does our fleet not go to war? Why do we not destroy the enemies of Hirk wherever they exist, whatever they call themselves, whatever the cost?

All of this has happened before, the Ancients teach us. There are many iterations... many dreams. In all of them, we failed, or lost ourselves in victory.

There will come a day soon when the truth of the Gek will be revealed. We do not need to fight. They will destroy themselves...

The archive possesses a vast amount of information on parenting and raising Vy'keen cubs to adulthood. Much of it focuses on hostility and threat.

The young cub will be born in fear. All were, are, and shall be so. Bonded with their family alone, contact with any other entity will invoke mortal dread.

The fear of open spaces, of touch, of contact, is overcome through two means. The brotherhood of the entire species in the light of Hirk. We are all family. This must be taught.

We were once prey. Now, we are predators. All other life in this universe shall fear us, just as we feared them. Fear will be our strength.

That ancient cry - 'Grah!' - our rallying call, our reminder! The interloper who dares to approach our being, they will be hunted, they will be harried! We shall not be afraid! We shall not be abandoned!

The archive holds thousands of lines of poetry, a monument to a fallen Traveller named Asteria.

Sing, Asteria, Hero-Traveller, Master of the Blades of Hirk,
Of the endless battle, the sadness of lost Atlantid, the price
Of mercy and of waiting. They, who fulfilled prophecy,
Who - Atlas-made, Atlas-sent - harried Aeron, smote horror,
Found the darkness at world's end, joined Vy'keen-side,
Pirate-Traveller, friend of the First, ally of heaven!

The archive has been subverted: hacked to spread banned, censored messages of a distant religion.

The Korvax are wounded, broken creatures, believing their death-cries are 'logic'. They drown themselves in communion to forget their pain. They shall not help us.

The Gek - debased, accursed, lacking their prior might with no honour to replace it - believe nothing will end. That growth can go on forever.

It has been to the Ancients, and those who followed, to discover our future. But what have they found, but dust? Impotent grahs? No.

Tell me, friends. Have you heard of the Testament of Nal?

Nal is not dead. They heard what Hirk could not! They live, still, at the right hand of the god!

They encourage us to show how we care - that we will not leave the Atlas-light - that devotion will never fade. Only through this is oblivion spared. Only through this will we be ready.

The horrors lie beneath the waves. They come in many forms - all of them corrupted. All of them diseased! Grah! The Gek says we should flee!

Grah hah hah! They make good sport. We tied the Gek to the mast of our ship, and entered the waves.

Taxonomic scans and diagrams dance in solid-light across the planet surface, showing what they encountered. The audio logs continue.

Our vessel had five pirates on board, born outside the light of Hirk. I am the only believer, or was, once. There is a Korvax too, severed from their Convergence.

They tell me the creatures we hunt are not living. That the abyss is like death - like disconnection. It is a great mistake that will never be mended.

Further logs show the crew leaving the world with five captured Abyssal Horrors. They never made it back to their intended auction.

In the end, the Korvax fed all others to the Horrors, before initiating self-destruct. Their last word - 'Atlantid'.

There lie the dark stars, the vast oceans. My friends. The moon rises. Grah! The deep cries with the mourning of machines. Grah! On Dryn'dargh, night falls without its people.

To Dryn'dargh we will come back. I will come back. I will not leave you. I will never leave you.

I will remember.

These were once believed to be the final words of Hirk, before High Command cast the matter into doubt. For a hundred years, an ecclesiastical college has debated their inclusion in official teachings.

As yet, they have no answer. All mention of Dryn'dargh is discouraged under penalty of body harvest. It is not clear why, or what this place is supposed to represent.

After speaking these words, Hirk the Great allegedly ripped their own limbs apart. It is a death-rite followed by many Vy'keen, after an old age of vengeance and dread.