You stayed. The frog would have said.
✶ The Reader decided to trust the story for the time being. The Story visibly found that exciting. ✶
✶ The Two Kings
Long before anyone could remember
the Garden Without a Map…
chess was already being played.
Not to win.
Not to lose.
But because the game was beautiful.
There was a White King.
And a Black one.
Between them moved towers of stone.
Horses of war.
Bishops of silence.
Pawns without names.
And…
a queen.
No one remembers what she looked like.
Some say she was the most beautiful of them all.
Others think she never truly existed.
Perhaps she was only the thing…
that made the game worth playing.
✶
Then the war began.
No one knows why.
Perhaps because of a wrong move.
Perhaps because of a misunderstanding.
Perhaps because even the most beautiful games
eventually forget why they began.
The battle lasted for centuries.
The towers became ruins.
Their stones remained.
Their meaning did not.
The horses disappeared.
Long afterward, some whispered that they had been born again.
No longer as warhorses.
But as Solyphis.
Free.
No king carried him anymore.
No flag did he follow.
There were also two giant bishops.
One white.
One black.
They rarely moved,
as though they were statues.
No one had ever seen them move,
yet they were seen in different places
where the end might be drawing near.
They sometimes saw each other over the trees,
but were never seen together.
And they could never reach one another.
That was not a rule.
That was the problem.
Eventually, only one pawn remained.
One piece
that could still change.
But which side it belonged to,
even the two kings did not know.
✶
But the garden knew a strange law.
When the White King moved…
the Black one turned to stone.
When the Black King walked…
the White one froze.
To the one who was awake…
the other seemed only a weathered statue.
A memory.
Not a living enemy.
Neither of them knew…
that the same thing happened to himself.
For them, time stood still
as soon as stone found them.
And when they woke again…
only fragments remained.
A feeling.
A direction.
A name without a face.
Their plans vanished.
Their memories crumbled.
Why they fought…
neither of them remembered anymore.
But that they had to fight…
still felt unmistakably true.
So they began again.
Century after century.
Move after move.
On a board already overgrown with grass.
✶
Only two pieces still remembered something of the end.
The Bishops, better known as the Walkers.
They could see one another,
though they were never seen together.
They could never reach each other,
even if they wanted to.
The white bishop could travel only across white squares.
The black one only across black.
But they were statues,
and like true statues, they did not speak or move.
At least, not when they were being seen...
They appeared standing still
in places where the end might come.
The kings called them messengers.
The people of the garden called them the last witnesses.
For as long as the Walkers moved…
the war was not yet completely forgotten.
Or perhaps…
peace was not yet completely impossible.
✶
The two kings treated the bishops
with a gentleness no one understood.
Together with the Pawn,
they carried the last hope.
Then the Traveler appeared.
As many things do
in the Garden Without Announcement or Map.
The White King smiled at once.
“My last pawn.”
The Traveler shook his head.
“I am not a pawn.”
“One more row.”
“Which row?”
“Then you promote.”
Before the Traveler could answer…
the White King had already turned to stone again.
A little later, the Black King came.
He looked as though he had seen an old friend.
“My last pawn.”
“The other one said that too.”
“What other one?”
The Traveler pointed at the stone figure.
“That statue?”
The Black King laughed softly.
“That is only a memory.”
✶
✶ The Bishops/Walkers
The Walkers never spoke.
No one knew if they could think.
No one knew if they saw each other.
They stood still for years.
So still…
that moss grew over their shoulders.
Until a king was in danger.
Then…
without wind.
Without sound.
Without a single visible movement.
A Walker suddenly stood
between his king and the danger.
As though he had always been there.
The king smiled with relief.
“I knew you would come.”
The Walker did not answer.
He never did.
A little later, the other king was also in check.
And the other Walker appeared.
Exactly the same.
No anger.
No triumph.
No hatred.
Only duty.
For centuries.
Some thought the Walkers were loyalty itself.
Others thought…
they guarded the end.
No one knew who was right.
Perhaps…
that was the same thing.
✶
Later, the Traveler asked
the colossal white Walker, almost casually:
“Why do they keep calling me a pawn?”
The Walker moved a fraction.
No one had ever seen a Walker move.
Then he looked toward the ruins.
He even whispered to the Traveler,
as though his cold voice
was available only to him.
“Because they have forgotten almost everything.”
“Almost?”
“Almost.”
“What do they still remember?”
“That something is missing.”
“What?”
The Walker did not answer.
✶
After a long silence, he said:
“The Queen.”
“Did she truly exist?”
“Perhaps.”
“Where is she now?”
“That is exactly the question
that keeps this war alive.”
✶
Some whisper…
that the queen died long ago.
Others think…
she was the love of the game itself.
Others still believe…
that she never disappeared.
But simply stopped being black or white.
✶
Sometimes the white Walker looked
a fraction toward the Traveler.
Very carefully.
As though he was searching for something.
The black Walker did the same.
Neither of them ever said anything.
✶
No one had ever seen the two Walkers together.
They say that when it happens,
there will be peace.
“Why do the Walkers move so little?”
asked the Traveler.
The White King did not look up.
“Because the end is in no hurry.”
The White Walker was called by some
the Redeemer.
The Black one…
the Inevitable.
No one knew if those names were right.
For neither of them ever spoke.
Only once was their sword drawn.
When something should have ended long ago…
but refused to let go.
There was one single strike.
Then…
silence.
There is an old rumor
in the Garden Without a Map.
That the two Walker
will one day draw near.
The White Walker was called the Savior by some.
The Black One… the Inevitable.
No one knew if those names were correct.
For neither of them ever spoke.
Their sword was drawn only once.
When something should have ended long ago… but refused to let go.
A single blow sounded.
Then… silence.
An old rumor is making its way through the Garden Without a Map.
That the two Walkers will one day approach each other.
There is a place
which you won't find by searching —
but by falling silent.
an experience that someone carries with them for a while after they are gone
The field does not close when you leave.
The Traveler asked the frog why he was sitting there.
“Quack.”
said the frog.
The Traveler thought about that for the rest of the day.
Not the frog.
If you rush, you risk becoming trapped in the web of what you believe is missing.
🐸
The frog was back.
The Reader noticed this with unreasonable enthusiasm.
By now, its appearance
felt surprisingly normal.
✶
“It was, after all, just an ordinary frog…?”
Before you go further
Verenis can be intense.
Not because it asks you to leave reality behind,
but because it invites you to look more closely
at the world you are already standing in.
Some symbols may feel personal.
Some silences may feel alive.
But Verenis is not here to replace reality.
It is here to deepen your presence within it.
Breathe.
Feel.
Wonder.
✶
The reader eventually decided to become just a little bit jealous of the probably perfectly normal frog.
After all, it did not have to constantly carry the intensity of Verenis with it.
Should you decide to seek eye contact again…
…then the frog would probably be perfectly fine with that.
🐸
Probably.
✶
Like wine.
Like a pearl.
Some things must disappear from sight
before they reveal
what they were becoming all along.
✶
The House of Cards of
CRITICAL DAMAGE
It is said that the Traveler, the Reflection, the Shadow…
…and one day even the Reader…
together built the greatest house of cards
that Verenis had ever seen.
It took years.
Or minutes.
The stories disagree about that.
Each card stood for a theory.
Each floor for a belief.
Each tower for an answer.
When it was finally finished…
it remained standing for a remarkably long time.
Some even claimed
that it could no longer collapse.
Those were, in hindsight,
strikingly optimistic Reflections.
✶
Then an utterly ordinary and delightfully ordinary frog came hopping by.
He looked at the house of cards.
The house of cards did not look back,
which was probably wise.
Then the frog jumped.
“By accident.”
No one would ever know.
Right onto the weakest spot
in the entire structure.
“Croak.”
✶
CRITICAL DAMAGE.
✶
Nothing more happened.
That was more than enough.
The house of cards collapsed
with such conviction…
…that some cards only decided
to reach the ground days later.
Since then, visitors of Verenis
still keep building new houses of cards.
Not because they think
these ones will remain standing.
But because they are curious…
…what the next CRITICAL DAMAGE will be.
✶
For who does not love surprises!
Such as the fact that the Traveler
found a spade card
after every collapsed house of cards.
That seemed like coincidence.
The first time.
And somewhere, it is said,
an utterly ordinary frog
is still hopping around.
Probably.
The frog was suspicious.
The clock was suspicious.
And the reader slowly began to realize
that he might not entirely either
fell outside the investigation.
"Guard…"
“Why was there no CRITICAL DAMAGE listed this time?”
Would that mean something?
✶
CRITICAL DAMAGE.
✶
The reader smiled.
Finally, he understood the story.
Immediate damage.
A frog came hopping along.
“Quack.”
😂
✶ De Schoppen van de Gevallen Kaartenhuizen
De Schoppenkaarten van de ingestorte kaartenhuizen
begonnen te zwermen.
Alsof de Lezers zelf
genoeg hadden gekregen
van hun prachtige bouwwerken
die telkens opnieuw omvielen.
Er moest een einde aan komen.
En Schoppen
waren daar doorgaans goed in.
Dus kozen zij
de Reiziger.
—
Eerst hoorde hij alleen gefladder.
Daarna verschenen de kaarten.
Tientallen.
Honderden.
Zwarte Schoppen draaiden om hem heen
als een zwerm dunne messen.
Gelukkig konden kaarten
niet veel meer aanrichten
dan papiersneetjes.
Helaas waren het
er nogal veel.
Een kaart sneed langs zijn wang.
Een andere langs zijn hand.
De Reiziger besloot
dat hij lang genoeg had onderzocht
hoe ongevaarlijk papier precies was.
Hij vluchtte.
—
Tussen de bomen stond een losse deur.
Geen muur.
Geen huis.
Alleen een reusachtige Hartenkaart
die zich als deur voordeed. Dat leek liefdevol.
De deur ging vriendelijk
voor hem open.
Aan de andere kant
wachtte een nog grotere zwerm.
Netjes.
Alsof zij zich speciaal
voor hem hadden opgesteld.
De kaarten schoten achteruit.
De Reiziger ademde opgelucht uit.
“Ze vliegen weg.”
Dat deden ze niet.
Ze namen afstand.
Ruimte.
Momentum.
Toen stormde de hele zwerm
tegelijk op hem af.
—
Het licht verdween.
Niet helemaal.
Maar genoeg.
De Schaduw rekte zich uit
over de grond,
tegen de bomen
en langs de binnenkant van de deur.
Alles werd donkerder.
De kaarten vertraagden.
Hun zwerm brak open.
Niet omdat de Schaduw hen raakte.
Maar omdat zij in de duisternis
niet meer konden zien
waar de Reiziger eindigde
en iets veel groters begon.
“Nu,” zei de Schaduw.
De Reiziger wachtte niet
op een tweede uitnodiging.
Hij rende naar een andere deur.
Achter hem sloeg de zwerm
tegen de duisternis uiteen.
Papier vloog alle kanten op.
—
“Dat scheelde op het nippertje,”
mompelde de Reiziger.
De Schaduw keek naar de papiersneetjes
op zijn gezicht.
“Ruim genomen.”
✶
Verenis wears no mask.
Only the distance
between seeing
and understanding.
✶ De Verbinder
Er was in Verenis een jonge vrouw
die niemand ooit zag.
Niet omdat zij zich verborg,
maar omdat zij altijd stond
tussen twee dingen in.
Tussen deur en drempel.
Tussen vallen
en net niet losgelaten worden.
Tussen twee harten
die te bang waren
om dichterbij te komen.
Zij droeg geen kroon.
Geen zwaard.
Alleen een naald
en een draad
van iets
dat nog geen naam had.
Met die draad verbond zij
wat elkaar nog riep.
Maar niemand riep haar.
Nooit.
—
Op een dag kwam de Reiziger
bij een brug
die halverwege
was gestopt met verbinden.
Aan de ene kant stond een man.
Aan de andere kant een vrouw.
Ooit hadden zij elkaar liefgehad.
Of bijna.
Dat was misschien erger.
Want liefde die bijna begint,
kan langer blijven spoken
dan liefde die eindigt.
Zij keken niet naar elkaar.
Niet echt.
Alleen af en toe,
wanneer de ander net wegkeek.
Geen van beiden durfde
de eerste stap te zetten.
Niet naar de brug.
Niet naar het woord.
Niet naar de oude liefde
die nog altijd tussen hen in stond.
Midden in die lege ruimte
stond De Verbinder.
Niet vallend.
Niet zwevend.
Gewoon daar.
—
De Reiziger keek naar de brug.
Toen naar de man.
Toen naar de vrouw.
Toen naar haar.
“Ah,” zei hij.
“Jij staat daar al.”
De Verbinder verstijfde.
“Zie jij mij?”
“Ja,” zei de Reiziger.
Alsof het niets bijzonders was.
Alsof hij niet zojuist
haar hele eenzaamheid
had aangeraakt.
De Verbinder keek achter zich.
Maar daar was niemand.
Alleen afstand.
Toen keek zij weer naar hem.
En bloosde.
Heel zacht.
Alsof zelfs haar wangen
niet gewend waren
om opgemerkt te worden.
—
“Kun jij de brug herstellen?” vroeg hij.
“Nee,” zei zij.
“Ik herstel geen bruggen.”
“Ik herinner harten eraan
dat zij ooit naar elkaar riepen.”
De Reiziger knikte.
“Dat is ook mooi.”
De Verbinder keek naar hem.
Niemand had haar werk ooit mooi genoemd.
Niet tegen haar.
Niet terwijl zij erbij stond.
Haar draad trilde.
Een beetje.
—
Toen haalde zij haar naald
door de lucht.
Niet hard.
Niet dwingend.
Alleen zacht.
De draad gleed tussen de man
en de vrouw door.
Heel even verscheen er geen brug,
maar de herinnering
aan een eerste blik.
Aan een hand
die bijna werd vastgehouden.
Aan woorden
die nooit waren uitgesproken,
maar wel waren blijven wachten.
De man ademde in.
De vrouw keek op.
Deze keer keek geen van beiden weg.
Dat was genoeg.
Hij zette een stap.
Zij ook.
Niet groot.
Niet heldhaftig.
Maar echt.
Halverwege ontmoetten zij elkaar.
Lang stonden zij stil.
Toen zei de man:
“Ik dacht dat jij niet wilde.”
De vrouw glimlachte verdrietig.
“Ik dacht hetzelfde van jou.”
De brug verscheen niet.
Toch kwamen zij aan.
—
Zij pakten elkaars hand.
Eindelijk.
En zoals altijd
keken zij naar elkaar.
Niet naar De Verbinder.
Natuurlijk niet.
Maar deze keer
deed het minder pijn.
Want naast haar stond iemand
die haar nog steeds zag.
—
“En wie verbindt jou?” vroeg de Reiziger.
De Verbinder keek naar haar draad.
Die hing stil.
Naar niets.
“Niemand,” zei zij zacht.
De Reiziger dacht even na.
Toen pakte hij het uiteinde
alsof het de gewoonste zaak
van de wereld was.
“Dan begin ik wel.”
De Verbinder bloosde opnieuw.
Iets dieper deze keer.
Niet omdat zij gered was.
Maar omdat iemand
haar niet wilde oplossen.
Alleen vasthouden.
—
Later liep de Reiziger verder.
Hij stak nog één keer
heel nonchalant zijn hand op.
Alsof gezien worden
geen wonder hoefde te zijn.
Alleen iets
wat eindelijk gebeurde.
De Verbinder keek hem na.
En voor het eerst
luisterde zij niet
naar wat bijna brak.
Zij luisterde
naar haar eigen draad,
die zachtjes trok
in de richting
van hem.
✶
✶
There is an old story
that is hardly ever told anymore.
They say that the Writer writes
with a feather that once belonged
to the true face of the Kindred.
Not on the mask.
Behind that.
You're probably going to think they're great.
That is annoying,
for they do not appear until Versilentis.
Crit...
Some speak of a black swan.
Her body was that of a swan.
Her head is that of a young woman.
Long, rain-soaked black hair
She kept falling in front of her face.
No one ever knew how to describe her eyes.
They said they were unpredictable.
Perhaps because no one had truly seen her eyes.
Except for the Traveler.
But that story is yet to come.
Crit...
Whether that story is true…
Nobody knows.
The Writer merely smiled.
And wrote on.
✶
Is dit het gezicht van De Verbinder?
Misschien.
Maar gezichten zijn lastigbij iemanddie altijd tussen twee dingen in staat.
✶
Malice:
Noun.
The ability to leave a smile behind…
…at exactly the moment when someone thought they were finally getting an answer.
Or, as they prefer to describe it in Verenis:
Friendly opening of a door…
…behind which, once again, turns out to stand only another door.
✶
The writer looked at the reader.
He smiled.
You really thought I was going to explain it, didn't you?
A long silence fell.
The writer took a small step closer.
The reader sighed.
“…Yes yes.”
“Quack.”
🐸
The writer took another step back.
There is your answer.
✶
The reader looked at the writer.
He knew exactly which word he could say back now.
He only smiled.
That was perhaps the biggest CRITICAL DAMAGE of them all.
The reader ultimately knew a surprising amount.
Except for one thing.
Why that frog had looked at him so intently all that time.
There was never another answer to that.
🐸
“Quack.”
✶
Eventually, the Reader chose the simplest explanation.
That actually seemed quite relaxed.
"Quack."
✶
The reader considered saying “CRITICAL DAMAGE.” back for just a moment.
He decided not to do it.
The Writer found that somewhat regrettable.
CRITICAL DAMAGE actually has two meanings.
Sometimes it is a friendly warning.
A small hint from the writer that the following may prove important later.
But sometimes it is also exactly the opposite.
A small blow against the reader's house of cards.
Not enough to knock everything over.
Just enough to make him wonder if it ever stood firmly.
Much to the writer's delight.
“Quack.” actually has two meanings as well.
Sometimes it is nothing more than a brief moment of peace.
A short break after something that was perhaps just a little too intense.
But very occasionally…
…the frog keeps staring at you just a little longer than usual.
That is probably a coincidence.
Probably.
✶
The reader tried to figure out one last time what CRITICAL DAMAGE actually meant.
That didn't work.
The frog also refused any form of explanation.
🐸
“Quack.”
That helped surprisingly little again.
✶
Only much later did the reader find a small sentence somewhere.
Almost as if it had been standing there all that time.
Whoever stays until the Verenis final… will eventually hear the meaning of CRITICAL DAMAGE. and 'Quak.'
The reader looked disappointed for a moment.
He had secretly hoped for a faster answer.
…
The worst part was…
…that he couldn't get enough of it.
The writer looked at the reader.
He smiled.
✶
🐸
“Quack.”
✶
The reader looked at the writer again.
Why are you actually wearing an RPG?
The writer continued writing quietly.
After a while, he put only one sentence on paper.
I blow up houses of cards with that.
The reader looked at the enormous house of cards behind the writer.
“…Don’t you think that is a *bit* exaggerated?”
The writer thought for a moment.
"Yes."
My laugh is also way too loud when I get to shoot.
He looked at the house of cards again.
Fortunately, that is usually not necessary.
Sometimes I blow alone.
A house of cards does not always have to collapse completely.
Sometimes it only needs to ask itself for just a moment…”
“…whether it actually still stands.”
There was a brief silence.
Behind the mask, a guilty smile appeared.
But if he does completely collapse…”
He put down the black feather.
“…then we call that.”
CRITICAL DAMAGE.
Then he picked up the feather again.
He smiled.
"Precisely."
✶
✶
They say that the writer cannot speak.
No one knew exactly why.
Some thought that he had once given away his vote.
Others claimed that words, as soon as he spoke them, would disappear forever.
So he preferred to write.
That went surprisingly well.
Every now and then he looked up.
He smiled.
And wrote on.
According to some…
that was much more vicious.
✶
✶
They say that the writer was born on April 1st.
The readers never knew if it was a bad joke.
The writer himself never wrote anything about it again.
He did once write…
…that readers looked suspiciously like innocent frogs.
Why exactly…
remained unwritten.
🐸
“Quack.”
✶
Important:
The reader found the writer quite peculiar.
✶ The Peculiarities
The Writer
-They say that the writer cannot speak.
-He prefers writing to explaining.
-He smiles remarkably often at the wrong moments.
-He appears to possess a black feather that once belonged to the true --face of the Kindred.
-He carries an RPG. By his own account, exclusively for houses of cards.
-He is suspiciously fond of open endings.
-According to some stories, he was born on April 1st.
-He thinks that readers look suspiciously like innocent frogs.
🐸
“Quack.”
✶
The Reader
-Has an inexplicable tendency to see theories in everything.
-Finds the term CRITICAL DAMAGE becoming increasingly important -----without knowing exactly why.
-* Regularly says: “Now I get it.”
-Only to start doubting again afterwards.
-Is occasionally a little bit jealous of the frog.
-Has caught himself voluntarily flipping back more than once.
-To his own surprise, he remarkably often has a taste for it.
-Found the writer quite peculiar.
The writer read that.
He smiled.
And wrote underneath:
-Fortunately, that is mutual, my dear frog. 🐸
Since then, some have claimed that the reader was seen remarkably often among fields full of four-leaf clovers.
Always with a smile.
And very occasionally…
…sounded somewhere in the distance:
🐸
“Quack.”
Whether that was really the reader…
remained unwritten.
✶
One day, the reader finally discovered a spelling mistake.
He smiled with satisfaction.
“Ha.”
Even the writer makes mistakes.
The next page consisted of only one sentence.
That was there on purpose.
To be honest, the reader found that a bit annoying.
The writer, apparently, too.
✶
✶
The writer fell madly in love with his best frog.
Which, of course, could never really be Secretis.
Everything the writer wrote…
he wrote deliberately.
There was only a small problem.
He took old fairy tales just a little too seriously.
So he decided to just let the frog be a frog.
And never to give her a kiss.
He was remarkably saddened by that.
Perhaps even more than he ever wrote down.
For the sake of clarity…
This is not about the reader.
Should the reader nevertheless feel addressed…
…then that was entirely his own idea.
🐸
“Quack.”
✶
The Reader felt a small explosion somewhere in his heart.
The Writer too.
Even he was silenced by that for a moment.
“For the sake of clarity…”
That wasn't my RPG.
✶
✶
The Writer looked shyly at his best frog.
She smiled cautiously.
“If you really love me…”
“…you will first have to learn how I lost my twin brother, the Kindred.”
The frog looked at him.
Just like any other frog probably would do.
The writer wrote nothing for a long time.
For the first time…
Even the black feather seemed to hesitate.
Somewhere in the distance, the voice of another Reader sounded faint.
“HA…”
“CRITICAL DAMAGE.”
As if it were a joke.
The Writer still wrote nothing.
Neither does the Reader.
✶
“Listen and Tremble, dear frogs.”
For the first time…
the reader listened.
And shuddered.
The writer did not smile.
That perhaps made the biggest impression.
🐸
The perfectly ordinary frogs…
they simply continued with their lives undisturbed.
✶
…
“HAHAHA…”
The first sound the Reader ever heard from the Writer…
sounded not cheerful at all.
It sounded as if that laugh had been hurting for a very long time.
The Writer picked up his black quill again.
He hesitated.
After that, he wrote only four words, not 5.
I forgive you… I think.”
✶
Even the Writer sometimes suffers under the word. We bear the same pain, dear frog.
“Wow…”
The reader wanted to become a frog for just a moment.
Just…
so as not to have to think about everything all the time.
Unfortunately…
The writer also had a thing for frogs.
🐸
“Seriously…” sighed the reader.
The Writer found this a suitable moment…
to introduce even more Verenis Words.
“Seriously?” asked the reader.
“Yes, indeed,” replied the writer.
“I can hear you saying it already…”
“Wow.”
“I know.”
“But… ty.”
“Is that sarcastic?” asked the reader.
“Maybe,” said the writer.
Then, at the least opportune moment, a frog appeared.
Fortunately, he didn't look at you this time.
To…
he did do that.
“Shhh…”
“It’s okay.”
They are just frogs.
The reader nodded cautiously.
"But…"
“Where is your house of cards, actually?”
The writer looked around.
“Oops.”
The wind must have done it.
Wow.
A natural reaction from the reader when the writer once again introduces something that no one actually asked for.
⸻
Seriously…
Is usually spoken just before the writer decides to continue after all.
⸻
I know.
The writer knew it before you thought it.
Unfortunately, that doesn't help at all.
⸻
But… ty.
Freely translated:
Thank you for still reading despite everything.
⸻
Oops.
The official way in which the writer apologizes…
without ever actually offering an apology.
⸻
Frog. 🐸
A completely harmless animal.
Probably.
⸻
House of cards.
The collection of theories that the reader has built up with great difficulty.
The writer keeps a respectful distance from that.
Generally.
⸻
Wind.
According to the writer, responsible for a remarkably high number of accidents.
According to the reader, remarkably little.
⸻
CRITICAL DAMAGE.
A reader's theory has just collapsed.
The writer denies any involvement.
The word seems to have multiple meanings, terribly annoying...
⸻
DOUBLE CRITICAL DAMAGE.
The reader immediately begins to construct a new theory.
The writer nods encouragingly.
That was exactly the intention.
⸻
ULTIMATE CRITICAL DAMAGE.
The reader knows by now that he is walking into the trap again.
And does it voluntarily.
The writer thanks you kindly for your cooperation.
“But… ty.”
If you would like to introduce a new concept, you are more than welcome 🤗
“No way.”
Aaa, a new one!🎭
“siriously.”
Well, you're not cooperating yourself either.
Fair.
An extremely rare moment when the writer briefly admits that the reader has a point.
That changes absolutely nothing else.
⸻
Et cetera…
A subtle warning.
There will probably be more concepts.
The writer just doesn't name them yet.
“But… ty.”
Satire.
The word that the reader usually looks up…
The writer already knew that.
They both absolutely love it.
Collaboration.
The natural tendency of the reader…
to participate again despite all the warnings.
Usually completely voluntary.
According to the writer.
⸻
Ah… a new one.
The standard reaction of the reader when another Word concept emerges.
Ironically enough…
Is this now also an Verenis Word concept?
CRITICAL DAMAGE.
✶
The reader thought he finally understood
what the writer was referring to.
CRITICAL DAMAGE.
The house of cards collapsed.
The worst part was…
…that the reader enjoyed it
that it happened.
Surprises keep the mind sharp.
The writer then had to
only one word left to write down.
“Poop.”
They appeared immediately
three new theories.
✶
The writer eventually said only:
“Poop.”
After that, it remained remarkably quiet for a long time.
Some suspected that it referred to the transience of human existence.
Others saw it as a critique of modern society.
One reader started an essay.
The writer was actually just hungry.
✶
Should you ever watch something naughty…”
“…then maybe you aren’t completely alone after all.”
Silence.
For the writer.
For the reader.
DOUBLE CRITICAL DAMAGE.
Tread softly.
The dragon may never awaken.
But something within you might
⸻
✶
“Why are you looking at me like that?” asked the reader.
I only write down what you do.
“…”
“…That is actually much worse.”
CRITICAL DAMAGE.
⸻
✶
Do you read me...
“…or am I reading you?” asked the reader.
The writer slowly put down his pen.
That is exactly the question I tried to avoid.
DOUBLE CRITICAL DAMAGE.
⸻
✶
The reader turned the page.
The writer looked up in alarm.
"Guard…"
I wasn't ready to leave there at all yet.
The reader simply flipped on.
For the first time…
The writer was spoilerd by his own story.
CRITICAL DAMAGE.
⸻
✶
“Did you make it all up?” asked the reader.
The writer looked at him for a while.
“…I hope so.”
The reader no longer smiled.
DOUBLE CRITICAL DAMAGE.
⸻
The Verenis Symbol
Where the unknown guides creation and mystery reveals itself.
Hearts reminded you of what you lived for.
Windows you built for.
Clovers for which you fought.
But the Spades…
reminded even Kings that no eternity was self-evident.
The writer finally seemed to have more to explain.
Crit...
He decided not to do it after all.
A Light Appears
Not to guide you.
To acknowledge your arrival.
Critical Damage
That didn't help either.
“Oh no… my carefully constructed theory is going down the drain.” “Shhh, don’t worry.”
You will build a taller and sturdier one. (;''
A Queen.
No one knows what she looked like anymore.
Some say that she was the most beautiful of them all.
Others think that she never really existed.
Perhaps she was merely that…
which made the game worthwhile.
✶
Then the war began.
No one knows why.
Maybe because of a wrong move.
Perhaps due to a misunderstanding.
Perhaps because even the most beautiful games eventually forget why they started.
✶The Lost Queen
The Traveler found the painting
at the end of a silent hallway.
Not in a museum.
Not in a palace.
But simply on a wall
where, according to the Shadow,
there should not have been
a wall at all.
—
The frame was made of heavy steel.
Cold.
Heavy.
As if someone had not framed
the night,
but bolted it into place.
Inside it sat a yellow figure
against a blue sky.
She looked like a woman.
Or a throne.
Or a landscape
that had accidentally learned
to sit upright.
—
The Mirror came closer.
“How beautiful.”
The Shadow kept his distance.
“How suspicious.”
The Traveler said nothing.
He looked at the shapes.
At the small blue figure
near the bottom of the painting.
At the ladders.
At the sea behind her.
At the head
that seemed almost too high
to still be human.
—
Then he whispered:
“Maybe it is her.”
The Mirror looked at him.
“Who?”
The Traveler kept looking at the painting.
“The lost Queen.”
—
At that word, the paint
seemed to breathe a little deeper.
Not move.
Not speak.
Only change just enough
to pretend it had always been that way.
—
The Shadow glided closer.
“Why do you think that?”
The Traveler did not point.
He did not dare.
“She sits like someone
who once ruled over something.”
“Or like someone
who was never allowed to stand up,” said the Shadow.
The Mirror looked at the gold.
“Maybe she is waiting.”
“For what?” asked the Traveler.
The Mirror smiled softly.
“For the board.”
—
For a long time, it remained silent.
Then the Traveler noticed something strange.
At the bottom of the painting
stood ladders.
Small.
Slanted.
As if someone had tried
to reach her.
Or climb her.
Or understand her.
But no one seemed
to have reached the top.
—
“A Queen moves everywhere,” the Traveler said slowly.
“Straight.
Diagonal.
Far.
Free.”
The Shadow looked at the steel frame.
“But not when she is painted.”
—
The Mirror fell silent.
He rarely did that.
So it immediately became important.
—
The Traveler stepped closer.
In the yellow silence of the painting,
something seemed to look back at him.
Not with eyes.
More with presence.
As if she recognized him
without knowing who he was.
Or worse:
as if she knew
he was not yet allowed
to recognize her.
—
Then, somewhere behind them,
an old wooden floorboard creaked.
The Traveler turned around.
No one.
When he looked back,
the small blue figure at the bottom
had shifted by a fraction.
Not much.
Just enough.
—
The Shadow said:
“That is not right.”
The Mirror said:
“That is very promising.”
The Traveler thought of the two kings.
Of the board.
Of the pieces
that moved without knowing
for whom they played.
And of the Queen,
who perhaps had not disappeared,
but had been stored away.
—
Beneath the painting
there was no plaque.
No name.
No explanation.
Only a small scratch
in the steel frame.
As if someone had once
dragged a key along it.
The Traveler bent forward.
In the scratch stood one word.
Almost unreadable.
Draw.
—
The Mirror smiled.
“See? She belongs to the game.”
The Shadow looked at the yellow figure.
“Or the game belongs to her.”
—
The Traveler stayed a little longer.
Then he bowed his head.
Not deeply.
Not submissively.
Only enough
to acknowledge
that some queens
do not wish to be found
before the board
remembers
why they were missing.
—
When they walked on,
the Traveler looked back one more time.
The yellow figure still sat motionless.
But the sea behind her
seemed to have come a little closer.
And somewhere, very softly,
as if an old piece of wood
slid across a chessboard,
one movement sounded.
—
The Shadow whispered:
“Maybe she was the lost Queen.”
The Mirror smiled.
“Maybe she still is.”
The Traveler said nothing.
But in his coat pocket,
an old key
felt warm for a moment.
—
When he looked at the painting again,
the yellow figure had disappeared.
Not faded.
Not shifted.
Disappeared.
Only the blue sky remained.
The sea.
The ladders.
And the heavy steel frame,
which suddenly seemed far too empty.
—
Behind them, a voice sounded.
Calm.
Low.
Regal.
As if he had been standing
in the hallway all along.
“Did you see something?”
The Traveler turned around.
At the end of the hallway
stood a king.
Not large.
Not threatening.
Only present
in a way
that made the hallway
immediately make room.
—
The Mirror looked at the empty painting.
The Shadow looked at the king.
The Traveler felt the key
grow warm once more.
Then he asked:
“Was she here?”
The king did not smile.
He only looked past them
at the empty place
where the Queen had sat.
“For a moment,” he said.
—
The Traveler looked back at the painting.
“Where did she go?”
The king was silent for a moment.
Then he said:
“The game became too beautiful for her.”
The Mirror frowned.
“Too beautiful?”
The king nodded slowly.
“Yes.”
He looked at the ladders.
At the sea.
At the blue sky
where the yellow figure
no longer sat.
“Some pieces disappear
when the board
wants too badly
for them to stay
or return.”
—
The Shadow glided a little closer
to the wall.
“So she fled?”
“Maybe,” said the king.
“Or maybe she refused
to become a prize again.”
The Mirror looked offended
at the painting.
“But beauty does not have to be
a prison, does it?”
The king looked at him.
“That is usually said
by those who enjoy looking.”
—
The Mirror fell silent.
Again.
The Traveler noticed.
So did the Shadow.
So it became even more important.
—
The king walked slowly toward the painting.
His steps did not sound loud.
Yet the hallway seemed
to become a little straighter
wherever he walked.
He stopped
before the empty place.
“She was not lost
because no one could find her,” he said.
“She was lost
because everyone knew
what she had to mean.”
—
The Traveler looked at the ladders.
“Queen?”
The king nodded.
“Win condition.”
He looked at the sea.
“Salvation.”
He looked at the steel.
“Possession.”
Then he looked at the Traveler.
“No one asked
whether she still wanted to play,
my dear pawn.”
“I am not a pawn.”
“Pawns say that quite often.”
—
Then the king turned to stone.
Not slowly.
Not with dignity.
Simply all at once.
In his place
another king appeared.
His eyes opened
as if he hoped
to wake up
inside a better game.
“Have you seen her,
dear pawn?”
—
A silence fell.
Not heavy.
But precise.
As if someone had placed a piece
in the middle of the board.
—
The Shadow said softly:
“And that is why she disappeared again.”
“Yes,” said the king.
“Not because the game was ugly.
Maybe because I was
ugly to her.
Maybe she does not want
to see me anymore.”
He looked once more
at the empty blue sky.
“But because it became
too beautiful.”
—
The Mirror looked up.
“I do not understand that.”
“You do not have to,” said the king.
“Some things only become dangerous
when everyone finds them beautiful enough
to preserve,
locked
inside a steel frame.”
—
The Traveler thought of the yellow figure.
Of how still she had sat.
Of how naturally
he had almost named her.
The lost Queen.
As if a name
were a door.
Or a cage.
—
Then he felt the key
move in his coat pocket.
Not much.
Just enough.
The king looked at his coat.
“You are carrying something
that does not belong to you.”
The Traveler startled.
The Shadow grew longer.
The Mirror bent closer, curious.
“The key?” asked the Traveler.
The king did not answer at once.
Then he said:
“Maybe.”
—
That word sounded different
from his mouth.
Not uncertain.
Not evasive.
More as if the word itself
were a square
on which no one
yet dared to stand.
—
The Traveler did not take the key
out of his pocket.
That, too, felt like a choice.
The king seemed to notice.
For the first time,
his face became slightly softer.
Not kind.
But less closed.
—
“Did you see something?” he asked again.
The Traveler looked at the empty painting.
At the ladders.
At the sea.
At the place
where the Queen had disappeared.
Then he said:
“I saw something
that did not want to stay
because we wanted to understand it.”
—
The black king
drew his sword.
Not with haste.
Not with anger.
But with the silent right
of a piece
that believed it was allowed to capture.
The tip of the sword
pointed at the Traveler.
At the pawn
he saw in him.
—
No one spoke.
The Traveler did not move.
The Mirror grew colder
in the nearest glass.
The Shadow crept a little closer
against the floor.
—
Then the bishop stood there.
Not suddenly.
Not loudly.
Only present.
Diagonal between the king
and the Traveler.
As if he had always been there
on the only square
where silence could be defense.
—
The black king remained still.
His sword still drawn.
But he could not capture.
Not without putting himself
in check.
—
The king stayed silent.
The hallway held its breath.
Even the Mirror
did not admire himself for a moment.
Then the king nodded.
Almost invisibly.
But enough.
—
“Then you did not see nothing,” he said.
The Shadow looked at the steel frame
without presence.
“And she?”
The king slowly turned around.
“She saw
that someone did not immediately
call her disappearance a loss.”
—
The Traveler did not know
whether that was good.
Or dangerous.
Or both.
In Verenis, that was usually
not a clear distinction.
—
Behind the painting,
that soft sliding sound came again.
One square.
Maybe two.
The heavy steel frame trembled.
For a moment,
a yellow line appeared
in the blue sky.
No face.
No body.
Only a trace.
As if the Queen did not return,
but confirmed
that disappearing
could also be a move.
—
The Mirror whispered:
“So she is still playing.”
The Shadow answered:
“Or she refuses
to be played.”
The Traveler looked at the king.
The king looked at the painting.
Neither of them corrected them.
—
Then the king stepped aside
and turned to stone.
Behind him,
the hallway had become longer.
Or perhaps
it had always been that way.
At its end,
a small blue light burned.
Not bright.
Not inviting.
Only present.
—
The other king woke up.
“Should we go there?” asked the Traveler.
The king looked at him.
“Should?”
That one word
sounded almost tired.
The Traveler nodded slowly.
“Then not.”
“Better,” said the king.
—
The Mirror looked at the blue light.
“But if we go,
we might find her.”
“Maybe,” said the king.
—
“The most beautiful thing,” said the king,
“would be if you promoted for me.”
No one answered.
“Has the image shifted?” he asked afterward.
—
Everyone ignored the king.
—
He turned to stone from shock.
Not because he was attacked.
Not because he lost.
But because no one
ignores a king.
Not just like that.
—
Then the other king
woke up again.
—
The Traveler stood between them.
Too close to one
to be safe.
Too close to the other
to be free.
For the first time,
he felt both threatened
and defended
by the same rules.
As if he were not a Traveler,
but a pawn
who did not yet know
for whom he walked.
—
The Shadow looked at the Traveler.
“And if we find her?”
The Traveler remained silent
for a moment.
He felt one king beside him.
And the other as well.
Both expected something from him.
Both looked at him
as if he already stood
on their square.
Then he said tensely:
“Then we first ask
whether she wants to be found.”
—
The king did not smile.
But the hallway seemed
a little less cold.
—
The Traveler walked on.
The Mirror followed.
The Shadow was the last to remain
by the empty painting.
He looked at the ladders.
At the sea.
At the blue sky.
Then he bowed his head.
Not deeply.
Not submissively.
Only enough.
—
When he too turned around,
there was a new scratch
at the bottom of the steel.
Smaller than the first.
Almost impossible to see.
But the Shadow saw it.
It said:
Free.
Beneath it, almost invisible,
stood a small hoofprint.
As if his name
would be too much
to be taken literally.
—
He said nothing.
But he became
a little less long.
—
And somewhere behind the painting,
where there should not have been
a wall,
something slid
one square further.
Step by step,
the Traveler became more important.
Not forward.
Not back.
Diagonal.
Free.
✶
✶ The Last Relay of Chess
For centuries it was said:
When the White Carpet and the Black Carpet ever meet… there will be peace.
Everyone thought…
that peace would begin afterwards.
No one wondered…
for whom
✶
Then it happened.
For the first time, the two runners faced each other.
The whole garden gathered.
Children.
Pawns.
The Traveler.
Even the two kings.
Everyone waited.
But peace failed to materialize.
Nothing happened.
✶
For the first time, the curse was broken.
causing the kings to turn to stone one after the other.
Then the two kings looked at each other for the first time.
Without hatred.
Without pride.
Only fatigue.
The White King took off his crown.
The Black One did the same.
"Brother…"
said the White.
For centuries, he had not spoken that word again.
The Black man smiled.
“I thought…”
“…that you had forgotten it.”
That was me too.
✶
They started walking towards each other.
Not at the same time.
Not yet.
Taking turns.
As if every step took an eternity.
The inhabitants began to cry.
Not out of sadness.
But because they finally understood…
that the war was over.
✶
The two bishops drew their swords.
For the first time…
they moved at the same time.
Then the kings understood.
Not peace…
but she herself…
had always been the end.
De Witte looked at his bishop.
You have waited for me all this time.
The Black man nodded at his.
"Thank you."
✶
One more step.
One more breath.
One more smile.
The two kings grasped each other's hands.
For the first time since the beginning of the war.
The Traveler stood still.
The White King looked at the Traveler.
“One more row,” he said.
The Black man smiled.
And then the plate was empty.
At the same moment…
the two runners touched.
Their swords crossed.
A single metallic sound.
Bright.
Pure.
And irrevocable.
✶
Then silence fell.
No shouting.
No blood.
Only two crowns…
that rolled side by side on the ground.
The wind blew them against each other.
Very soft.
As if even even the crowns…
had finally found each other.
✶
Only then…
peace came.
✶
Halfway through,
the reader had a disturbing thought.
Perhaps the Writer
was not trying to convince him at all.
Perhaps he was adjusting him
very slowly.
The reader decided
not to think about that any further.
That worked
surprisingly poorly.
The Writer smiled.
“Shhh,” he wrote.
—
Then two falling stars collided
and formed a V.
✶
