#lushposting

“Sit still, dear, this is delicate work.”

I do my best to obey, trying to shut out the tickle of my Maker’s tools like I would any other sensation. It doesn’t do me much good – my phylactery is sensitive in a way my vessel isn’t, and no matter how hard I try to ignore it the work of sealing the little cracks in that vibrant purple gemstone buzzes inside me like an electric arc.

Despite myself, I fidget restlessly, and my Maker’s patience grows thin.

“If you can’t sit still on your own, I’ll need to disconnect your phylactery entirely. Now behave, dear.”

The threat of being pulled into that absent blackness does its job – I find it in me to ignore the buzzing, jaw clenched, teeth grinding against each other. My Maker gives an approving little noise, then continues on with her work, tone softening once more.

“There’s a good doll. You know what would have happened if you’d succeeded.”

I give the slightest nod, still focused on keeping still, on not flinching away from the sizzle her iron makes as it carefully and precisely seals the cracks in my phylactery, whispering the artifact whole again. If I’d succeeded, I’d be dead.

“I’m nearly done, now, dear. Just a moment longer to make sure the mounting is still set correctly.”

I close my eyes, let the ticking of my metronome provide me some meager stability. Finally, after what feels like an eternity, the buzzing in my soul fades and I can feel my Maker pull away, feel her satisfaction with her work.

“There. You can relax now, dear.”

With a gentle sigh, I open my eyes again, let my jaw relax, let my breathing resume. I take a moment to reaffirm my surroundings – sat on the edge of a workbench in my Maker’s studio, stripped of my clothes, one arm wrapped in a brace to prevent the spiderweb of fractures that reach all the way up to my chest from worsening. My Maker is sat turned away from me on a tall stool, carefully replacing the iron in the appropriate drawer.

Turning back towards me, she slips one of many tuning forks out of her work apron, twirling it between her fingers. I say nothing, but I feel a blush creep across my face, warmth tinging my cool porcelain skin at the thought of what must be coming next.

“Yes, dear,” she says, catching my reaction. “I’m going to need to tune you.”

“Just stay relaxed and let yourself sink into it... there’s a good doll...”

She taps one talon against the tip of the fork, sets it singing, and leans in to gently press it into one of my aetheric hooks – I can’t help but do as she says, sinking, sinking, feeling my consciousness pulled inwards towards my phylactery, leaving my vessel a hazy afterthought.

I can feel her winding one of my threads, feel the tune of her fork vibrate into me, her intent a hypnotic, drowning tide that pours in along the thread, filling me up until at last I can take no more, resist no more, and I fall inward, into the comforting warmth of a trance.

...and then I’m wide awake again.

“Such a good doll...” my Maker reassures me, gently stroking one hand through my silver hair, cupping my cheek. I realize I must have been crying – my face is wet against her hand.

“W-what...” I stammer, trying to gauge how long I was entranced. It can’t have been too long – the beam of sunlight that enters the studio through it’s tall, narrow window has only inched across the floor.

“Shh, shh, it’s alright dear. I just had to make a few changes to you. I can’t have one of my dolls hurting herself, now, can I?”

I frown. Hurting myself? Had I...? No, no, that would be silly. Even the thought of it made me recoil instinctively, the fear of a rebuke sharp in my mind for considering the mere possibility.

...Wait.

Oh. Of course. I realize immediately what my Maker meant by her words – I’d had a new rule implanted in me.

Something must have shown in my expression, because my Maker nods softly, tipping her talons beneath my chin and raising my violet eyes to meet her brilliant amber ones.

“Most of my dolls know better than to damage themselves all on their own,” she explains, “but sometimes these things happen. Do you remember why I needed to repair you, dear?”

I start to shake my head, then stop, pausing to examine myself. My right arm is fractured, kept safe in a brace. I experimentally test my fingers, and find them stiff, barely responsive. The mechanisms must be quite damaged. I close my eyes and trace my self-image up from the near-paralyzed arm, up and up, across my chest where the cracks spread and blossom...

I try to imagine what might have caused this sort of damage, but nothing comes.

“...I don’t remember,” I finally admit uncertainly.

My Maker smiles softly, nods. “Good. I’ll tell you, but I didn’t feel it appropriate to leave you with the memory itself. You beat yourself to breaking against a wall, dear. You wailed and wailed and smashed yourself, and then you tried to smash your phylactery. I found you, afterwards, all pulled into yourself, and I took you home to fix you.”

I can hardly believe what she’s saying. I... I tried to destroy myself? Why would I... how could I? A doll should never harm herself.

(Dimly, I remember that that last part is a recent command, a compulsion implanted deep into my soul. It doesn’t matter – I feel it strongly all the same.)

Finally, I find the words to ask my Maker why I had tried to... to kill myself.

She answers with a question of her own, and once again I’m frozen as I realize I don’t know the answer.

“Dear, do you remember why you sold yourself to me? Why you had me make you into a doll?”

How... how could I forget something like that? How could I forget when it had only been a few months? I can vividly recall my life as a human, recall the process of being made into a doll, the blissful feeling of my soul being gently pried from my body and nestled snugly into my phylactery, of my vessel being transfigured from flesh and blood into ceramic and glass and brass, given life by my Maker’s magic...

But when I tried to recall what had driven me to such a permanent decision, I found only a dull ache of longing surrounding a hazy nothingness.

My Maker waits patiently, and under her gaze I feel compelled to try harder to provide a satisfying answer to her question.

Biting my lip, I try to feel out the space around the haze. I remember being... dissatisfied with my life, with who I was, and at how little my attempts to change it seemed to matter. I remember a feeling of elated certainty that this was the way, this was what I had been looking for. I remember... remember...

She must have been very careful in excising the memories she’d asked me to locate, because when I finally find an answer, it’s only in the outline of what’s missing.

The look of pained realization in my eyes proves all the response my Maker requires of me; gently, tenderly, she pulls me to her chest, lets me cry and whimper against her, whispers gentle reassurances. It would be too painful, she tells me, to make you bear those memories. You know everything you need to know about what happened.

I fight it at first, recoil at the idea of being left with a hole in my memory like this. But as she cradles me close and kisses my perfect silver hair and fusses at my broken arm, promises to make me good as new, I realize that she’s right.

Her talons stroke me gently, trailing up and down my spine in a lazy circuit as she hugs me close. Her voice is like a lullaby at this point, drawing out the ache and tension until I feel my springs start to unwind, feel a comfortable weight creep into my vessel as all my strings go limp.

“You’re a good doll, dear... such a good doll. You have a purpose now, alright? Dolls all have a purpose. And you’ll never forget that.”

I nod tiredly, sniffling, aware I’m leaking all over her apron.

She doesn’t seem to mind.

it's very strange.

I've seen some people say that ES "isn't really a thing anymore", that it's disingenuous to tag stuff like the recent spate of mechposting as Empty Spaces, but I don't think I agree? some of the mechposting feels more like classic combat doll posting than a lot of dollposting on twitter does these days.

I think, personally, that so long as people keep writing about weird traumatized girlthings through varyingly-fictionalized lenses, there'll still be Empty Spaces content getting made in some sense.

it's sad that it's not the same as it was at the beginning, but I'm gradually becoming more okay with that.

You’re trembling, so I give your hand a reassuring squeeze.

“It’ll be alright,” I promise sincerely, “You’re almost there. Just a little longer, just this one last thing.”

You return a shaky nod, a weak smile, and together we turn our attention back to my Maker. Your Maker too, soon. Her cloak of feathers trails behind her as she finishes lighting the candles one by one, a long, slender match clutched delicately between her talons, flickering shadows licking at the edges of the room, lapping against us as we stand before the altar.

She asks you if you’re ready, and you hesitate a moment longer than she can permit without question.

“We can still stop, dear...? It’s an awful lot to ask of you, to come this far. I’ll understand.”

Hand still clutching my own, skin to porcelain skin, you shake your head with a quiet, admirable determination. You have come this far. What would be the point if you backed out now?

My Maker beckons us forwards, and side by side we walk up the shallow steps. My body is steady, but my mind is racing with excitement – she trusts me enough to help with this, to assist her in making you hers as well.

No doubt your pulse is racing plenty enough for the both of us. Don’t worry. Before long, you’ll know the same peace I do, the same steady tick of a metronome to replace the erratic thump of a heart.

Using my hand to steady yourself, you settle into the iron throne upon the altar, almost but not quite hiding the wince as I let go and my Maker ties the straps tight around your limbs, your chest, anchoring you steadily in place.

“I’ll be right here,” I reassure you. “Nearly over.”

My Maker nods, long fingers brushing through both our hair, and I watch as she leans in over top of you to whisper something in your ear, the words hidden behind her hair, her feathers.

It’s all so familiar, and I hope you feel just as excited as I did when I was in your place – I remember the reassurances, the things she told me. I remember the fear, the anxiety, and yes, the giddiness of my Maker telling me it’s just a little bit like dying, dear. A pinch, a fading, and then you’ll be safe and sound.

I remember how I found that little pearl of certainty inside me that this was what I needed, a thought to grab onto tightly and steady myself against what came next with.

When she pulls away your eyes are closed and you let out a deep, slow breath, let all the tension drain out of your body. You’re ready.

I watch in rapt attention as my Maker begins her work, aligning conduits and tracing runes across your skin in sacred oils that glimmer in the candlelight. I watch her touch one hand to the amber gem embedded in her chest and I bring a hand to my own phylactery in turn, feeling my essence hum in anticipation, in resonance.

She speaks, her words dark and powerful, and the room goes still. Together, we ready what she’ll need to complete your transposition, working in tandem as master and servant, her the expert and I the apprentice. I force myself to focus, bury the excitement deep inside me, let my strings empty of nervous tension and simply carry out the motions I require of them. You’re so still already, hovering on the precipice between life and death, awareness dimmed to only the barest, most dreamlike conception of your surroundings.

When she touches the tuning fork to your chest and begins to wind, I hold my breath.

As she twirls her fingers the humming rods begin to glow, winding and winding the threads of your soul free from your mortal vessel, wispy and ethereal, growing in luminosity until you’re almost blinding in the dim light of the ritual chamber. One last little flick of her wrist and you float free, a shimmering orb of life severed from its body.

I reach out my hands, jointed fingers carefully cupped, and let you settle into my palms.

I can’t help but say something, giggle and remark at how weighty you are for such an insubstantial thing. My Maker nods, reminds me I was much the same. Without another word, she holds out your phylactery – deep and red like blood, gleaming darkly, wrapped in black, polished metal.

I close my eyes and bow my head until I’m close enough to brush my lips against you, your texture like cobwebs made of moonlight. I whisper one last reassurance, although I can’t remember if I’d have heard it when I was in your place.

...and with a parting kiss I let you slip out of my cupped hands, down into your new home, the gemstone drinking you in until not a trace of your shimmering light remains, you soul secured deep within the phylactery.

All that you were, all that you are, all that you ever will be.

My Maker smiles softly, planting a kiss of her own upon the stone to seal you into it.

Safe and sound.

[Emily] spiderfolk we came up with! the boys are smaller and lighter and also they wear makeup so girls will pin them down and ruin it. as a courtship thing.

Where do souls go when they finally fade from this world?

When the last memories that tie a soul to firmament are lost, when no words hold record of it’s deeds, when the pacts that bind it are forgotten, what happens?

It sinks.

Souls drain away when you let them, pulled by some metaphysical gravity, and pool in the darkness beneath the world, settle down to the bottom and find peace in stillness, the absence. They slough off whatever remains of their identity and melt into thick, black oil under the weight of ages. They become ink.

My Maker calls it “the Abyss”. A void, a pit, a watery nothing – a place antithetical to identity in a way curiously opposite the perpetual shifting chaos of the Dreaming. In the Abyss, nothing ever changes. There are no dreams. There simply Is, for so long that Is stops having meaning.

I don’t know how to feel when I think about the Abyss. I think it scares me, at least a little, and yet I can’t help but think about how peaceful it sounds to be so utterly, utterly Still.

Perhaps that’s why Dollmakers find it so useful...?

I’ve watched my Maker many times as she’s lowered a bucket down the narrow well that sits in the sunken courtyard of her manor, lowering it so much further than it should ever need to go, down and down and dizzyingly down...

...and then back up again, so much quicker on the return trip.

I’ve seen what that bucket holds, each time.

I’ve watched her carry it tenderly back inside, watched her whisper it encouragements and praise and gentle reassurances.

I’ve even watched her pour it into an empty doll, watched another of my sisters awake to a world too bright and too noisy and too impermanent. I’ve comforted them afterwards, side by side with my Maker, hugs and kisses and soft words. I’ve wiped away their inky tears.

They get used to it, eventually. Their Stillness serves them well in adapting, I suppose.

Some dolls are sculpted, flesh cut and shaped and bound with sturdier materials.

Others are assembled wholesale, an artificial vessel built to replace the doll’s frailer mortal one.

Each and every doll is beautiful in their own way, but I consider myself lucky to have been transposed, body and soul alike.

Transposition is often interpreted as merely the first step of becoming a doll – when one’s soul is carefully removed from their mortal vessel and moved for safekeeping into a phylactery – but it can be so much more when done by an experienced Dollmaker.

There are techniques, ways to call more directly upon the raw potential of the Dreaming, and if used correctly they can transpose ideas. Academically, I understand, this is known as “conceptual transposition”, the transference of concepts and properties from one thing to another.

All magic is, in a way, conceptual transposition. Magic is the unreality of the Dreaming focused through the laws of the waking world, near-arbitrarily enforcing ideas where they did not previously exist.

But conceptual transposition, as practitioners of the art discuss it, is something else.

My Maker has explained all this to me before, sat me down for tea in her study and spoken at length as to the things she dedicated herself to learning. We’re alike in that way – we both spent so long reading, researching.

She was struck by the potential of the Dreaming, of what it could do when tapped more directly. Formulaic spells are all well and good, she said, but the Dreaming is a fluid thing and it shows its power best when the rules we impose upon it are as minimal as possible.

My body is porcelain, my bones metal, my insides glass and brass and leather and oil. But I wasn’t built. My skin can be so surprisingly soft to the touch sometimes, my blush real on a deeper level than some mere illusory display.

My Maker took me – like she takes all her favourite dolls – and she transposed my flesh and blood into these things. I am a dream given permanence, a little piece of Is Not allowed to walk freely among the Is. I breathe because I am alive, though I do not believe I have true lungs anymore. I can eat and drink, although I need no sustenance. I cry when my feelings overwhelm me, even though my eyes are glass. I bruise if I am struck with intent, although I shatter when the intent is missing. I even bleed, sometimes, dark oil welling from improbably soft skin when I’m cut with the right sort of blade.

My Maker can take me apart and put me back together again, but no matter how many parts change, they are always made a part of me, become of me, take on the Dreaming I am imbued with.

I am alive in all the best ways, all the ways that one can enjoy, the pleasant sensations and warmth and softness of being together with someone.

I am inert in all the best ways, too. I am Still, I am durable, I am free from illness and infirmity.