There was, to Elaraeus Thorne’s considerable bafflement, no discernible sensation whatsoever. His senses, usually a reliable conduit for the myriad minor irritations of daily life, were utterly numb. He simply felt suspended, a rather undignified state for a man who preferred his feet firmly on solid ground, preferably a freshly swept floor. This, he mused, was the current bewildering predicament of Elaraeus Thorne. How to articulate such an utter absence of data? Everything was vague. He possessed consciousness, certainly, but it was indistinct, like a bureaucratic directive penned in fading ink. He couldn’t ascertain if he was prostrate or upright, a fundamental spatial orientation he usually took for granted. The ambient temperature, too, was ambiguously neutral, refusing to commit to hot or cold. Were his eyes closed, or merely perceiving an absolute void? What, precisely, was occurring? And, more pressingly, what was *he* doing here? Only one datum held an undeniable, if perplexing, certainty: The indeterminate Elaraeus Thorne was, at this precise moment, exceedingly comfortable. It was a comfort bordering on the profound, an insidious calm that whispered of eternal repose. He felt, quite uncharacteristically, that he might quite like to remain in this state indefinitely. And then, as abruptly as a misplaced ledger falling from a high shelf, Elaraeus Thorne’s senses snapped back into sharp, unwelcome focus. This was not, he noted with a grim internal sigh, a voluntary recalibration. An external catalyst, some unknown force, had rudely dislodged him from his serene, albeit inexplicable, slumber. That was the distinct, unpleasant sensation. He managed a faint, decidedly undignified groan as he slowly, reluctantly, opened his eyes. He must have had them closed, then. A few seconds later, his consciousness struggling to reassemble itself from the fragments of nothingness, Elaraeus was momentarily stunned. The reason, he found, was disarmingly simple. He had no idea where he was. Or, indeed, if this even qualified as a ‘space’ in the conventional, measurable sense. He had, quite definitively, opened his eyes, yet the experience was indistinguishable from having them still shut. Because, around him, stretched an absolute, uncompromising pitch black. It felt precisely as if he’d been deposited into a windowless chamber, devoid of even the faintest glimmer of illumination. The oppressive atmosphere was such that a sudden onset of acute claustrophobia, a condition he usually only associated with crowded market days, would have been entirely understandable. Spurred by this startling lack of discernible boundaries, Elaraeus rapidly pushed himself upright, his voice, usually reserved for polite corrections of filing errors, cutting sharply into the void. “Kaelen!” he shouted, a faint echo of desperation in his tone. “Kaelen, are you there?!” But there was no response. The silence, thick and absorbent, swallowed his words whole. He tried again, pitching his voice higher, a hint of his usual fastidiousness cracking under pressure. “Excuse me! Hello! Is anyone present?!” Still, the pervasive quiet held sway. There wasn’t even the courtesy of an echo, a phenomenon that even the most poorly constructed Imperial storehouse could usually provide. What, in the name of the Grand Architect, *was* this place? It was endlessly black, defying any attempt to gauge its dimensions. It felt, disconcertingly, like a space without limits, an infinite error in the cosmic ledger. At this moment, an emotion Elaraeus rarely entertained, immense anxiety, began to coil in his gut, quickly followed by a decidedly unacademic fear. Then, a memory, a fleeting, troublesome snippet of recent history, surfaced through the fog of his bewilderment. “I definitely… pressed something peculiar,” he muttered to the oppressive darkness. A square-shaped object, he recalled, shimmering with an unsettling swirl of black and grey, had been hovering near what Kaelen had insisted was an 'Echo-Fragment.' He’d touched it with his index finger, a purely accidental, curious gesture he now deeply regretted. “…Is this… a new form of Imperial reenactment? Was I… *drawn* into it?” he wondered, the sheer illogicality of the thought momentarily halting his breath. Quickly, Elaraeus clutched his head, pressing his palms against his temples. His logical faculties had, for once, abandoned him. No matter how he attempted to apply his usual, meticulous reasoning, this was unequivocally real. Dreams, he knew, did not possess this unsettling, visceral clarity. What, then, was this impossible space? Regardless of its ontological status, the most immediate and pressing concern was not the existence of this place, but rather his swift and orderly extraction from it. Turning his body, Elaraeus abruptly froze. Amidst the pervasive blackness, a faint white rectangle, roughly three paces distant, shimmered into existence. Had it been there just moments ago? He couldn’t be certain. But a thorough, albeit cautious, investigation was now paramount. Without further deliberation, Elaraeus moved quickly towards the luminous white square. Up close, he confirmed its pristine white hue. It was roughly the size of a standard scribe’s vellum leaf, suspended eerily at chest height. Describing it as ‘floating’ felt like an understatement; it simply *was*, defying all known laws of Imperial physics. The most intriguing detail, however, was the delicate script etched onto its pristine surface. —[Echo-Chronicle Fragment: Title Unknown, Provisional Grade: F (Fragmented Echo)] —[*Integrity: Critically Low. This appears to be a heavily damaged memory-scroll shard or scenario. 100% traversal is not possible. (Estimated 10% traversable)] Elaraeus furrowed his brow, a habitual gesture when confronted with poorly organized or incomplete documentation. “What is this? A damaged fragment? A scenario?” The white letters, despite being in the standard Imperial script, seemed, for a moment, to be utter gibberish. But then, at the mention of ‘fragment,’ a sudden, unwelcome connection sparked in his mind. “…Ah, *that* fragment,” he murmured, the implications dawning on him like a slow-moving, heavily laden cargo barge. It was one of the elusive, peculiar artifacts Kaelen had been so animated about, a shard he’d inexplicably found himself touching just moments before this bewildering transmigration. Could it be… “Could this luminous leaf be that very Echo-Fragment?” The pieces, as illogical as they were, seemed to fit together with a chilling, if accidental, precision. Tentatively, Elaraeus slowly extended his hand and grasped the floating white leaf. It remained stubbornly immobile. That was when it happened. Unexpectedly, new lines of text, previously absent, appeared just beneath the white vellum shard. —[Echo-Chronicle Fragment (Title: Unknown) Selected.] —[Listing Key Figures available for immediate ‘Echo-Traversal’ (Experience):] —[A: Terrified Refugee, B: Faceless Pursuer] “What in the Grand Architect’s name is this?” Elaraeus muttered, his composure now genuinely teetering between profound frustration and outright panic. The urgent need to restore order, to simply *do something*, became paramount. “Oh, confound it all, I haven’t the faintest idea,” he declared, abandoning all pretense of meticulous thought. With a sudden, uncharacteristic burst of recklessness, he tapped the entry labeled ‘A: Terrified Refugee.’ Instantly, a cool, feminine voice, clear and precise, resonated throughout the entire, mysterious expanse. “[‘A: Terrified Refugee’ Echo-Traversal preparation in progress…]” The tone was unnervingly steady, devoid of any human emotion, much like the automated proclamations of the Imperial Census Golems. What did it matter? It was, unequivocally, the first semblance of a human voice he’d heard in this suffocating void. Elaraeus, clutching at this frail straw of contact, shouted desperately into the darkness. “Hello! Who are you?! There is someone here! I demand an explanation for this irregularity!” But the robotic voice offered only an utterly irrelevant, pre-programmed response. “[…Preparation complete. This is a damaged Echo-Chronicle Fragment or scenario. Estimated traversable integrity is approximately 10%. The Echo-Traversal will commence immediately.]” Immediately thereafter, a colossal, swirling grey mass solidified around Elaraeus, swallowing him whole. It was cold. A sharp, penetrating cold that cut through him. Strange, he reflected, his last conscious thought before the shift, the temperature had been so vague just a moment ago. Now, however, Elaraeus was undeniably, miserably cold. Was he outside? He instinctively lowered his gaze. And then, a gasp, for his attire had changed. The sensible, albeit slightly ink-stained, scribe’s tunic he had been wearing was utterly gone, replaced by a rough, unfamiliar hunter’s cloak of deep brown wool. The moment this jarring incongruity registered, he quickly snapped his head up. His field of vision had also undergone a disorienting transformation. It was still profoundly dark, but now, faint, ragged silhouettes were discernible. Trees? Were those… a multitude of ancient trees? And what he was stepping on, crunching softly underfoot, were not the smooth flagstones of the Imperial Scriptorium but a thick carpet of fallen leaves. So, he concluded, with a dawning, terrible certainty, he was now, quite literally, in the middle of a forest. He attempted to articulate a sound, a protest, even a whimper, but his voice failed him. It felt as though his very body was refusing to comply with his commands, overtaken by some other, stronger impulse. Simultaneously, he was assailed by an array of new, intrusive sounds and sensations that were not his own: the irritating whine of a frigid wind whistling through unseen gaps, the dry, rustling lament of branches scraping against each other. The sheer oppressive atmosphere, coupled with this influx of foreign sensory data, was enough to make his entire body tremble, a visceral, primal reaction. ‘*Run. I need to run away*.’ As Elaraeus’s eyes, or rather, the eyes of the terrified refugee he now embodied, slowly accustomed themselves to the profound darkness, a deluge of raw emotions and primal sensations crashed over him. Move, move your legs, the desperate, unbidden thought screamed within him. Keep running, escape. Escape *what*? He didn't know, yet the urgency was absolute. Soon, Elaraeus found himself running, a frantic, unthinking scramble. He cared not for direction, merely scrambling uphill, driven by an instinct that was not his own. He ignored the burning ache in his lungs, the ragged rhythm of his breathing, the faint, stinging caress of unseen tree branches scratching his face and hands. Why? Why was he running with such unbridled panic? He had no rational answer. Yet, despite this profound lack of understanding, Elaraeus could not, dared not, cease his desperate, stumbling flight. It felt, with an absolute, terrifying certainty, that to stop would be catastrophic. His heart hammered in his chest, a frantic drumbeat growing ever faster. Yes, the memory asserted. *I’m being chased. I’m being chased right now*. Even as he pounded across the uneven forest floor, crushing fallen leaves underfoot like a madman, the Echoed memory compelled him to continually glance back. Fortunately, the scenery behind him remained monotonously the same: the endless, oppressive darkness of the shadowed forest. There was nothing, yet the terror persisted, a cold, cloying presence. Suddenly, a low, unnervingly casual male voice drifted from somewhere just to Elaraeus’s side, cutting through the rustling of leaves and his own gasping breaths. “Stop running, it’s annoying.” Before Elaraeus could even process the chilling implication, his leg inexplicably caught on a root, and he tumbled forward, landing flat on his face. The impact was excruciating. It hurt. It hurt with a searing, undeniable intensity. Why did it hurt so profoundly? This pain was real, unequivocally so. The sharp scrape of his cheek against the unforgiving earth, the sudden, hot gush of blood — all of it was terrifyingly, concretely real. “I’m hungry because of you.” The man’s voice, now distinctly behind him as he lay sprawled, continued its casual monologue. No, he realized with a fresh wave of horror, the ‘Faceless Pursuer’ from the Echo-Fragment’s roster of characters was also terrifyingly real within this memory. The only action Elaraeus could summon was to struggle, a desperate, futile thrashing against an unseen weight. He had no alternative. This entire, horrifying experience was utterly unprecedented, entirely beyond his meticulously ordered understanding of the world. Who, after all, had ever had the experience of being pursued by a terrifying, inexplicable man out of the blue, let alone inhabiting the memory of such an event? *I’m going to die.* The unbidden thought screamed in his mind, an absolute, overwhelming conviction. It felt, for some inexplicable reason, that death was imminent. Elaraeus struggled desperately against the crushing weight, but to no avail. The Faceless Pursuer, now unmistakably standing over him, began to slowly, deliberately, press a foot onto Elaraeus’s back. Despite the crushing pressure, Elaraeus’s struggles did not cease. He writhed, squirmed, and clawed at the damp earth again and again, though he remained utterly pinned. The gritty soil and decaying leaves were persistently sucked into his nose with each desperate gasp. Conversely, a copious stream of water flowed from his eyes and nose, a visceral manifestation of the Echoed terror. *I’m going to die, I’m going to die, I want to live.* The desperate, overwhelming emotions, the frantic clawing of hands at the fallen leaves and dirt, the sensation of his back being crushed, the flowing snot and tears, the harsh, ragged breathing—all assaulted Elaraeus with an unholy clarity. It was a sensory overload of pure, unadulterated fear. “Hmm, I’ve decided,” the muttering Faceless Pursuer said, his voice imbued with the chilling nonchalance of a butcher choosing a cut of meat. “I think I’ll head down to the tavern and find some smoked lark-tongues.” That the strange man definitely existed was now beyond all doubt. At this point, the prone Elaraeus was unceremoniously rolled over. The Faceless Pursuer, a shadowy silhouette with no discernible features, merely a round, black void where a face should be, hung above him, an omen of finality. Something—a blade, perhaps, or a shard of obsidian—was plunged into Elaraeus’s side. There was no time to understand what had pierced him, only the immediate, unbelievably intense pain. It felt as though all his internal organs had been severed at once, an indescribable agony that transcended anything he had ever known. Elaraeus, unknowingly, convulsed. His legs twitched uncontrollably, his arms flailed weakly, and his face spasmed in a rictus of torment. What kind of sensation *was* this? Confound it all, it hurt too much. This, he realized with a terrifying finality, was a clear, inescapable reality. *Beg, yes, beg. Beg for your life.* With trembling hands clasped together, Elaraeus, or rather, the terrified refugee he embodied, begged desperately. He pleaded, his eyes fixed on the featureless black void where the face should be. He promised anything, everything, if only his life would be spared. Surely, even if the strange man’s expression was invisible, he was still, at some fundamental level, a human being, capable of mercy, wasn't he? The strange man, the Faceless Pursuer, simply laughed. It was a low, chilling sound that echoed in the dark forest, a sound of utter indifference, of cruel amusement. And then, the memory faded into a final, searing white heat.

A Most Unprecedented Data Entry