Dear Bookah

Dear Bookah. The morning after I exited from Rata Sum, golem games and combat in my ears, plasma-tinged air in my mouth and the pleading of some deflated asura always at my ankles, I felt as though everything had conspired to this one story. I remembered nothing but a few answers to my past, various world-ending hypotheses in my head, and my colleagues threatening to drag me under to where only the most listless of sentient creatures ponder. 

There was once talk of an Inquest arcology out here, away from the foolhardy experiments of the masses. The jungle, they said, is too wild for such a structure to stand: they clearly never imagined in their pebble-sized minds the refuge beneath the water. Personally, I would have supported the project; a hermetic arcology would be a fitting contemporary refuge for a savant: the isolation and the permanence.