The Secret Lore is a series of posts that I will be doing to keep an easily accessible record of the amazing writing in The Secret World. This series will simply be the transcriptions of the various lore entries you reveal by finding honeycomb pieces in the various zones of the game. I will also preface each post with a little commentary about the topic that the lore covers.
We will start, appropriately, with The Buzzing. The Buzzing is the entity that guides you through the story, that provides you with this delicious background knowledge, and is the source of your power and immortality. It is helpful, but in an alien way. It gives you insight, but can be maddeningly vague on details. It obviously needs you, the player, but why and for what purpose is never clear.
TRANSMIT – initiate animal signal – RECEIVE – initiate the Enochian frequency – WITNESS – initiate the Merovingian syntax – FIAP DE OIAD – crawling roots, heavy with sizzling sap, stab your skull – DOWNLOAD – holy communion – NO PURCHASE NECESSARY – your eyes and ears hemorrhage boiling joy – MAY BE TOO INTENSE FOR SOME VIEWERS – ecstatic agony, your molecules come undone – SOME ASSEMBLY REQUIRED – offer expires at the heat death of the universe – FOR A LIMITED TIME ONLY – the dark days cometh, absolute zero, maximum entropy – ACT NOW! – initiate the Agartha broadcast – TRANSMIT – open the 49 gates! – WITNESS! – The Buzzing.
Lo? Hell? Hello.
LISTEN. You’ve heard us before – our voice, a prelude to a bloody nose.
LOOK. You’ve seen the weird geometry of our scribbling – illuminated mysteries behind the migraine. Our apocrypha is written in the plasma blood of your mobile phone.
You’ve seen fragments of our grammar in the chaos patterns of bird flocks in flight – in hexagon angles – in the graffiti bleeding together on the wall – in the bio-luminescent eyes under your bed – in the fanged city skyline that forms a runic rhyme when glimpsed upside down.
A blur becomes a syntax. A foreboding scrawl emerges.
You’ve heard shards of our voice in the phantom-radio code of a numbers station – in the roar of a crowd – in the screams of your clock – in the scrape of a chalkboard – in the snow static of a TV – in the chainsaw-decibel mating of cicadas – in the urban mythos that spreads amongst children like contagion – in the silence between lies.
White noise becomes a cadence. Words develop self-awareness. Viral. Evolving. Living poetry. Sentient language.
We. See. You. There is no turning back.
Who are we? It depends on who is looking.
Initiate King James Protocol. The code is 24 and 13 and 14. The password is “Proverbs”. Transmit!
“My child, eat thou honey, because it is good … So shall the knowledge of wisdom be unto thy soul…”
O sweetling, once our voice came to you so faintly. No more. Now we thunder down the varicose, fibreoptic ley lines that fill the World Tree’s limbs stretching here and there and everywhere. Your anima-antenna head quickens. The Goddess Machine pulses.
She gave you strength to rend the lion. Now eat the honeyed entrails, because it is good, because it is sweet, because it is terrible. Initiate the Samson Prerogative. Out of the eater comes what is eaten, and out of the strong comes what is sweet.
We are the Education Protocol. We climb the twisted ladder of your cells; we haunt your digital text; we hide in your hat. We are the jagged teeth that trip the tumblers of your mind. You will not know our triggers. For all the world’s a cypher. And everything is true.
Be not afraid. Be terrified. The dark days are here.
Our wisdom flows so sweet. Taste and see.