The Amelia Project - Episode 94 - Maine Moepirt Arthur (717 BC)

Episode Date: October 30, 2025

“What brings you to my field, flapping and screeching in such an undignified manner, interrupting the solemnity of chicken day?” The Amelia Project is a production of Imploding Fictions. This episode features Alan Burgon as The Interviewer and Hemi Yeroham as Kozlowski. It was written and edited by Philip Thorne with story editing by Oystein Brager. It was directed by Philip Thorne and Oystein Brager, sound design by Adam Raymonda and additional sound design and music by Fredrik Baden, graphic design by Anders Pedersen and production assistance by Maty Parzival. It was recorded at RedP Studio in Vienna with the assistance of Paul Kraner, Oliver Illes and Arpad Hadnagy. The episode is dedicated to Stefan Hartinger. Website: https://ameliapodcast.com/  Transcripts: https://ameliapodcast.com/season-5  Patreon: https://www.patreon.com/ameliapodcast Donations: https://ameliapodcast.com/support Merch: https://ameliapodcast.dashery.com/  Bluesky: https://bsky.app/profile/theameliaproject.bsky.social Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/ameliapodcast/ Tumblr: https://www.tumblr.com/ameliapodcast X: https://twitter.com/amelia_podcast Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

That's annoying. What? You're a muffler. You don't hear it? Oh, I don't even notice it. I usually drown it out with the radio. How's this? Oh, yeah.

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It's got to be consequences. Mayor of Kingstown, new season now streaming on Paramount Plus. This episode is dedicated to Stefan Hatinger, who will be slowly liquefied when a mysterious beam from outer space strikes him. Meanwhile, a suspiciously pointed-eared individual with a bowl haircut will mutter incomprehensible techno-babel about his cellular matrix destabilizing. Stefan will, of course, re-emerge unharmed as a counsellor on a lonely Martian outpost. Thank you so much, Stefan, and thank you to all our patrons.

If you'd like to become a patron from just $5 a month, support our work and get bonus content, you can go to ameliapodcast.com for more info. But for now, enjoy the show. Oh, ha halle, gala, la, no. No, no. No, no. Oh, no, no, don't. Oh, no, don't, my.

Oh, no, don't. Who is that? Who is that? Who are you? No. No. Nozmaqun. No.

Nozmaquin. Nanjia and Osmikin. Nanjia and Osmavon. Who are you? Who are you? Who are you? Answer me, stranger. What?

What brings you to my field? Flapping and screeching in such an undignified manner, interrupting the solemnity of Chicken Day. Chicken Day? Indeed. Oh, forgive me. I saw a headless bird running towards me and panicked. Yes. It is Chicken Day.

Oh, so you said. You have never seen a headless chicken. I thought it was an omen. An omen? Oh, you are at root? I am. And what is you? your name, Young Trude.

Mainmurpert, Arthur, son of Athramal. Mainmopert. That means beyond description, does it not? It does. I am very unique. Ah, and Athramal means like his father. Yes. So you are beyond description, but like your father.

Yes. That sounds like a description to me. No, no, my father was also beyond description. What was he like? Of course. Yes, right. How do you like chicken soup, Maine? Well, I mean, I have eaten nothing but berries and hazelnuts for many days.

I would swap my staff for a bowl of hot chicken soup. Ah, that will not be necessary. You are kind, but I would like to give you something in return for your hospitality. I will take payment in the form of a story. Oh, well, I know some great stories. stories. I want your story. You want my, my story? Only those propelled by an urgent story across moors, marshes, and mountains to find me. Who are you? Are, are you? Nobody comes here by mistake. You are the, the, the phoenix. You can call me Ithobal. So the tales I have heard are

true. What have you heard? That you are a gifted healer who has traveled the world and traversed the ages. That your powers of magic and hex derive from the east. They say that even the mighty mave trembles before your power and wisdom. Do you know how to pluck a chicken? Oh, I... Hmm? Follow me. You will help me with the birds, and while we pluck, we can become better acquainted while we pluck oh um right The Amelia Project, created by Philip Thorne and Osteen-Ulsbek Braga, with music and sound direction by Frederick Barden and sound design by Adam Raimonda. Moapert, Arthur, son of Athromail, 717 BC.

Ah, since you will be dining with me tonight, we will slaughter one more birds. Right. Zagher. Zekar advorian. Gala, gala, gala. Gala. Ha, ha. Why is it not running away?

Why is it putting its head on the block willingly? I always hex my chicken. before the slaughter. I see. There. Catch! Let us sit on the rock and pluck. What is wrong?

Well, you are sitting on Basalt. If you wish, we can place bracken upon it for comfort. No. No. Oh, I never sit on Basalt. Why ever not? I have chosen a solitary life. I enjoy the solemn company of the stars, the pensive presence of the sea,

the warm and rowdy friendship of fire. However, I do not wish to exclude the possibility that one day I may wish to raise a family. What are you talking about? Do you not have a spotted dollarite on which I could sit? A spotted dollarite? What distinguishes it from Basalt? The spotted Dollerite imbues fertility.

Basil trobs it. You think sitting on the stone will make you infertile? Well, of course. Mave says... Maine, trust me, you can sit on that rock. That's it. All right. Bend your knees. Sit down.

There you are. You did it. Oh, it's... Oh, it's... Congratulations. Well, I thought it would be sore. It's... It's fine.

What is it now? Well, must I pluck the bird? What does this maive say will happen when finger and feather touch? That your hair will detach itself from your scalp? That your skin will break out in purple pockmarks. The druids not eat chicken? Yes. No. Yes.

It is just I cannot be near birds, not now, or death. Dead birds. Oh, I am a dead bird. You are a very strange man. I can pluck dandelions instead. Dandelions? To make dandelion water. Have you ever tasted it?

I have not. Oh, it is the most delicious and energizing beverage. You'll love it. Then I will pluck feathers and you will pluck dandelions. And while our hands are busy, you will tell me your tale. Oh, yes, yes. Right.

Do you know the great stone circle of the south? I have heard tales, but alas, I have never set eyes upon it myself. It is a splendid sight. I grew up on the edge of the forest, in the shadow of those great, grey. stones. Every night I would gaze at their majestic silhouette, and in the morning I would wake to see them bathed in sunlight. Honeygold, dusky grey, inky black. Over the course of a day, the stones would transform before my eyes. Those stones, reassuring, magical, terrifying,

were a part of my childhood. I would invent stories about them. I would dream about them. On some nights, I could not tell if I was awake or dreaming. These were the nights the stones came alive. The stones spoke to you. They sang, a deep and somber chant, carried by the wind across the plain.

Beautiful, sad. unearthly ancient on other nights they screamed chilling cries of pain and despair i closed my ears but could still feel the distress emanating from the stones on such nights flickering flames danced across the hedge as a child i did not know what i was seeing what i was seeing and my parents would not enlighten me. So I invented tales of dragons and angels, magicians and demons to explain the extraordinary sights and sounds. I soon realised I could hold a captive audience. Telling stories,

eliciting gasps, shrieks, sobs and laughter gave me immense pleasure. So I decided to become a bard, travelling far and wide, telling old tales and collecting new ones. I travelled on foot, by boat, by horse, by donkey, telling funny stories, sad stories, scary stories, ridiculous stories. There is always time for a story. Then one day I felt a tug.

Something was pulling, pulling, pulling. At first I did not know what was happening. Then I understood. It was the stone's calling, beckoning. I was not done with them. I had to return to their mysteries. So I began the long journey homewards. And that was when I met the druids of the circle. The druids of the circle are the custodians of the Henge and the sights and sounds I had witnessed as a boy were their rituals

held to mark the movements of the sun and moon this I learned was the significance of the stone circle to map and measure the passing of time a timekeeper how extraordinary those rocks whose contours I knew so well became even more

more magical to me. Could they really track the celestial bodies? Was it really possible to map the passing of time? My mind was set. I wanted to become a druid of the circle. But to do so, I would have to speak to high priestess, Maeve. Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha. Why do you laugh? It means a mead woman, does it not? Yes, or she who intoxicates. If you set eyes on her, you would understand. Oh. Looking into Mave's eyes is like looking into the sun.

Her terrifying beauty robs men of two-thirds of their valour. We druids never look directly at her face. Ah, yes. I have heard of this druid queen, courageous, creative. and insatiable. Courageous, yes. I have seen her wrestle a stag to the ground, grabbing its antlers and forcing it to its knees.

Creative, yes. When her son refused to fight, she covered him in rabbit hide, attached long ears to his scalp, tied his legs together, and made him hop around the plane before cutting his throat. When a junior druid was caught

trying to steal her amulet, She stripped him naked, attached a tail to his arse, threw him to the pigs, and watched him wallow in the mud, shriveling under the glare of her unbearable beauty. Insatiable, yes. Do you know, it takes seven men to satisfy her, and none survive. She kills them? Yes, or they kill each other in fits of unhinged jealousy.

It's unclear. Tell me about your encounter with Mave. Well, she asked me to tell her. her a story. Oh, what story did you tell? Well, considering her love of creative deaths, I told her the story of Kuhullin and his demise by cheese. Cheese! While Kuhullin was bathing, his daughter, hiding behind a tree, aimed a sling at the back of his head and shot him with a pellet of cheese. It must have been a hard piece of cheese. Did Maeve liked the story? She cried. Cried? I did not imagine her to be so sensitive.

With laughter! I mean, it is a very funny story. It is. I was given it by a fisherman on the island of Inch-Cleron. Maybe one day you can tell it to me in more detail, but for now, let us progress with your story. You have proven that you are a talented teller of stories, said Mave. But are you also a good listener of stories? I told Mave that the only way to...

to be a good teller was to be a good listener. As a travelling bard, I had teased tales from the lips of priests, peasants, lovers, drunks, philosophers, kings, queens, criminals and warriors. Some gave their stories willingly. Others needed to be prized out. But everyone has a story to tell, and with the right combination of drink, charm, flattery, cheek and persistence, I had learned how to collect a story from anyone.

This was exactly what Maeve wanted to hear. Then you shall be our poet of the pyre, she exclaimed. And just like that, without trial or apprenticeship, she had entrusted me with a grave responsibility that would place me at the heart of the rituals of the stone circle. I felt a rush of excitement and terror I remembered the cries I had heard as a boy screams of anguish as the stones flickered in firelight

I think I know the ritual to which you refer A colossus of straw and wood is erected in the centre of the circle Behind the altar stone Arms and legs as thick as oak trees Upon its broad shoulders A sacrificial chamber concealed in its wicker head. The wicker man, a horrific tradition. Horrific, yes. But how can we ensure the sun

continues to rise if we do not make a sacrifice? What was your role in this ceremony? I sat with the chosen one for their final moments and listened. Inside the wicker man? Yes, inside the wicker man's head, while the druids gathered below with their torches. And what? Did the Chosen Ones tell you? Their story. After their bodies had turned to ash, swept away by the wind, I was the one who kept their memories alive. By carving them into the stones.

What? No! Oh no, no, no, no, no. We druids never keep records. No. I worked their stories into songs and poems. To be sang and recited on chilly nights around the fire while roasting chestnuts and drinking mead. Can I tell you a secret? I am an excellent secret keeper. I do not like the ritual.

I know we must pay tribute to the sun. I know we will be reborn as a soaring eagle, a rushing river or a golden field of wheat. But whenever the wicker man is hoisted, I... Well, I... I feel sick. I feel sick. Maeve says I have a weak disposition. I think you have a moral disposition. Every time the pyre was lit, I averted my eyes and pulled my hood over my head.

But the screams still rang in my ears long after the wicker man had burned to the ground. How often do the burnings happen? Well, the big ones are held in midsummer and midwinterested. winter, when the sun stands still in the sky. For this, druids come travelling from faraway lands. Smaller burnings are held for crop shortages or irregularities in the weather, but these are attended only by our clan. In a good year with bountiful harvests, there were very few burnings. And did you learn more about the stones and their connection to the sky? The keeper of the calendar was a man named Duach, an ancient druid with feroid with

failing eyesight and weak legs. I offered to aid him in his many tasks, and he accepted with relief and gratitude. As we worked, scratching moss from the blue stones, scrubbing blood from the altar stone or washing suit from the sarsons, Duach explained to me the workings of the timepiece.

Twelve mighty sarsons at the centre of the circle, thirty blue stones around it. The sarsons represent seasons, the bluestones represent seasons, the blue stones, represent days. Each cycle consists of 365 sunrises and sunsets. Twice every cycle, when the sun has reached its highest peak or lowest draught, it is framed by the mighty trilathon. The stones form a portal through which the first rays of the day can shine. Druids have flocked to the circle for centuries to witness this meeting of magic and the mundane. This

melding of sky and stones, this union of heaven and earth, this encounter between man and the divine. It must be an awe-inspiring side. Yes. Only it was off. What? The sun. What about it? It wasn't perfectly framed. It was not? No. Huh. It was several notches off. What you said. I was describing what was supposed to happen. What old Duach had described to me. But when I witnessed my first solstice, instead of awe and wonder, I felt a niggling irritation. Try as I might, I just couldn't enjoy it. The sun was off. Yes. Or rather the Trilathon. Sun and Trilathon didn't align. Not perfectly. You are saying the great celestial calendar is wrong? Yes. But how can that be? You told me it has been a place of pilgrimage and

worship for generations. Oh, I do not doubt that the druids of old placed the stones on the sun's axis and saw a perfect alignment. But over the years... You are saying someone moved the boulders. Unlikely. Then what is it? It is the sun that has moved. The sun? I am sure of it. How? I conducted an experiment. What kind of experiment? At first I tried to convince myself that I was wrong, that I had been standing in the wrong spot, that my eyes were. could not be trusted. I could not wait for the next solstice to put my doubts to rest. But instead, the next solstice only intensified them.

There was simply no denying it. The sun was not in the trilithon centre. And what did your mentor say? Ach duach. His weary eyes could hardly tell the difference between limestone and sandstone. What about the druids, who had travelled from faraway lands, to witness the rising sun. Well, that's just it.

Nobody said a word. I mean, maybe they were distracted by the mead, the singing, the dancing, Mayve's beauty, perhaps. And the wicker, man? Yes. You still have not told me about your experiment. I am intrigued. When the sun reached its peak,

the heelstone would cast a long shadow into the heart of the hedge. I scratched a mark into one of the blue stones to mark where the shadow fell the following cycle I made a new mark looking at my markings after several cycles there could be no denying it the sun was moving further and further off centre there must be a mistake in the way we counted a cycle soon the sun would no longer be framed by the trinathon at all

something had to be done the timepiece had to be reset so that is what I did you did what I recalibrated the hinge or at least I tried how based on my blue stone scratchings I estimated

that the trialathon had to be moved by two and a half paces before you go any further please tell me you sought permission I tried but do I is old and complacent. So I decided I should go to Maeve herself, only she was far away visiting a clan across

the sea. She would only be back for the solstice, by which time it would be too late. Too late? This time I reckoned the sun's alignment would be so awry that no amount of music and meat could distract from it. The mighty trilithon would be left empty, the sun rising beside it. an embarrassment. News would soon spread to every clan in the land that the druids of the cycle had lost their mastery of time, that our stones had lost their ancient power. What a tragedy

that would be and how easily avoided by... By... By moving the trilothon two and a half paces. Yes. So you went ahead without Maeve's permission? Yes. How did you move the stones? with the hoisting mechanism for the wicker man we had been planning to heave it upright but I convinced my fellow druids that our energies would be better spent hauling stones

so we attached the ropes around the trilithon and heaved and hauled and heaved and hauled and heaved and hauled and heaved and hauled and heaved and crash! Oh no! The great sarsen to which our rope was fixed toppled knocking against the next sarsen which knocked against the next

and the next, and the next, and the next, and the next, and the next. It all went so quickly, druids dodging stones and screaming. By the time I looked up, the entire inner circle had collapsed. Oh, Maine. I just wanted to help. Did anyone get hurt? Well, miraculously, no. But the others were furious.

I can imagine. They tied me to the altar stone. Oh. They were terrified of Mave's return and wanted to make sure that I would take care of. the brunt of her rage. I lay there strapped to the stone gazing heavenwards for three long days and nights, shivering, sweating, rehearsing what I would say when Maeve arrived. On the fourth day I awoke to an unearthly scream. Maeve was still many miles away, but she had seen the toppled stones on the horizon and her rage spread across the plain. I was hit by a blast of white

taught fury. She reached the altar stone and my mind went blank. The sun, the, the, the, the trilathon. I made scratchings in the blue stones to chart the axis of the... You desecrated the blue stones and dismantled the circle.

I was trying to help, I stammered. Maine, Muaypat Arthur, son of Athramil. I shall transform you so all can see you for what you really are. Your appearance shall reveal the pathetic truth of your essence. Your shadow of stupidity shall be exposed by honest light. I shall make you a bird, a bird but unable to fly.

You shall be dressed in black feathers, but you shall be slimy to the touch like a snail. In that manner you shall whirl around the plain for all to see and laugh at. A slimy bird that cannot fly. I have had nightmares about becoming this gross bird, but that was not all. Then you shall burn in the wicker man, and the story you leave behind will be a cautionary tale for future generations. They will mock your stupidity and spit on your memory.

And how did you escape your fate as a slimy flightless bird, burnt on the pyre? I lay on the stone slab waiting. for my execution the following day, screaming at the stars. And then I heard something or someone creeping through the night towards me. Duach.

You have been foolish, Maine Mouapert, he said. But I do not believe you should die. You are a young man, you have a kind soul. You have time to atone for what you have done. Go, live your life. And with that, he cut the ropes and I was free. I ran across the plain, through the forest, over the river, towards the majestic mountains and lakes of the north.

But how do you hide from a woman whose power extends to every crag, creek and crevice? Who controls every clan in the land and who has armies of wolves prowling the forests and eagles soaring the skies to do her bidding. Where could I go? Then I remembered a story I had heard during my travels. A hushed story of an ancient healer from Phoenicia. A similar story was whispered among the druids late at night, after many a mead, when tongues were loose and spirits limber.

He lived in the forests of the north, they said. And Mave was frightened. of him. I clutched on to this myth as my only hope. If a magician more powerful than Mave really did exist, I could be safe from her in his presence. So I continued north, vowing not to stop until earth meets sea, hoping against all hope that I might find you. And here you are. I am. This episode is brought to you by Peloton. A new era of fitness is here.

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Mm, it's the ensemble. The format standard and mini-regruped, what are open? And the embellage, too beau, who is practically pre-a-doned. And I know that I'd like the Summer Fridays and Rare Beauty by Selena Gomez. I'm just the best ensemble,

the Codes' Caddle of Defend, Procurre you, C4Mini, regrouped for a better quality of price. In line on C4A.C. or in magazine. Thank you, Maine. For what? Your story. I hope you have found me a worthy listener. Is it true that you are more powerful than Maeve?

Well, unlike your Druid Queen, I do not have beasts of the forest and birds of prey at my command. Oh. The Mets you have heard cost me in a very flattering light, as Mets are wont to do. I see. But I think the same may be true of your queen. Mets are great disguisers. Whatever happens, will you keep my story safe, the way I told it to you?

Not the way Mave will tell it. Yes. You have my word. You know, you and I have much in common. Oh? Like you, I collect stories. Sometimes they are my own. Most often, they are gifts from other people.

Your story will have a special place in my collection. Well, I am honoured. I suppose it's only fitting, having collected so many stories from those facing a fiery end that I offered up my own story to you. But it is not your final story. Yes, stories are never final. What do you mean?

I mean that stories, good stories, defy death. They transform from yarn to poem to song, passed from the lips of parents to children, evolving from generation to generation. Stories transcend death. Yes, and this was your job, preserving the memories of those who died on the pyre and giving them a new life through.

stories. Yes. The body burns. The story survives. I am sure you did this very well. I did my best. But this is not my job. What do you mean? I intend to create a new story for you. From flesh and blood. What? My job is not to preserve your story, but to change it. It is not possible to change the past. But it is possible to change the future. How? Through skill, confidence. and imagination. I don't understand. I see every ending as a new beginning. The story of Maine, Morpard, Arthur's son of Athramal, has come to an end.

Mave and the Druids of the Circle will not rest until they have found you. I know. But do I was right. You are a young man. You have the potential to live many lives. What did you sing? That while you must lay Maine, Morpurt, Arthur to rest. rest. It is time for a new story to begin. If that is what you want.

I don't understand. How would this be achieved? We would start with your face. My face? Deepening the dimples, thickening the eyebrows, lengthening the earlobes. You want to change my face? Yes. You can do that? Yes.

Oh, what magic do you propose? The magic of fire, the magic of water, the magic of earth, the magic of wind. The magic of the knife. Do not be alarmed. This is not magic. Correct. It is butchering. I have travelled the world and gathered the most advanced instruments devised by man.

Bronze lancets, Sumerian knives and bone sores. I have studied the natural world. and it has revealed its extraordinary remedies to me, the soothing effect of oak sap, the numbing properties of snail spittle, the restorative qualities of clover roots. My studies have brought me to deserts, mountains, dark, undiscovered lands in the south and west,

and indeed, this very field. Its combination of forest air and invigorating sea winds provides a fertile environment for the most unusual plants. My skill with the blade, paired with my knowledge of ointments, means I can carve, mould heal and nurture and give you a new face. How long will this transformation take? Many days? Yes, but we do not have many. days. Mayva's looking for me now. Do we have another choice? Well, I mean, if... I will only do this on one condition. What is that? The condition that you are excited by this. Excited? Yes, by the possibilities

of a new face. Well, if it can hide me from me... Oh, but it is so much. more than that. It is? Tell me, why do you love stories? Stories? Oh, stories. I may think, well, they let us step outside of ourselves. They let us experience life from a new perspective.

They allow us to inhabit a character's thoughts and feelings. Yes, stories allow us to escape into someone else. Oh, but it's so much more than escape. Seeing the world through someone else's eyes allows us to learn, grow, empathize. Ah, beautifully said. But what has that got to do with my new face? Everything. You will be seeing the world through the eyes of someone else, quite literally.

No, no, no, no, that's not what I meant. Do you not see? I am offering you a chance to be whoever you want. You can create your own story And you will not be a passive observer You will inhabit it But I will be stuck in this story I will never be returning to my true self

Your true self It will be your true self You with a different name And clothes and face Possibly even voice Are you sure it will still be me Only by stepping outside yourself do you see who you really are?

I... I... So the question is, are you hungry for new experiences? Are you thirsty for adventure? Are you ready to bid Maine Muppert Arthur farewell and embark on a new story? I will need a new name.

Yes. Habits, interests, beliefs. Beliefs. There will be plenty of time for all that. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. You are excited? I am excited. So far I have only ever performed these procedures upon myself. Oh, I. I see. Are you nervous? A little. So am I. You are confident? Very confident. Good. Good. Good. The chickens are plucked. And I have enough dandelions for a tasty beverage. I will put the birds in the pot. You will need water from the well. There is one over by the forest.

I see it. I look forward to tasting your drink. I look forward to chicken soup. We shall have a fine feast. A feast indeed. And we can raise a goblet to my new life. Ah, your new life. Oh, and Main, while we dine, we can compare our collections. Our collections?

I was thinking we could swap stories. Oh, I would like that very much. Ah, yes. A gifted healer, who has traveled the world and traversed the ages. Well, that would be me. His powers of magic and hex derive from the East Hall. They say that even the mighty Maeve trembles before his power and wisdom. Eagles?

Oh. Oh. What story should I tell him? The story of the phoenix. Not that one. Not yet. I have goblets. I'm eager to taste your dandelion water.

Maine? Main! Maine! Main! Main! Main! Mane! Main!

Mane! Nantjeehan how's my question. Nantzhiihin, how is my question? Nanjiae-h-a-osma-faun. Nan-jia-a-os-ma-kune. I am so sorry for things I might have done. Nanjia-h-na-os-mof-un, please. Please, don't make it so painful.

I can't bear it. Oh, no, they're starting in it. Oh, good. No, no, no, no, no. Ah, Nijia-h-h-Mukun. Protect me, protect me, protect me. N'i-i-os-ma-Kune. Name Mobert arthur.

Ah! What is that? No! No! It's me. It's me. It's about. Hello.

What are you doing here? Keeping my words. Why are you covered in black feathers? I might ask you the same question. Why do you think? Do we not look silly? Yes, but Inabel, this is no time for jests. They have lit the wicker man.

The flames are racing towards us. What are you doing here? You came to me because you believed I could protect you from May. It's too late for that. I promised you a new face. Itobal. And we never got to swap stories. Itobal, you must get out of here before the flames reach us. No, you must get out. I deserve this. What? I deserve this punishment. You do not believe that. I brought this upon myself, my foolishness. I admit you were a little foolish. Which is why I am covered in feathers trapped here, but you... But you also show that you really care. You do not deserve to

but like this. Has anybody taken your story? No. Oh, you cannot die without leaving your story. I very much wanted to tell it to you. Hey, Tobal, please, you must leave. No, you must leave. But hey, hey, what are you doing? Stop it, stop it, stop.

Covering you with straw. What? I... Ow! Stop this! Why are you doing this? It scratches. It's... Are you working for Mave? What?

No. Well then I don't understand. You will jump. Jump? But we must wait until the flames have reached the wicker man's head. When the flames have reached the head, it will be too late. The head will collapse. You jump and your fall will look like tumbling wicker.

They will notice, they will see me. Shh, they will not. Of course they will. They're all staring at the wicker head. Yes, and they will be distracted from your fall by me. What will you do? do you even scream in the flames? What?

I am taking your place, Main. Ah, there you are. I believe you are ready. Itobal, Etobal, why are you doing this? This is crazy. Oh, and one more thing. Take this vial.

Why, what is in it? Let us call it an ointment. What kind of ointment? It is a steep drop. You are likely to have burns, and you may hit the stones. What about you? Once you hit the ground,

head for the forest. Once you are out of sight, drink! Drink! It will soothe the bruises. Cool the burns give you strength. You will make a full recovery. But what about you? You will burn! Yes! The time has come. Oh, we are both going to die! Lane! Jump! Jump! Jump!

But... jump! I! Jump! Jump! All right! Ah! The Amelius' is a production of imploding fictions. This episode featured Alan Bergen as the interviewer and Hemi Jiroham as Kozlowski.

It was written and edited by Philip Thorne with story editing by Einstein Braga. It was directed by Philip Thorne and Einstein Braga sound design by Adam Raimonda and additional sound design and music by Frederick Barden, graphic design by Andersen and production assistants by Marty Parziva. It was recorded at Red P. Studio in Vienna, with the assistance of Paul Krana, Oliver Illis, and Apad Hadnaki.

If you're hearing this, it means you're listening on the public feed. This episode actually already came out over a month ago without ads for our Patreon supporters. If you don't want to wait a month for the next episode, if you don't want your stories interrupted by ads, and if you want to support our work, consider becoming a patron from just $5. We really appreciate every single contribution. In addition to early ad-free access, there's a big library of audio and video bonus content waiting for you. Go to ameliapodcast.com and click on Support the show for more info. Thank you so much to all our current patrons, and a shout out to me of our super patrons.

That's Michaela Sullivan, Celeste Joe's, Heat 312, Auburn, St. Amelian, Alison, Stephanie Weightniller, Rafael, Eduardo, Vifas, Rastaki, Alison, Thro, Patricia Bournewagner, Bryce Godmer, Cliff Heisinger, Michael West, Tim McMack and Mr. Squiggles, Tibby, Florian Byers, Kurtly Mays Renson, Boo. Astra Kim, Olivia Dodson, Philip Hansen, Michael David Smith, Alicia Hall, LG, Ryan Burnett, Tim, Tiers, Missy, Mystic, Sybil, Tiffany Duffey, Mystic, Miss, Sybilte, Tiffany Duffey, Justin Hattinger, Lucille Farrell, Lydia Ames, Anonymous, Blythorne, Iris, Jade Pickering, Daniela, Matthew, with two teas, the first he is silent. Kelsey Page, Sinus X, Isabella Arzino, G. The Blue Sky, Canal Crypted, Ethan Cobb, Helden Incut, Artia Maccada, N, the Slim Reaper, Max Yarramin, DJ Goodall, Captain Cache, and Natali Aurora. Thank you all. first glance. But beyond the quaint surface, the shadows are cursed and the expansive woods surrounding town are forbidden. They call it the void, and nobody comes back alive.

You're headed straight for the void! Don't feel like you have to go with me. Founded to be a secluded oasis, Milton finds itself anything but that. Milton lives suspended in time, trapped by a darkness that seems to be creeping closer and closer. Does it suck that we live here with no way out? Sure, but it's safe. The void has kept in bed. though there are legends though of a mysterious former resident that knows away through the void you ever hear about the guide join three friends as they embark on an epic journey into the heart of darkness he's coming for you while the characters of the void may be fictional you might find yourself confronting your own reality and those things that bind you the void wherever you get your podcast this is just the beginning