As winter's snowflakes drift from clouds on high, you make soft strides o'er the ground below. Beneath your coat, bandages cover the wounds of battles past. You think of how your blood had run red as an autumn apple, making little crimson pools in the freshly fallen snow. Yet you didn't let the darkness take you; with fury that burnt like the summer sun, you'd risen, angry tears pouring down your cheeks. You'd wanted to make the seas run red with the blood of those who'd attacked you; to choke the rivers with their bodies; to rend the night with their screams of anguish! But they had gone, and you were alone.
You took what little you had left: a beaver-skin coat too ragged to sell, wool pants too tattered to wear, and love note-- now wet and nearly ruined-- from a John, boy that you'd met in the last town you'd been to, Evair. On that first night you'd met at the New Year's festival, he'd wrapped you in his coat when he'd seen you shivering, he'd listened when you'd ranted about the cold, and he'd had just that certain twinkle in his eye. When the night had ended,she'd taken you back to his house. Suddenly, you'd realized that you liked him, but not like that; he'd noticed, slapped his forehead, put his palm over his face, and said, "You're right, I'm taking things too fast; I'm sorry. Here, I hope that this helps," and offered you a silver piece to get a room at the town's inn. You'd said goodbye, walked down the steps, and trudged off through the gathering snow to that nice warm bed. There's a silver lining to every cloud, you'd thought to yourself.
The next day, you hadn't seen him. You'd looked for him by the ashes of the bonfire, in the tavern, and even in the jail. No luck. In desperation, you'd walked back to his house and knocked on the door. No response.
Oi, what a strange girl: Eager to get frisky one day and hidden the next. had rung your thought. How could anyone be so shaky with their feelings?
But as your eyes had passed over the top of his door frame, you'd found the answer. A Latin motto, in black gothic letters upon the worn white wood, had been there. It had read, Logica, Scientia, Veritas. Classic INTP.
I guess that Fe had gotten the best of him
And as the days had passed John had become but a foggy memory, and your time at the inn had come to an end. The innkeeper had given you a few hours that morning to pack your things: spare clothes, a few pieces of bread, a jug of water, a small knife. As you had been putting them into a burlap sack that you'd found in the post-New-Years garbage, you'd heard a knock on the door to your room. "Who is it?" You'd asked. No reply. You'd sighed, gotten up, and opened the door. No-one had been there, only a note. "To subwayrider," had read the title. Within, there had been all the signs of a love-struck thinker trying to express himself: crossed out words replaced with ones that were themselves crossed out and replaced with words whose definitions you could barely remember, forcefully pressed pen-strokes, and even a horridly scribbled picture mentioning a visit to a place called "INTP Forum". Another sigh had passed your lips; 'twas cute.
So with note in hand you had left that town, and with note in hand you'd been beaten down, cut, stabbed, and hurled against a sycamore tree by a roving gang of robbers. They'd left you for dead, but they had been wrong. And you had risen from your snowy resting place to take revenge by living-- living in a place where one could walk in peace. You'd ripped some cloth from your meager clothes and fashioned bandages to keep your wounds at bay, gathered your strength, and pressed on into the cold.
And so you stand in the freshly fallen powder like a springtime bud: hardy, strong, and alive despite the bitter cold of nature. You stride forward, eager to know what the world has in store, eager to forget the battles past, eager to let the wounds heal and let you live in peace. Zzzip! An arrow zings by! Snapped back from your thinking, you leap behind a snowbank!
"Halt, who goes there?" cries a woman's voice.
You press closer to the bank, shut your eyes, and shudder.
"Who goes there?!" she cries again.
Your chest rises and falls like a drum beaten by a madman.
"In the name of the order of the INTP forum, who goes there?" the woman cries out once more.
Your eyes flash open. You recall the note that you'd carried in your pocket. You realize that you might be saved!
"H-here! I-I'm h-here" you chatter, partly from cold, partly from fear.
"Then stand and unfold yourself!" comes the reply.
You rise and shout back, "I-I a-a-am s-s-subwayrider the B-Brave!"
The woman wears a thick, russet tunic-- warm enough to brave any chill-- navy blue pants, full mail, and hard leather boots. She carries a hard-used, rusty broadsword upon her hip, and, upon one of her rough, strong arms, a buckler that bears the image of a quill and inkpot. Beneath the symbol are the words, "Logica, Scientia, Veritas". Her mien is one of confident determination, and her eyes look upon the world with the air of long-dead heroes. Relieved, you walk toward her and exchange stories. Her name is Fukyo, and she's been guardian of the order of the INTP forum for years and asks if you'd like a place to stay. You nod, teeth still chattering in the bitter cold.
The two of you walk for hours on end, crossing wind-swept hill and frozen dale. The snow, which once fell but one flake at a time, now falls in huge sheets and piles in great drifts as far as the eye can see. The wind howls and roars like a demon, ready to swallow you both up. You shudder and shake, but Fukyo has nothing to wrap you in. The winter wonderland has become a frozen waste, and the sun, which sets early in the winter, falls below the horizon. The night is as black as pitch.
"H-how are w-we to g-get t-to the O-order?" you ask, teeth clattering together.
"Well, I know a song that will help us get home," she replies:
"In winter-tiding's starry night
See abbey fires burning bright
See the north-star's e'er fixed light
And you will find your home to-night"
Her voice croaks a bit with the cold, and you can barely hear the words over the blasting wind, but for that moment, she looks happy-- like woodpecker caught in a thunderstorm who finds brief respite beneath a tree. Yet the snow pounds down like huge bricks of lead. Each step is harder than the last, and you eventually drop to your knees in exhaustion.
"F-Fukyo, g-give th-this n-note to a girl n-named J-John in E-evair. T-tell h-her th-that i-it had k-kept me warm. Th-then, r-raise y-your s-sword to s-s-tormy c-clouds o-on h-high, th-then b-bring i-it d-down u-upon m-my n-neck; i-it's a b-better way t-to d-die."
"subwayrider, where is your courage?"
"I-in the d-drifts of s-snow"
Alice pauses, looking down at her boots. Then she kneels down before you and looks you in the eye.
"Come pain, come death, come suffering, your name is forever. Like a legend, it carries you thousands of miles. So rise, brave Shistea, rise and take the name that you were given!" Your jaw quivers a bit. Your whole body tenses up. With one great breath, you straighten to a height that you never known that you'd had. With the fury of the summer sun, with angry tears frozen on your cheeks, with all the courage of your name, you rise.
"Death's scythe shall clang upon the armor of my rage" you shout, too furious to chatter.
And so it does. Made warm by the heat of a summer sun within your breast, you press on for miles through the night and eventually come to a titanic castle. You barely make out a motto on its towering iron doors, "Logica, Scientia, Veritas". Alice smiles at you as you mouth the words. The sentries, who stand upon the walls, call down through the howling wind, "Fukyo the Guardian, who stands beside you?"
"S-subwayrider th-the B-B-Brave!" you scream up at them "A-and I-I'll c-climb up th-that t-t-tower and r-rip y-your throats o-out i-i-if y-you d-don't l-let us in! A-AM I-I C-C-CLEAR?"
Fukyo nudges your ribs, "Easy, easy, take it easy. We're reasonable people here, no need to shout".
"W-wait? Th-they're a-all INTP's l-like m-m-me?"
"Well, yes, for the most part; however similar we may be, though, some of our most colorful members aren't INTP's at all.". You tilt your head questioningly.
"Cognisant, for example, is an ENTP, and he's practically melded with the floorboards. The place just wouldn't be the same without his Ne-fueled dreams of humanoid robots and sentient AI. Just be careful with his feelings, though: he's sad and lonely so he tries to pretend that he's emotionless."
One sentry runs down and opens the a small door in the larger ones. The two of you enter and proceed into the bailey.
"My, my, my, is this subwayrider the Brave?" asks the guard. You snarl at him like a hungry wolf. He gulps. "For the title is well deserved!" The sentry directs you toward a large stone building just a little to the left of where you'd entered. He tips his helmet disappears into the falling snow.
The two of you reach the door, and Fukyo, upon smelling the crackling oil of roast boar wafting down from a kitchen window, lets out a glum, lonely sigh, and says,"Well, I suppose that this is goodbye, subwayrider. My place is out there, standing watch and searching the woods for others like you."; Then, she too disappears into the drifting flakes and howling wind. You open the door and enter.
You find yourself standing in the atrium of a great castle. A mosaic of light streams through stained glass windows bearing the visages of such great men as Socrates, Plato, Godel, Picasso, and Nietszche and creates bright, dappled pools the dim vastness. Dozens of archways carve tiny holes of black into the lower parts of the walls, and two white-bearded old men argue unintelligibly over what looks like calculus, but could very well be abstract modern art. You wander through the softly rustling halls and hear the clinking of glass and the ringing of laughter down another hall. Though they are far away, these festivities have a distant quality in themselves-- like the horizon at sunset, always so far away; curious, you walk through an archway and toward the far and merry sounds.
As you softly step over a fallen lectern, you hear the racket reach a climax. The laughter is still distant, yet roaring! You wish that you could enter, you wish that you could just walk in and slip into the crowd, you wish that you'd instantly be one of the members, but you know that such things take time; as you begin to walk away, the words of Fukyo transfix you like one of her arrows, "So rise, brave subwayrider, rise and take the name that you were given!". You imagine her standing beside you with that look of devil-may-care determination in her eyes, a gutsy smile on her lips, weather-beaten arms crossed over her breastplate, dinged and rusty sword hanging from her hip, and flakes of snow drifting from her hair. You stare at her and whisper, "But Fukyo, I can't; I'm just a wanderer. They've likely got years of philosophical, political, and scientific education and experience behind them; I'm only a kid."
With an incredulous chuckle and a hand on your shoulder, Fukyo replies, "Gimme a break, kid. These people were all once just like you: cold, lonely wanderers looking for a place to call home. And guess what? The order welcomed them with open arms."
"But that's inductive logic!" you reply, shoulder slinking back under her glove.
Fukyo retorts, "The matter at hand is scientific, not philosophical. We're looking to create an empirical model that will predict the most likely outcome, not every outcome."
"But what if a black swan arrives?" you implore her, imploring her to see the deeper philosophical question.
"I understand that my model does not account for every possibility, but since I am limited to knowing only inputs and outputs, not the true nature of the acceptance-rejection mechanism; therefore, the best that I can do is make an educated guess, and my guess is that you'll be brought into the fold swimmingly."
With a heavy sigh, you nod, "Point made, Alice, point made," escape the words. You glumly turn to face the entrance. Again her hand stops you!
"Hey? Is Shistea the Brave about to enter a room all sulky and sad?" she prods. Your silence unnerves her slightly, yet she presses on.
"subwayrider, listen,." she begins, a hint of compassion entering her voice, "We all get nervous when we're going to meet new people: Nobody can tell you what'll happen, they could be crazy, they could be murderers, they even might want to kidnap you and boil your skin in molten salt-- the whole gamut of human existence is a possibility when meeting people for the first time--"
"--see! You're just going to get yourself--" you butt in, sitting down again.
She continues with a voice quiet as a summer stream but as strong as mountain-tops "--even though we know that the next person could very well harbor deep animosity toward every living thing, we keep talking, for long years of lonely sorrow can be outweighed by just a few of friendship."
A long, quiet pause breaks her words, and you reply without a sound. You reach your hand up for some help in righting yourself and... find that she, being but a memory, isn't there. But her words echo in your mind, stirring a thunder in your heart. You rise without tears, a smile of fond reminiscence upon your face, whisper, "Thanks, Alice," turn toward the door, and enter.
A resplendent golden light beams down from a chandelier upon a long, broad banquet table piled high with all the beasts and plants of the earth. A sad boy of twenty-two years sits there, drunk, wearing a masquerade mask over half his face, and alone. But not quite. Around him, dressed in all the airs of high society, are figures made from brass and wood. From time to time, one raises an arm and brings it crashing down on the table as if it had heard something worth laughing over. Then the boy laughs, a creaking, distant, lonely laugh, one wet with wine. As you walk in, he sees your shadow on the table. As he looks up, his mask falls, and he roots you to the spot with eyes full of pain and loneliness. Then, a soft, shivering sigh passes his lips, he slaps his forehead, squeezes his eyes shut, then tips the table over with a tremendous crash and sprints out a door in the back yelling in an Australian accent, "I have no soul! Emotions are but a defect of my design. See the men of wood and brass-- they don't even wince when they're lonely!"
Disturbed, you gulp and step out of the room. Was that Cognisant? you wonder. You return to the atrium, but the two old men take no notice of you. You shiver underneath your mantle of snow and decide to look for a fireplace. Gazing about the atrium, you see an archway labeled "Kitchen" and proceed down its long, dark length. At archway's end, you see, nestled among cabinets full of delicious treats, succulent meats, and tiny kegs of cordial, a huge, perfectly square island table made of finely cut marble that stands upon a tremendous base of oak that tapers as it rises. Forgetting your cold for the moment, you take a closer look: Upon the oak are hewed tiny figures that tell stories of days long past: Two muscular men stack stones while surrounded by picturesque summer beauty above a caption that reads "The Founding," hundreds of tiny, haggard figures enter through the castle's wide-swung gates above a caption, "The Great Welcoming," and a titanic dragon stands upon the castle's tallest tower, breathing gigantic plumes of flame while the tiny figures of The Great Welcoming, now dressed in armor, fire arrows at it above the words, "The Fe War".
As you sit and examine these beautiful pieces, you hear footsteps and turn your head to the door. A man of about fifty years with snow-white hair and an equally pale goatee enters. His expression is one of stately calm, and his eyes barely widen when they fall on you.
"Architect, pleased to meet you." The man begins as he opens a cabinet to produce a large ham, "I take it that you've wandered in here of your own accord."
You'd reply, but the thought of that huge ham roasting over an open pit, fat sizzling an popping over the flame, is too much. You rise and run at him!
He shouts and bops you over the head with it! Dazed and rubbing your aching noggin, you slink back down. "Ohhh, owwww..."
Chuckling, Architect replies, "There's plenty more where that came from; take that as you will." and begins slicing the ham.
Defeated, you look down at your shoes. Your stomach growls, and Architect sighs and answers it: "If you had desired some, asking would have been preferable."
You smile, eyes widening, stomach growling. Cracking a bit of a smile himself, Architect hands you a slice. You wolf it down and look up to him for more. With a relaxed and slightly tired air, Architect cuts a big slice off and hands it to you. "Thanks, oldster!" You blurt out.
Without changing his mien in the slightest, Architect cocks an eyebrow, tilts his head, and replies with quiet sarcasm, "Oh? Am I 'oldster' now?" and walks back down the hall, chuckling softly.
You turn to the ham, licking your lips in anticipation. Its smooth sides are dotted with tiny flecks of rich and earthy spices, and as you bite into it you find that the flesh is juicy beyond compare, the rich flavors of pork and pepper and paprika swirl in your mouth. After wolfing it down, you let out a satisfied burp. With a good meal inside you, you go for some more exploring. In the atrium, you see another archway, one labeled, "The Sanctum of The Enlightened;" intrigued, you head inside: there is no light at the end of the tunnel, and you can smell incense.
The strength of the incense smell doubles each time that you halve the distance between yourself and its source. In so increasing, it goes from being just a light scent to a choking, overpowering gas that sends you into fits of coughing. Your eyes and nose run like raging rivers over the pale landscape of your face, you hunch over and wheeze as if you'd been trapped in a fire, your lungs burn as the smoke grows denser. Gasping for breath, you collapse onto your hands and knees.
You hear the soft clanking of distant chain-mail and slightly creaking voice. It's Fukyo! Blinking through the tears brought on by searing incense, you look her in the eyes. Wryly, she smiles, heaves you up by the arm, and leads you into the room itself. The tiny chamber is dimly lit by short, broad wax candles that burn like small, lonely stars in a midnight sky, and at the chamber's end are two men dressed in colored robes who each kneel before their own idol; with heads bowed hand hands folded in prayer, each man's silent whispers move like gentle moonlight winds and blow upon the small, ankle-high golden idol sitting before him.
"Shirstea the Brave, remember?" she whispers in your ear. You nod-- eyes calmer than they'd been before entering Cognisant's chamber-- and tap one figure's shoulder.
In unison, they speak with a steady, ethereal voice, each pointing to the other as his name is called "Greetings, traveler, we are Da Blob and Lyra. What brings your to our order?"
"Well," you wheeze, "I was cold." while scratching the back of your head, slightly unnerved by their stereophonic speech.
"Ah, I see, another world-weary one enters our midst. And why do you walk as if you were being helped by another?" continues the pair's eerie voice.
You pause and answer, "What you do mean, 'as if helped by another?' Fukyo is standing right beside me. Can't you see that?"
Lyra, the one on the left, turns to Da Blob and speaks: "Da Blob, this traveler has not yet grown accustomed to the powers of our incense, perhaps this Fukyois a hallucination?"
Da Blob, the one on the right, replies, "Indeed, he is hallucinating. Perhaps we can use him as a medium to worlds yet unseen. 'Hallucination' is just a term invented by psychiatrists unwilling to accept the Truth."
"Let me--" you pause to take a coughing breath, "-- guess: you're the monks of this order."
With single, smooth rotation of their heads, they look you in the eye and reply, "Indeed, we are."
Examining their robes for a moment, you noticed that they don't have exactly the same vestments. Da Blob's is a deep purple with a gold cross across the front, while Lyra wears one of navy blue with "Pod'Lair" emblazoned just below the collar.
You continue "You worship different idols, yet you speak of a single Truth, and you spend your days in here breathing this, what is it, concentrated rat poison?, yet you call me crazy."
"These are the mysteries of our order, traveler."
Fukyo, or at least, the image before your eyes, sound within your ears, and touch upon your skin that you believe to be an ontological entity that you refer to as "Fukyo," shrugs, sighs, and rolls her eyes as she replies, "Listen, guys, Shirstea is new here, and she could use some directions."
"Very well, fellow soul, please, give the wanderer to us." The pair ask.
"Are you kidding me!?" Fukyo counters, "Don't you remember the Noodle Incident?!"
"Nobody can prove that we did that!" they cry in protest, voices losing their ephemeral tone.
She sighs and drags you back down the hallway, grunting a bit under the strain. "You're awfully heavy for someone who wanders alone."
With a sheepish grin, you reply, "Under this cloak, I'm a wall of muscle."
"Oh really?" she asks as she sets you back down at the entrance. "Let me see, oh macho traveler, how this feels." and gives your bellybutton a good poke. "Soft as Sunday marmalade."
"My unassuming figure aside, what was the Noodle Incident?" you ask.
"It involved a hippo, a toaster, and a sack of frozen peas. You don't want to know the details." she replies. Disgusted by the images sent flying through your brain, you close your eyes and cover your mouth. "Gross!" you moan, and when you open your eyes again, Fukyo is gone; your limp, terrified form falls with a thump.
When you awaken, you find yourself strapped to wooden table in a dim room with a soft, white pillow beneath your head. A cloaked figure emerges from the shadows, holding a leather satchel that bears your name.
"Hail, traveler, and welcome to our quiet halls. You'll find a room down five doors and on your left-- mind the cobblestone floors, it's easy to stub your toe. The nights are a bit cold, drafty, and damp, but there's plenty of hot, crispy, succulent roast boar and cold, sweet, clear mead to wash it down. This place has a glorious history of titanic battles among the great knights of our order: Cognisant, Architect, Da Blob, and ProxyAmenRa, just to name a few. And in our finest hours, we've taken trophies: the heads of Norse Gods, the crimson blood of dreamers scorned, and the still-beating heart of a troll. Yet, if trade you seek, other manors may better able to help you.
For example, and though you likely didn't see it through the snow, the one-hundred story glass tower that you saw on the way in is a colony of ENTJ's; their very similar functions and yet different perspective on life have made trade and friendship with them both lucrative and interesting. But they are just as 'soulless' as we, and few have ever tried to mate with them-- a course I that highly recommend maintaining.
As a final detail, even we of the rational temperament can fall victim to our emotions. Try to remember that in your posts, as even a simple, "Alright, let's let this cool off for a few days" or "Oh, that must have hurt something awful; here's a dry shoulder *hug* " can work wonders when another poster is angry or upset."
With a gentle nod and the wink of an eye, he hands you the satchel. Therein you find your room keys, a thick, warm, cotton cloak, cold, slippery slices of partridge carefully wrapped in parchment paper, a small, hearty loaf of bread, and a frosty glass bottle of water from the castle's spring.
"Just in case you decide to leave, let this be a gift from our order" interrupts the figure "Oh, and do dig deeper, you'll be pleasantly surprised."
Reaching further into the satchel's murky depths, you find a scroll on which is written in small, neat script, an oath:
The Thinker's Creed
In brightest day,
In darkest night
No falsehood shall escape my sight
Let those who worship Madness' might
Beware my power,
Pure logic's light!
The cloaked figure touches your shoulder and asks:
"Swear you this oath? For only through it shall you find Truth, be it in the Void or another code. In times of darkness, let it be your candle."
. Welcome!
)
INFX's are interesting, too. 
