Stranger Remains

All's well in the Continent.

The dead serve the living. The Promethean Sciences have changed the face and nature of living in this new age. While wealth gathers among the ranks of the Grave-Barons, those select who barter in corpses by traffic with the dying or deed from the Revived Church, it flows ever outward to develop the knowledge and tools necessary to sustain this prosperity. The vast instruments of corpse labor have created an era of unprecedented prosperity, rising the dregs of rural poor to urbane bourgeoisie. Embalmed servants stalk the streets in tireless toil, hidden behind baroque liveries and masks of wood, ceramic, iron and silver.

In a certain mountainous country, in the city of Nalva, the dead outnumber the living. To control and regulate these automata, the canton created an institution of Funeral Parlors, guilds of embalmers, morticians and toughs to protect the city's labor.

When industrial incidents began to arise, the parlors' duty slowly and inevitably shifted from maintenance men to cleaners. For a city on the rise, the Aldermen and Bishop resolved it would be necessary to keep some secrets. When strange sights began to fill Nalva's long winter nights, the parlor-goers began to style themselves as experts in "reburial" and took to midnight strolls. With their fanciful clothes and exotic tools, they became figures of fashion and notoriety. The funeral home became synonymous with the coffee house, the hunting lodge, and drew all sorts of dregs and eccentrics.

Then came a night on Nalva where all the dead rose unbidden, and the parlors were called to serve.

----

The dull heat of the furnace has quieted, and now the outside chill has started to seep in. Choking ash kicks up as you rise, and the melted tatters of something that was once clothing spiders between your limbs, loose threads pinching and pulling as you try to move. In the pitch darkness and dust, a single beam of silver cuts a long line from a distant doorway. North, you think.

You shamble, movements unsteady as you break those threads that prove to be a nuisance, particularly one that snares your right leg around the knee and get clear outside past thick iron doors. The world outside is frozen, and you will be too if you don't hurry. A patch of ice catches your reflection, pale and rangy, steely eyes and silver hair that must have been a mess even before the fire. The burnt tips crumble at a touch, and it parts with a little dedication.

Who are you?

A question without an easy answer. Not even a name comes easily. The furnace fumes must have done a number to your brain.

You wheeze in the cold, coughing. As your hand reflexively goes to your collarbone, you find a rather intact gold locket- not at all burnt or scoured, sealed by simple clasp. Your long fingers fumble to pry it open- and it hinges apart. Inside a cameo of someone who looks rather like you, and a message.

[ ] Dearest Sister, as I must depart Nalva for the coast and may never see you again in this life, I wish you good fortune in your service with the parlors. I will think of you on the clear winter nights, a reminder of our first days as babes. The cameo depicts a silver-haired young man, a sibling.
[ ] Dear Brother, as I see you depart our hamlet for Nalva for work I worry I may never see you again in this life. I hope that you will think of me in the cold nights not unlike the one of our birth, and wish you good fortune in that business of funerals. The cameo depicts a silver-haired young woman, a sibling.

[x] Dearest Sister, as I must depart Nalva for the coast and may never see you again in this life, I wish you good fortune in your service with the parlors. I will think of you on the clear winter nights, a reminder of our first days as babes. The cameo depicts a silver-haired young man, a sibling.

The words are legible, to your surprise. Reading is among your talents.

Here you are alone, somnolent of memory and starting to pink from the bite of the cold. Sister provides a context, at least. He resembles you enough, the watch is not of poor make and he wrote such kind words to you. Perhaps you'll be alright if you can just find him- if he's anywhere to be found.

The fields around are a vast acre, hemmed in by a square fence of stacked stones and wrought iron spikes, opening to a wide, solid gate. Beyond that the wedges and orange pinpricks of roofs and windows, the lights of town or city. To the perimeter, covered in a finger-thick of undisturbed snow. You shift your gait on the snow, which crumples to a grey slurry under your step. Your breath comes out white, catching the silver moon and orange lamplight of the crematory's doorway. The light by you is nearly out, a simple iron lantern quarter-full of bubbling hissing oil with a characteristic acrid stink of burning tallow.

Not wanting to move out into the fields in dark, you unhook and take the light by the clasp. A solid chunk of wrought iron it is- but your thin arms bear the weight without too much work.

You sigh.

The stone under the snow is even more chill. You quicken steps towards the long gate at the end of the field, not wanting your soles to stick and tear. Small stout headstones peak out from the snow here and there- names concealed or too worn-out for you to read.

Discomfort inhibits your curiosity. You press on.

And not too soon- a sudden howl, and the yipping of dogs on the hunt opposite the gate and behind you.

The hounds dash across the snow from a kennel behind the crematory, frantic, jaws and foreheads bound in a helmet like a cast iron shear yawing madly. They leap and fall over eachother, the headstones, slip and skitter on the wet snow and still keep moving. Your breath shortens, and heart throbs. You wince and drive on- finding your strides long and quick with the motivation. The gate is ajar, allowing you past it and gives when you push to slam it shut. No chains to hold it, but the bottom prongs seem to dig in even as the steel-clad pursuers, long-dead, angrily assert their territory.

You take a long step back, watching the gate in anticipation of it giving. But it doesn't.

Your breath runs clearer as you look around, thin arms compulsively hugging your sides as you move out onto the street. The air hasn't warmed- you've taken the chill in. Iron and brass gaslamps illuminate the street in mirthless shades of orange, the flames high enough off the ground they might as well be heatless. Old wooden buildings rise along the plots opposite the graveyard in varied states of disrepair, only a few have any lights at all and the wisps of smoke rising from a handful of stoves might just be dusty snow blowing off the tops of chimneys. Nobody indoors at night, but dozens on the streets, hunched figures in heavy clothing and wooden masks amble slowly, carrying burdens of coal, oil, lumber and fish- the fishermen caked in heavy cladding of ice. The majority appear headed up the hill, through a chain of greater gates- towards the more brilliant lights of the considerable metropolis you've found yourself awakening in.

It hurts to speak, but you force it out and put your hands on the shoulder passing laborer wearing an all-black uniform and carrying a heavy sack of glossy coal. "...excu-"

The coal-bearer pushes you back with a free arm as if by reflex, mechanical and obdurate, giving off the quietest of hisses. Underneath the rough clothing was old, stiff flesh. Not alive either. None of these are, you suspect. You recoil, inching back off the cobble street and put your back to the wooden walls of an old craftman's house, using the window's awnings to keep the slow snowfall off your shoulders.

Not enough energy to try marching up that hill, either.

You exhale again and lock your arms together, sliding down the wooden siding until the lower half of your body has fully met the icy, sodden ground and you've curled up to sit. Only your lamp, on its last hours of light, offers any kind of warmth of respite. Begging and knocking on doors is unlikely to work. Your fingers dig into numb skin, starting to take on the whitening hues of frostbite.

You sniff.

Another sniff, above you this time.

"I'd have thought someone from Nalva would recognize one of the Aldermen's longdeads. Not much for conversation." An older man's voice, sleepy but bemused, is addressing you from the windowsill. "Few of the old foggies left around these parts are, but that's what most of us linger about here for. Our privacy. But here, warm your guts lass."

"...!" you look up. A lacquered flask dangles off a string, tipping into your hands. You quickly open it and bring it to your lips, taking a long sip- it proves to be a quite potent and warmed alcohol, clawing its way down your throat and stomach. A syrupy tonic, scented with herbs and spices and with a chalky, cloying flavor like medicine. You tense and shiver, trying to hold a gag back out of consideration. The aftertaste isn't nearly as bad.

Floral, sweet. Perhaps you're just unused to it. Warmth spreads, perhaps illusory, perhaps not. You feel well enough to move at the very least.

"I haven't much need for the flask, or your backwash. Keep it. It's Master of the Hunt, and a passable enough vintage. Hah hah hah hah." He chuckles to himself, amused by a joke you aren't privy to.

"You gave me liquor?" you ask, standing up to the window. He seems to be just out of view, behind the wall. You catch the outline of a large-wheeled chair in your lamplight.

He snorts, "you seemed to be in bad sorts."

"I'm c-cold. Can you let me in?"

"Can't make it to the front door without tripping over the damn stairs. My boys are going to be in by morning, but fat good that does you now. Poor girl out at night in rags! Heh heh." He says, laughing to himself. He must be hiding, if he's seen the state you're in. "So no. I have a better idea though."

"...oh?" You manage to chatter out, craning your neck in an effort to catch a glimpse of him through the windows. The glass is old and droopy- anything you do see is heavily distorted.

"A few weeks back some parlor folk went into the old clothier cross the street! My old friend's business went under and far as I can tell them reburriers never left- so I suppose they died too, but it's all still there. Just go, take what you need, my friend's not around to whine about it. Maybe weapon too- unless you'd like to wave an old lamp at all the whatever mucking about tonight."

"...oh!" It's convenient. Really convenient. Can you believe your luck? "I'll go."

"That's the spirit! Now quick, before ye lose anything important to the cold, heh heh heh." He cheers, drawing his window closed.

The alley that separates the two buildings is just a face paces, and the landing gives you a welcome respite. The door was smashed open some time ago- but there are no signs of recent movement inside. What snow has crept across the floor from the entrance is still fresh, the patina of dust is undisturbed. A good sign, if the murky threat that forced the original occupant to leave. The clothier's was probably a decent shop at some point, high-ceiling with a landing above the shop floor for bed and study and living space for any family. A few odd marionettes hang from the ceiling, glossy white bodies clad in garish clothes. Too high to reach.

With the heat of the drink starting to fade, you go about tearing out of rags and assembling an outfit to hold you over in the cold. Wool bodice, stockings, work skirt, men's slacks and vest and the thickest jacket you could get your hands on, along with a shawl, gloves and scarf. A pair of oiled boots, perhaps belonging to the clothier's wife or a youngish son fit you well enough to justify taking those too. Your stinging cheeks will have to suffer for the rest of you now buried under three or four layers. Oil to refill your lamp too, in one of the cupboards, along with rock-hard sundries and food several weeks rancid if not for it having frozen solid.

A few glances around provide no further sign of the monster or its pursuers.

You scratch your head, taking a clumsy step forward to the door- and catch your boot on something wood and metal.

A trio of weapons: a wooden shepherd's crook with a strong steel spine, a long flat-tipped sword with a rough-looking edge, and a woodman's mattock with a collapsible handle. For your belt, smaller items too: a gauntlet-mounted crossbow that spools a wire and heavy steel dart, an odd-looking buckler with prongs to injure and catch blades, and a cage for holding oil, all affixed to a gauntlet, or a fine-looking dueling pistol. Your hands and belt accommodate frustratingly little, especially if you intend to carry a lantern while you wander. You could maybe carry one apiece of the offerings.

What's worth taking in these circumstances?

[ ] Corpseherd Crook: This reinforced crook is designed to tame the dead, with a wider hook to pull on human necks and limbs rather than those of sheep. Weighed to give a solid hit. Inside the curve is a length of black rashwire that can be drawn taut to cut off trapped limbs or shear off unarmored flesh. Before better methods of guidance and control were invented, corpse labor had to be blindfolded and lead by the crook.
[ ] Guillotine Knife: Invented by Dr Guillotine, a darling of the continental parlors, the weapon is little more than a powerfully heavy, blunt executionner's sword. As corpses fear little from blood loss, it's necessary to shatter their bones to debilitate them. The chisel-like tip is sharp enough to wedge through vulnerable points and contains a pressurized gas nozzle to destroy organs with rapid expansion.
[ ] Trench Burial Mattock: A woodman's skinning hatchet wedded to an adze, it can penetrate armor and flense flesh, making it suited to all kinds of enemies. The handle extends on a spring-load, allowing it to be held with both hands for stronger swings and better leverage. When digging impromptu graves, not having to bend over and get on one's hands and knees is useful.

And the tools?

[ ] Grapple Gauntlet: A hefty crossbow made of an unusually springy alloy purchased from the black markets of the Central Sea, mounted to a leather gauntlet, steel manacle and shoulder brace. The bolt is attached to a dull black rashwire that can support the weight of an elephant. It can penetrate most armor and surfaces, but releases with a specific wiggle of the wrist. Useful for fighting and mountaineering.
[ ] Lantern Shield: A clumsy and odd-looking device that combines an antique swordbreaker, spiked gauntlet, buckler and lantern all in one- with a small mirror to shine a light in the eyes of an enemy. A good, reliable smack with the spikes can puncture the skull of a longdead corpse. It can catch swords and frighten enemies sensitive to light, but how many of those can one expect to confront when reburying corpses?
[ ] Slug Pistol: A common pistol in corpse hunts. Heavy lead shot is known to strip limbs and puncture organs, and will make short work of nearly all corpses of human origin if it connects with the head. The cartridges needed to launch these rounds make the weapon a slow reload- but a useful trump card.