YOU EMPYREAL SONS

You awake on the shores of the Soundless Sea.

You spit out black salt water from your mouth and recall. It comes hazy and in pieces to you. Names without association. Places without memory. This and that. Colagualting slowly. Like a soup, you think through a delirium (so fucking cold, that fucking wind). We can start with something simple. My name is-

[]- ??#$%#%^?
[]- #$%#%##)$

Whatever it was you can't remember it. Something slides out of your brain and into your ear. You think it's important, but more importantly is that it's fucking disgusting. The living imago of all phobias of all things slimy and scuttling. You rip it out and throw it to the Soundless Sea. It demonstrates its name. Not a sound, not a splash nor a ripple when the disgusting fucking worm-spider-centipede thing sunk into the sea.

You think it's important, and then not for long.

Around you is a length of black water meeting black sand. Ships lie broken, bleeding oil into the water. Light shines off of the prismatic slicks, and to the east the lighthouse. The lying bastard. You have a mind to tear it down stone by stone for guiding you to shipwreck. You stagger upwards. You are as a newborn lamb. Behind you, the lightning, coming down from the gray storm clouds like nails. Red, stop sign red. Border post red. The divine immanence, securing the Soundless Sea from the barbarian riff raff. HOUSE ANZIR's necromantic storm, the Soul Severer.

HOUSE ANZIR:
Third Lineage of the Empire (only called the Empire to imply singularity). Rules the marches near the Sea. Skilled necromancers and golem techs. ANZIR necramechs have caused nine forever wars. Stripped cities and fields to the bone. Self perpetuating armies. Rumors say that they began the SHATTERING to divert imperial attention from their side hustles and ventures into heretical sciences. Barbarian princes and merchant concerns have still sought out ANZIR technology.

THE SHATTERING:
What you are currently living through. Ow, your head.

Right. You remember why you're here. You're a-

[]- PISTOLERO: Bravo. Ruffian. Thug. You're all those and more, a mercenary for hire, on the battlefields and the courts. With your six shooter by your side, and the promise of spending your pay in soaks and wine pubs, the world had been your oyster. Except for all the murders. Oh, so much murder. Although none of it was ever proven in a court of law, the vics families were coming after you, and not in a legal, civilized way either. So you signed up to defend an egghead on her journey to the shattered heartlands of the EMPIRE, just to beat the heat. Now, if you could only find that binoclard.
You have a Magna Arms .33 Revolver, with thirty six bullets, a najava folding knife, and a hip flask on your person.
[]- WITCH-KIND: You are a witch. Unlicensed magical practitioner. Lots of poisons. A tad bit of the vain alchemy. Double boil cauldron trouble and all that. You lived your life in a great city, a port, selling your wares and offering diagnoses for cheap. One day the watch officer was changed, and the new one no longer accepted your bribes. And then you joined the iron gang but thank the Thrice Great! A storm swept you to the shattered heartlands of the EMPIRE. You are agog at what you could find.
You have three vials of poison- one that eats iron, one that causes an eternal sleep, and one that hides all pain. You also have a kitten in your clothes somewhere.
[]- MONASTIC: Wake up. Chop wood. Meditate. Wake up. Chop wood. Bury the tax collector in a shallow grave. Meditate. Wake up. Carry water. A simple life for a simple soul, devoted to the glories of god and writing the infinite permutations of the Divine Name, feted by donations of the faithful. The baron wasn't happy though, and eventually she raised an army and burned your temple to the ground. Jokes on her- you escaped with the sacred books, which are incidentally bound in gold. You had vague plans to rejoin your original monastery, in the shattered heartlands of the Empire. You suppose you should make a go at it now, instead of grifting around.
You have a sacred book bound in 2kg of 24-karat gold, an iron shod stave, and your steely honed body.

-of course.

The wind blows through you again. Bastard, you think. Give a body some time to think. There's the lighthouse, that's a likely. Or, you could follow the roads beyond the dunes, where city lights formed a pseudo-horizon to the south. Or you could try the few rusting and rotting hulks on the shore, salvage what you can.

Your choice.

[]- The LIGHTHOUSE
[]- The ROAD
[]- The WRECKS

Your Cat mews at you, poking her black head out of your collar. "Pspsps-" you whisper at your Cat. "Who's a good girl? Yes you are. Yes you are." It mewls in agreement. "I think we shall be going to the lighthouse. Would you like some fish? Good cat. Don't piss down my coat again or I'm feeding you to the dogs."

The Cat is not at home with this preposition, but through ways of yowls and head rubs the Cat intimates that while she is not scared at all of your threats, she will still grace your presence for the fish and nothing more.

Shit. You think. You're losing it for real. You gotta find someone to talk to, otherwise you might as well find an attic to lock yourself into for the rest of your breathing days.

You slog up the dunes toward the lighthouse, set on a rocky cliff. A stone path, half overgrown by ghost white dune weeds, shows the way to the door. On your way up, you turn around to the Soundless Sea, a wind blowing in your face. The Cat expresses royal displeasure. You ignore her nibs and frame the sea, crashing on the shore, and imagine it as a daguerreotype. Nah. You couldn't live here. No sound, no stimulation. Just the dark soundless sea, eroding the beach day by day. You'd go mad. You'd throw yourself off of the highest floor and break your back on one of the rocks. Dash your brains out. Leave your entrails for the seagulls.

Like that guy over there. Screaming in silence. Eyes fixed onto the sky. Asking why, why to who would listen.

"Meow," the Cat meows.

"No, that's not a fish," you inform the Cat. "Ho! That your tower?"

He screams. To god, or for the release of screaming. You know that he is dead, he has been dead, and he will be dying until the end of days. Though a corpse he feels the salt air on his bloody wounds and the gulls pecking at his guts. His world is these two things, and there is nothing left in it to fit you.

"People are so selfish." You shake your head. The Cat agrees.

The door is old, splintering wood. You use the heavy iron-ring knocker three times. You wait three minutes.

"These buggers," you say after a while. "They scarpered off!"

The wind chills you to the bone. Out of the corner of your eye you spy movement, far off in the sea. Some rough beast, hauling itself to shore. Yeah, you're glad that you didn't try the wrecks. Now, how're you going to find a way inside?

[]- Find a rock. Chip the door until you reveal the mechanism, and then melt it away with the metal-eating poison.
[]- The salt wind has eroded something that might look like handholds on the wall facing the sea. You've climbed worse.
[]- Perhaps the dead wickie behind you has a key or some sort. Failing that, you could charm some knowledge out of his brain.