For a moment, there is darkness, and nothing but darkness. Darker then even the cold between stars.
There is nothing, for you are nothing.
And you are nothing, because you fell.
It was a worthy death, someone might say. Perhaps you could have said it, when you were something, when you were alive.
You silently snarl. You accept that this was your end, and it was not a lacking way to find one's end, but it does not mean it was enjoyable.
What comes now, you wonder? You have long since known that there are many things beyond. That the far shore is full of strange, indescribable sights. One tall tale after another.
Worthless. It tells you nothing. Bragging and posturing. Masks to hide the real terror.
They don't know. Those particularly idiotic hunters whose tales you overhear, when you perch atop the Medusa's Head in a hunt or another, don't know. They brag about having perished a thousand times and risen immediately after, as if that was anything a mark of profound incompetence.
Your hunter did not perish fighting against crocodiles. She did not fall against a Lifeberg.
But they don't know, in the end, what awaits them. You yourself only have a limited grasp.
You understand what happens to the souls that venture into the Blue Kingdom, but there are other places. And there may be something beyond the death of souls.
The soulless can visit the slow boat, after all.
The truth is that no one- in the Neath, at least- does truly know what lies on that place beyond. On that distant far shore.
The silence continues.
You await something. Some inane chattering from a recently-deceased or another. Some scream. Anything at all.
But no one speaks.
There is only silence, though the sound of a boat passing through calm waters slowly begins to manifest in the darkness.
There's no need to hurry.
They're all his, in the end.
The Boatman looks into your empty sockets, into your vanquished carcass. He does not make any noise. He does not judge you for your actions.
He has no interest in doing so. He merely watches your immobile wreck of a body.
By some strange miracle, you are alone in the boat tonight. There are no dead to disturb you, or to gawk at your miserable state. The Boatman continues to watch you for another solid minute. Then, he turns his gaze away from you.
A drop of your blood lands in the wooden planks of the slow boat.
And then you remember.
"Go back out into the dark. Enjoy it while you can."
Your body convulses violently. You snarl. It is not revenge. Your Hunter's tale is finished, and you- you do not begrudge her.
But those words- you never heard those words. The Hunter was the one to hear them. When she impersonated you, with a terribly boring design of cloak, amber-encrusted teeth and an unconvincing copy of your voice. And Fires fell for it.
Its words echo in your ears. You never heard them in life…
But they fill you with a fury Fires does not deserve to receive.
The thought of giving Fires even this small, even this little victory- you won't let it!
There is a little remaining of you- of your body. There is your head, that your Hunter keeps as a trophy. Your torn claw. But it's not enough. You perished. You can, for just an instant, see through it- she's making a model. Copies of your skull, and then she's placing them- placing them on a humanoid frame.
She declares it a human.
Did she make a copy of your head purely to sell fraudulent skeletons on the Bone Market?
A constable approaches. She tells him that the skeleton in her stall was the victim of a recent murder.
The man questions the obvious inhumanity of the skull.
"A birth defect," she explains. "Unfortunate swelling of bone in some regions. Nothing more."
The man buys it. He believes her words. You would cackle if your mouth was intact.
It's nothing new to you. You know of their incompetence. The constabulary is in Fires' hands. They are useful information gatherers, occasionally, and can be useful, but you know very well how incompetent they all are.
What irritates you is the sight of her. You will not see her, ever again. You will not meet her in battle, feel the bite of her hungering blade in your neck, you will not meet her across the Order of Days, you will not experience that moment.
For one, brilliant second, you were unsure. Were you the one hunted, or the hunter?
Were you the prey? Did you find the tables turned? Had the hinterlands turned on you, had you been made the rabbit and her the hungering hawk?
Ah…
You will never feel that again.
That thought made you shake with fury, and that rage allows you to still cling on. Life does not- life cannot leave you yet.
You cough and hack as your throat reconnects itself. It is not a kind process, nor is it quick.
You see her again. She is laughing, and standing atop the Wastes of Want, ordering her artillery to launch a devastating volley against white-wreathed soldiers below.
She wages war, first campaign against the forces of the Moonlit Chessboard, and then against the Cats, and then against herself. She throws herself into maddening wars against the whole of Parabola and emerges victorious. She raises her harpoon, and her eyes- those beautiful, haunting peligin irises- close. She spurs the saddles on her horse and descends, and it is glorious.
She descends, ah, how she descends! She rides alongside a flock of ravens, she descends alongside her cavalry as phantoms, as a great tide of mouths and beaks. Her trophy halls grow fat on agony and on spilt blood. You could have lived by her side, a consumed part of her, your blood flowing in her veins, roots sprouting underground wherever her feet touched.
She soars through the sky on an airship to meet the forces of the Starved Men, and she carries your claw alongside her, always, always! It could have been you. You could have soared into battle by her side, a steed, a beast she unleashed at her leisure.
She crafts false identities from rumours and hearsay, from well-placed pawns and cleverly manuevered lies. She weaves them to completion and she rides alongside a Clay Man, and she makes off with secrets, with legends, with shining treasures. You could have been by her side, an advisor and a guide, perhaps a voice in her ears.
But- no.
She does not need you, you realize. For she is greater. She is on a path that you cannot follow.
The Bazaar watches. It needs a Veils. You have been found wanting.
You would laugh if you could. You do not care about what the Bazaar thinks. If it thinks that she will submit- like you did, so long ago, tired, exhausted, alone and desperate, it has another thing coming.
Your eyesockets tear and stretch as eyes grow into them once more. Your vision- your real vision, not this awareness you have here, in this boat- returns, but it is blurry and unfocused. You groan, and clutch your head with your clawed hands. Speech is beyond you. Your mouth is still slick with warm blood. Are those- are those tears?
No, you- they aren't tears.
You grit your teeth.
The Boatman does not react to the sight before him. He merely tilts his skeletal head at you.
He speaks.
Your ears aren't fully rebuilt yet, but you listen all the same, completely clearly.
"Off you go."
And then, while you're still reeling, he pushes you off the boat.
And then there is agony. You are ripped into pieces.
You think you feel something, there's something missing, missing! Wounds gouged deeply into you, your limbs separated cleanly. Your robes were caught up in something as you fell- and they tore.
And as they tore, you tore too.
You wore those robes, and you were not a defined being. You were always a wearer of masks, of identities, and you died divided, scattered.
It was not difficult for what scant bonds that kept your self whole, that sustained thing known as "Veils," to tear again.
You sink into the waters below, and hear two other shapes fall alongside you.
You feel the urge to thrash, to rage, but you're sinking already, and you can't move right! The hands of the dead lunge from the place where the bodies are buried, and they grasp your legs to pull you downwards. You snarl and try to tear yourself free, but they only grasp harder. Water invades your mouth. You lunge for the boat and your hands touch nothing!
No!
This will not- this won't be.
You are- no.
You're not Veils.
Who- who are you? It's slippery. You're not all of yourself.
You are Veils…
[ ] THE INTRIGUER
You have no wings. Your teeth and your claws feel almost dull compared to what they were before. But your mind is sharper than those implements could ever be, and it shines gloriously bright. You were stopped before you could realize your goals- before you could finish your great project, and pull all of the Surface into the greatest war they ever saw.
You are the part of Mr Veils that was a schemer.
In the end, the Hunter simply defeated your network and ended your life for once and for all. You watched your schemes unfold, and one by one they were dispelled. The Empress' Shadow spoke of promises betrayed, and you fell asleep for what should have been the last time.
Your hands shake. There's something- you're missing something. You don't know what it is.
Veils the Intriguer is of the Great Game. It is specialized in spywork, scheming, and chess. While it lacks the raw personal power of its "twins," it does not need it to be as effective as they are in that area. It has other fields to excel on.
[ ] THE CURATOR
You are a beast, pure and simple. You wish only to fly, hunt, kill and feast at your leisure. You care nothing for the orders and laws of the cosmos. You care nothing for tradition, and appointed days. You are the most savage and brutal of the aspects, and your desires are direct and straightforward.
You are the part of Veils that was a vicious beast.
In the end, the Hunter did not choose to leash you. She sliced through your neck, and you perished. Though the path of the Order of Days they walked, striking you at your weakest moment. In the end, you fell like all of the rest.
Your wings twitch. There's something you yearn for. There are no words that can describe it, but you have never felt the need for spoken language. Agony courses through your veins.
Veils the Curator is of the High Wilderness, a predator of the cold depths of space. It is a monster and a beast. In terms of pure combat prowess, it is the strongest of the three, and is, much like the other two, an utter bastard. But hilariously enough, it might be the least malicious of them.
[ ] THE BETRAYER
You were the only Master to truly understand the beauty of that ancient bargain. In the Third City, they revered you for your divinity. To earn that title, that adoration, you committed a great betrayal. You do not feel all that much regret about it. You delight in ritual and bloodshed, in gore and slaughter performed in your honor.
You are the part or Veils that was a god.
In the end, the Hunter chose to behead you with a weapon forged of impossibility, from forbidden knowledge dragged kicking and screaming out of the depths of Parabola. Your mouth twisted into a mocking grin, and you felt the last embers of your life fade.
Your mouth waters. You feel… peckish. You're missing something. And oh, you know exactly what it is.
Veils the Betrayer is of the Third City, of the Mayan civilization, and to a lesser degree, of the mystical world beyond the mirror known as Parabola. It is a wanderer and butcher of dreams, and a god to be worshipped and venerated- with all the pride that implies. It is prone to smirking.
![Traces of Veils [Fallen London/Arknights]](/data/threadmark-index-icons/l/73/73345.jpg?1701798964){kind=icon}
