The Streetwalker's Guide to the Hierarchy

In many ways, you mused, Dorian Craft was an absolute buffoon.

With the crystal-clear insight of your Final Fixation, you could dissect the actions and thoughts of the man you once were, unearthing the pitfalls and self-delusions you once peddled. Your revenge was your right, yet your disdain for the Duke's methods was nothing more than an offshoot of your own insecurities and a desperate need for self-justification. The man still needed to meet his end, naturally, but you no longer needed to cloak your intent in a shroud of morality. The path you tread was one of your own choosing, and therefore, it was inherently right. Your resolve was unwavering and by your might, it would be done.

Examining your reflection in the mirror, the Glass Webweaver and the mirror engaged in a ceaseless dance of reflection. You observed the dazzling kaleidoscope generated by your Mask for a fleeting moment before shifting its guise to that of the Noblesse Oblige. Your true mask was a reflective mirror that concealed the entire essence of this world within, a magnum opus from one of the world's most esteemed artisans - yourself. It unveiled the truth of all things, allowing you to manipulate both the destinies of men and the currents of magic with nary a thought. The Noblesse Oblige, in comparison, was nothing more than drab gold, exuding an aura of respect and facilitating the management of your estate with skill and dignity, a dull mask fitting for dull people. There was a twinge of regret you've never felt before your Final Fixation, the idea of concealing your true face behind something so ordinary was now mildly repugnant.

The Final Fixation of a mask was both an intriguing and dangerous process. Once completed, the Mask would meld with one's face, becoming their true self. This physical connection paled in comparison to the mental unity between the mask and its wearer. It demanded the wearer to forsake any other mask, a hefty price to pay for such power. The Glass Webweaver was the fruit of years of relentless experimentation and research; you had stolen, cheated, and even killed to acquire everything needed to create a Mask capable of achieving the Final Fixation while skirting its drawbacks. Striding down the corridors with your pretender Mask, the servants shuffled by, oblivious to the monster you had become. A mere glance allowed you to sense the power of their Masks, and while you would never truly don any other Mask, the Webweaver could easily mimic their powers.

What a power. You could perceive the truth of those around you, their little desires, dreams, and secrets, the strings that allowed you to make them dance to your tune. Simplistic creatures. With a mere thought, you could assume the guise of a lowly servant and blend in without arousing suspicion, or you could extinguish their powers at will. For years, you had worked for such power, and now you finally had it. You could feel it pulsing through your veins, a symphony of potential and might. You were magnificent, a colossus on par with the Grand Champion, the True King, or the Dream's End.

"Lord Dorian!" a voice called from behind you, "Your masks!" Sebastian hurried towards you, panting, a golden box in his hand. A mask of black and grey respectfully lowered as he presented you with two masks. True Grit was nothing more than a crude slab of black and grey, its rough, matte textures a reminder of the harsh realities of survival. It held a mundane sort of power, a steady pulse that was as dull and predictable as a drumbeat against Dorian's skin. The Eagle's Flight, a work of feather-light silver, was something many journeyman would craft as their first work. Crafted to resemble a bird mid-flight, its power was like the wind rushing past on a swift descent. It was a mask for those who would rather run than face their problems.

You dismissed them with an indulgent smile; while refusing to carry the masks of healing and escape that nobles usually wore might seem foolhardy at first glance, word of this would reach the Duke and he would interpret it as a sign of respect. The man had a penchant for such gestures. In reality, you had no need for such precautions. The feeble-minded would label you arrogant; the ignorant would accuse you of hubris. Yet your confidence was entirely justified - you would attend the Duke's soiree and assassinate him. You had prepared for every eventuality and had a solution for every potential problem. You only had need for one mask.

You were invincible. You would succeed.

---

Impossible! How could this have transpired?

You seethed as you plunged into the inky waters. You were supposed to win! Victory should have been yours! Your strategy was immaculate. You had infiltrated the party, spending the evening subtly manipulating the Duke's guards, his staff, and almost all the other influential guests. With sugared words and hidden smiles, you spun a web of intrigue that ensnared those around you, reducing them to mere pawns. You chose to impersonate the Duke's son - what a delightful twist, the prodigal son returning. But this would make your revenge all the more satisfying, not only would you murder the Duke, but you'd do so publicly while wearing his son's guise. The man would perish with a heart as shattered as his body, and the son's reputation would be similarly ruined. A fitting conclusion to this pitiful tale.

SO WHY DID THE BOY ACTUALLY SHOW UP? Just as you prepared to deliver the final blow, the grand doors of the hall swung open and the Duke's son strolled in, wearing the Grand Champion no less! Instantly, the boy deduced the situation, thanks to the transcendent combat instincts provided by the mask of white and gold. The boy attacked, saving his father. A melee ensued; you commanded your thralls to eliminate the few individuals outside your control, as the most powerful of your pawns attacked the boy. However, the power of the Grand Champion surpassed your own, and the boy fended off the assaults as he advanced towards you.

You fought, empowered by powers of those around you - you slayed Sir Barton and Lady Careline, although not before the latter had scorched your left arm. The Duke's loyal retainer managed to land a blow on your back before your pawns took him down. The Duke himself escaped as his son advanced towards you, the Challenge of his mask forcing you to stand your ground. With a mighty leap, he reached you, his grand slash easily penetrating your enhanced defenses and nearly gutting you on the spot. You dove into your own power, redirecting his challenge to others and fleeing the scene, now lost, clutching your bleeding stomach with your unscathed hand. You assumed the guise of a servant while retreating, eluding your pursuers amidst the chaos, the Glass Webweaver warding off the Champion's attempts to locate its quary. Eventually, you reached the keep's wall, from where you jumped into the trench below.

As you sank into the dark water, you found a bitter irony in life. Your quest for revenge began with the Duke disposing of your father and sister in a ditch. And now, despite your genius and power, you too ended up in a trench.

Thoughts dark as water around you abruptly ceased as a cerulean glow illuminated the surrounding water. Except it was not water you found yourself in, but rather air. You had been transported onto a street paved with luminescent cobblestones. The name surfaced in your mind as naturally as breathing - the Street Where the Stones Speak. The soft hum of the stones filled your ears, their glow reflected in your Mask, yet even Glass Webweaver couldn't grasp its true depths. It was as if you were a beast gazing at the stars, forever barred from reaching them. There was power here, a force that transcended all you had known or thought possible.

You grasped the reality of your situation - your defeat was absolute, yet fate had granted you another opportunity. Here, on this street that stretched beyond the horizon, you could venture forth indefinitely. You would discover other realms and partake in their affairs, only to be summoned back by the Street. But your vengeance would remain unfulfilled. The Duke would survive, and your humiliation would be remembered. While some might argue that living your best life is the ultimate revenge, you knew such notions were the refuge of the impotent. Gritting your teeth, you internalized this loss, vowing to never forget this day's failure. Then, you directed your gaze forward. Leaving behind a trail of blood, you trudged onwards, in search of aid.

Thus began the journey of Dorian Craft, down the Street Where the Stones Speak.