All's well in the Continent.
The dead serve the living. The Promethean Sciences have changed...
The dead serve the living. The Promethean Sciences have changed...
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- Thread starter Exhack
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O: Stranger Beginnings
Exhack
We Won't Build The Plane!
- Location
- Montreal, Canada
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.
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I: Stranger Selections
Exhack
We Won't Build The Plane!
- Location
- Montreal, Canada
[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.
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.
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II: Stranger Directions
Exhack
We Won't Build The Plane!
- Location
- Montreal, Canada
[x] 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.
[x] 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.
Taking those items that seem most useful, you set the remainder on the counter. Nothing says you can't come back if you change your mind, after all. The crook feels unassuming enough, though the grapple gauntlet is anything but: the belt that keeps the mechanized crank from tearing your arm off at the shoulder draws taut across your collarbone and mid-section ribs. You're grateful that this rummage sale outfit of yours doesn't have more belts than necessary, or you'd have difficulty placing and drawing the straps shut.
The gauntlet's shoulder brace and manacle lock into place with similar ease, allowing you to practice with your weapon of choice. Your practice swings come easy, crushing imagined heads to a pulp with strokes from the left and right and the odd overhead smash. Drawing the string taut gives you a cutting edge, or a nasty surprise. The rashwire laced along the inner rim is thin and sharp, extending from the tip of the hook to halfway down the shaft when drawn down.
Enough to deal with any uncontrolled corpses, at lease.
You pause and glance at yourself in the shop reflection, in your borrowed clothes and playing with funeral parlor tools. It feels natural, rehearsed. If the locket is to be believed, perhaps you're really one of these people, and violence with these stylish implements is another of your forgotten skills.
"Convenient." You mutter to yourself and push a lock of frizzy silver hair out of your eyes and behind your headscarf.
Very convenient, on a long night like this one.
"Welcome back lass! And look at you, dressed to the nines after a good shopping trip. Heh heh heh heh." The old man seems to be waiting for you, greeting you with a low, dull chortle as you approach the windowsill. "I hope the savings were good. I know many of youngins' struggle to find gratifying labor these days."
"...yes." You blink and try peer behind the glass, puzzled by his statements. There's no seeing him on the other side with the lights out. "What should I do now?"
"Eager to help are we? Well-timed to be sure! Heh heh heh heh heh." He laughs, clearing his throat. "Power's cut to many of the boroughs and I've not much coal to survive these long nights. Were I of the capacity to walk, I'd march right up and tell those upper crust dandies to fix it or let the Church give out a fuel dole like they used to."
"The Church? Who are they?"
"Lass, you're lucky there's nobody about to hear you speak of them that way! They're, well... the Church. Good, right and holy people who ministrate to the living and prepare the dead."
You stand silent for a moment, realizing you'd probably know them if they have anything to do with the dead. "Where are they?"
"Do you know where you are?"
You look back down the alley, and then down the constant procession of longdead porters. The trudging laborers and snowfall have erased your footsteps leading out from the cemetery. "No."
"Gods above, lass! This is the Old Guild Quarter. To the east, fenced-off, is the Nalva Waterfront. Up the hill is the New Merchant Quarter, where most of the city's people have moved."
"And the Church? The Aldermen?"
"The Church is west of the Merchant Quarter, just past the statuary gardens. Used to be an old monastery back a ways, but the old king had all those folks put to death for heresy and usury or so the stories go and replaced em' all with a more amenable sort of clergy. Nalva Cathedral Square is still pretty enough, though I last laid eyes on her when she was brand new."
Your gaze turns up the street and the slope upward. True enough, there are tall buildings and lights rising out of the snowy haze. Squarish stone buildings with sharply pointed tile roofs, packed together in tight rows, large enough that you can see them at night and from this distance. Spires and arches and baroque sculpture, the specific shapes of which are uncertain. There's an outline beyond that, something far larger than these recent developments. The weather keeps secrets from you. "I assume... the Aldermen live further up the hill?"
"Right in one, heh heh. Palatine Terrace was built on top of the remains of the old monastic fort."
You sigh. "This feels like it could be a long walk."
"If the lifts work, there'll be scarcely little walking to do from Cathedral Square!"
"And if they aren't?"
"There's a, shall we say, colorful route through a bit of the city's ancient history if rumors are to be relied upon."
You grimace and reach for your flask, taking a sip. A long walk indeed. Your cheeks burn with only minutes of exposure to the wind, adding unwelcome red to your natural pallor and tightness to your jaw and mouth. The tonic makes everything a little more pliable, only that you want to claw your own throat out until the taste fades.
"Fine."
"What a reliable lass. I'll pray for your good fortune, heh heh heh heh." You feel as though he's waving you off as you begin to march up the hill. With tools in hand, and an objective.
What will you do first?
[ ] Just follow the path directly up the hill.
[ ] Look around the district for a while.
[ ] Go back to the cemetery and see if you didn't miss anything in your initial stupor.
[ ] Those mannequins in the clothier's shop were better dressed than you, with protective and stylish clothing. How odd that they'd be suspended out of reach. You'd like to cut one down in anticipation of bigger threats than corpse hounds.
- [ ] The elegant dandy in the opera jacket, tophat and ivory mask would make quite an impression. And you could tell there was protective padding sewn into the liner of the coat and slacks.
- [ ] The mock-officer in funeral-appropriate formal dress, with epaulettes, gold rope and a plumed kepi. The sleeves and torso of the jacket had engraved metal plates over them, protecting from cuts and bites.
- [ ] The eccentric in an all-black lace dress and wide-brimmed hat inspired by the occult, with a black feather-and-fur long coat over top. You'd give anything to get into that coat.
[x] 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.
Taking those items that seem most useful, you set the remainder on the counter. Nothing says you can't come back if you change your mind, after all. The crook feels unassuming enough, though the grapple gauntlet is anything but: the belt that keeps the mechanized crank from tearing your arm off at the shoulder draws taut across your collarbone and mid-section ribs. You're grateful that this rummage sale outfit of yours doesn't have more belts than necessary, or you'd have difficulty placing and drawing the straps shut.
The gauntlet's shoulder brace and manacle lock into place with similar ease, allowing you to practice with your weapon of choice. Your practice swings come easy, crushing imagined heads to a pulp with strokes from the left and right and the odd overhead smash. Drawing the string taut gives you a cutting edge, or a nasty surprise. The rashwire laced along the inner rim is thin and sharp, extending from the tip of the hook to halfway down the shaft when drawn down.
Enough to deal with any uncontrolled corpses, at lease.
You pause and glance at yourself in the shop reflection, in your borrowed clothes and playing with funeral parlor tools. It feels natural, rehearsed. If the locket is to be believed, perhaps you're really one of these people, and violence with these stylish implements is another of your forgotten skills.
"Convenient." You mutter to yourself and push a lock of frizzy silver hair out of your eyes and behind your headscarf.
Very convenient, on a long night like this one.
"Welcome back lass! And look at you, dressed to the nines after a good shopping trip. Heh heh heh heh." The old man seems to be waiting for you, greeting you with a low, dull chortle as you approach the windowsill. "I hope the savings were good. I know many of youngins' struggle to find gratifying labor these days."
"...yes." You blink and try peer behind the glass, puzzled by his statements. There's no seeing him on the other side with the lights out. "What should I do now?"
"Eager to help are we? Well-timed to be sure! Heh heh heh heh heh." He laughs, clearing his throat. "Power's cut to many of the boroughs and I've not much coal to survive these long nights. Were I of the capacity to walk, I'd march right up and tell those upper crust dandies to fix it or let the Church give out a fuel dole like they used to."
"The Church? Who are they?"
"Lass, you're lucky there's nobody about to hear you speak of them that way! They're, well... the Church. Good, right and holy people who ministrate to the living and prepare the dead."
You stand silent for a moment, realizing you'd probably know them if they have anything to do with the dead. "Where are they?"
"Do you know where you are?"
You look back down the alley, and then down the constant procession of longdead porters. The trudging laborers and snowfall have erased your footsteps leading out from the cemetery. "No."
"Gods above, lass! This is the Old Guild Quarter. To the east, fenced-off, is the Nalva Waterfront. Up the hill is the New Merchant Quarter, where most of the city's people have moved."
"And the Church? The Aldermen?"
"The Church is west of the Merchant Quarter, just past the statuary gardens. Used to be an old monastery back a ways, but the old king had all those folks put to death for heresy and usury or so the stories go and replaced em' all with a more amenable sort of clergy. Nalva Cathedral Square is still pretty enough, though I last laid eyes on her when she was brand new."
Your gaze turns up the street and the slope upward. True enough, there are tall buildings and lights rising out of the snowy haze. Squarish stone buildings with sharply pointed tile roofs, packed together in tight rows, large enough that you can see them at night and from this distance. Spires and arches and baroque sculpture, the specific shapes of which are uncertain. There's an outline beyond that, something far larger than these recent developments. The weather keeps secrets from you. "I assume... the Aldermen live further up the hill?"
"Right in one, heh heh. Palatine Terrace was built on top of the remains of the old monastic fort."
You sigh. "This feels like it could be a long walk."
"If the lifts work, there'll be scarcely little walking to do from Cathedral Square!"
"And if they aren't?"
"There's a, shall we say, colorful route through a bit of the city's ancient history if rumors are to be relied upon."
You grimace and reach for your flask, taking a sip. A long walk indeed. Your cheeks burn with only minutes of exposure to the wind, adding unwelcome red to your natural pallor and tightness to your jaw and mouth. The tonic makes everything a little more pliable, only that you want to claw your own throat out until the taste fades.
"Fine."
"What a reliable lass. I'll pray for your good fortune, heh heh heh heh." You feel as though he's waving you off as you begin to march up the hill. With tools in hand, and an objective.
What will you do first?
[ ] Just follow the path directly up the hill.
[ ] Look around the district for a while.
[ ] Go back to the cemetery and see if you didn't miss anything in your initial stupor.
[ ] Those mannequins in the clothier's shop were better dressed than you, with protective and stylish clothing. How odd that they'd be suspended out of reach. You'd like to cut one down in anticipation of bigger threats than corpse hounds.
- [ ] The elegant dandy in the opera jacket, tophat and ivory mask would make quite an impression. And you could tell there was protective padding sewn into the liner of the coat and slacks.
- [ ] The mock-officer in funeral-appropriate formal dress, with epaulettes, gold rope and a plumed kepi. The sleeves and torso of the jacket had engraved metal plates over them, protecting from cuts and bites.
- [ ] The eccentric in an all-black lace dress and wide-brimmed hat inspired by the occult, with a black feather-and-fur long coat over top. You'd give anything to get into that coat.
Last edited:
III: Strange Surprises (Deaths: 1)
Exhack
We Won't Build The Plane!
- Location
- Montreal, Canada
[x] Those mannequins in the clothier's shop were better dressed than you, with protective and stylish clothing. How odd that they'd be suspended out of reach. You'd like to cut one down in anticipation of bigger threats than corpse hounds.
[x] The eccentric in an all-black lace dress and wide-brimmed hat inspired by the occult, with a black feather-and-fur long coat over top. You'd give anything to get into that coat.
The mannequin in the plumed fur coat catches your eye, for all that protection might be useful it's a cold night out and that coat will do wonders to make the walk more tolerable. You swiftly bring your grapple gauntlet up and fire up, lashing the ankles, and spread your gait to steady yourself for a mighty heave.
"...!" You grunt, surprised by the kick and tension of the wire as it ties and connects.
The wires tying the mannequin to the ceiling resist only a few strong pulls. There appear to be no actual anchors on the ceiling, simple thin wires tied around the support beams. They snap by the third tug and the dummy slams to the ground. You rush over to it and crouch, intent on making sure the goods aren't damaged. It'd have been a terrible waste if the outfit had gotten torn during the fall, after all. Getting closer, you're struck by just how human-like the figure is, with a glossy plastic shell that shows the indentations and creases of a human body, even subtle brush strokes in red and grey to hint at veins and vellus. The figure of a woman, realistically rendered, with a whig of shimmering red corpsehair peaking out underneath the feather, wide-brimmed bonnet.
You reach for the wide-brimmed hat with your right hand, running your fingers along the thickened felt at the brim.
"MINE." A voice booms in the room. Not yours.
You recoil, and a black-gloved hand seizes around yours. It feels dense, heavy. The grip hurts.
The mannequin.
(GAIN 1 PROVIDENCE.)
You scramble back, throwing them off and respooling your grapple with a loud crack of the mechanism. Crook in hand, shaking. Your enemy is thrown for a moment, tossed against the counter and quickly rights itself. The witch mannequin, movements erratic, twitchy and limbs diverting in stiff, squarish angles, as though in the hands of an inept puppeteer. In its hands, the guillotine knife and and lantern shield you left behind, held with the ease of an expert despite the state of the body. The corpse. This thing was human once, but the stuff of it has become something utterly synthetic, immobile.
You exhale, waiting for a time to strike.
It charges in view of your hesitation striking hard horizontally. You block with your crook, the edge of the dull blade driving your weapon into your chest and tracing a path across your collarbone. Agony erupts, but your heart beats too quick and blood runs too hot- your body entertains no notions of running away or curling up. You swing out hard and drive with your legs, slamming the mannequin back into the counter, regarding you unfeeling. Your tongue tastes copper and fat.
The thing begins to circle slowly, gauging your defenses as you do the same. Amorphous, unwholesome features gaze at you from beneath the hat, painted-on eyes regarding you with an indeterminate animal intellect. You feel trapped in its nest. The shape of the room is squarish and mostly regular, with the counter, window, entrance door and empty fireplace offering the only disruptions to terrain. You decide to break the seconds-long standstill and immediately start swinging at the mannequin. It steps out of reach on the first and with a swift and deadly motion, manages to catch the crook on the sword-breaker teeth of the shield.
You blink, trying to wrench your weapon out- but it's too late.
The guillotine drives into your torso, sharp tip driving clean between ribs and gives off a loud hiss as heated gas boils your organs. Your ribs expand and you nearly black out from shock then and there, only keeping upright by dragging yourself away with your crook as a support and hitting the wound until your senses come back. You collapse back, clothes stained red with your own blood. You might die here.
You turn with a few yards of distance, fire a grapple into the assailant's torso and pull them in, and unleash the wire-edge on your crook. You swing, repeatedly. One, twice, three times, four times. Each hit seems to shear off a little bit of the thing's resilience, sending a scattering of white plastic shavings and embalming fluid every which way. It's revitalizing, rapturous. If you could only get a few more strikes in, you could defeat this thing!
But your stamina gives and you give a long, sucking breath by the fifth blow, arms too heavy to follow-up with another.
As you attempt to retreat, the shield gauntlet plunges forward- not for you, but your weapon, and the slender occultist anchors the prongs into your flesh and tosses you through the decorated glass window that dominates the front end of the shop. You manage to tuck and roll, saving your face and neck from destruction but larger shards have gutted you. Outside on the pavement now, the gentle snow falling overhead, and a heady ring of red expanding around your landing. Inside, the approaching steps of the mannequin. But you won't survive to see it finish you off, fading from consciousness as bootheels click on the cobble.
"...ahhhh." You wheeze. Is this how it ends?
----
You gasp, awakening. A purple shroud over your eyes. The smells of incense, expensive perfumes, the warmth and faint sulfur stink of a small coal brazier and the saccharine aroma of embalming fluids mingle.
"It seems I've won the bet, Dear Brother." One voice, that of a young girl calls. "This one lives."
"I'm not sure I'm keen to learn to put stock in a vagrant's life, Dearest Sister." Another one, this one more boyish but strongly resembling the first.
"This tour of the metropole's been a bit of a wash. Maybe this one can be of use in getting past all this fossilized bureaucracy, hmm?" The girl retorts. "Or shall we simply repeat the same district carriage ride again and again like the mad?"
Sitting up is painless, though your hands tremble faintly at the memory of your last encounter. You tear the shroud off and look at the two, prying yourself out of what seems to be a small coffin. The voices are matched to upper class children: a boy in a white shirt and black shorts, with a purple cravat and a girl in an ornate black mourning dress with white lace trim and a purple bow of the same color and sheen as her sibling's garments. Her hair is done in neat tresses, mostly concealed by her bonnet. The two are strikingly similar otherwise, trim and delicate, silver hair and grey eyes, pale as moonlight.
"Where am I?" You look between them and can't think of much else to say.
"Our carriage. In the worst part of an exciting city." The sister takes the hem of her skirt with small fingers and sketches a curtsy while remaining seated. "I am Oinone and this is my little brother, Ion."
"Little only by length of name and mere seconds!" Ion protests, rubbing the bridge of his nose.
"Ah." You nod. "Why am I here?"
"We came to the city to see the sights, but there's obstacles and bureaucracy every which way. And there you are on the side of the road, discarded like trash." Oinone taps her fingers together, standing up. Though shorter than you, she seems tall for her apparent age. More surprisingly, this carriage you mistook for a small funeral hall is functionally quite spacious, with enough room that you needn't crouch. Rich mahogany panels, purple velvet cushions and silver incense burners give it the unmistakable atmosphere of the upper classes.
"I'm grateful." You pat yourself down quickly, glancing to your limbs and body. Your clothes are all intact. And the rest of you.
Odd.
Oinone smiles with her mouth, though her eyes remain piercingly still. "You could show your gratitude by showing us around. We could stand to hand out some trinkets for the trouble."
"I'm not familiar with this city either."
"Oh! That's quite fine, we're sightseers. If you can get the gates and lifts open, it's enough." She deposits a leather lanyard with a short flute of carved bone attached into your fingers and forces your fingers closed around it. "Here. A whistle. If you find a spot, just play it and our carriage driver will come to you. Good ears on that one. In return you could certainly warm yourself inside our carriage, or trade favors."
(GAIN 1 HEARST WHISTLE.)
"Favors?" you ask.
"I read palms and tell fortunes, and my brother is a tinker of sorts. In an era of such wonders, it's good to keep up to date with technology. It shows forethought."
Ion nods, regarding you with some melange of disdain and amusement. "We're missing some of our tools, but I'm sure you could be bothered to buy some from local vendors, couldn't you?"
You glance between the siblings again. "...I suppose."
"Well then, we have ourselves a contract!" Oinone claps. "Perhaps we can entertain ourselves before you feel well enough to go outdoors? A palm reading? Or Ion can show you some of his schematics. He'd like that."
How do you respond to this?
[ ] A palm reading should be fine. (Begin Character Creation/Leveling)
[ ] Let's see those schematics. (Open Ion's Shop)
[ ] Profoundly suspicious. (Sally forth)
[x] The eccentric in an all-black lace dress and wide-brimmed hat inspired by the occult, with a black feather-and-fur long coat over top. You'd give anything to get into that coat.
The mannequin in the plumed fur coat catches your eye, for all that protection might be useful it's a cold night out and that coat will do wonders to make the walk more tolerable. You swiftly bring your grapple gauntlet up and fire up, lashing the ankles, and spread your gait to steady yourself for a mighty heave.
"...!" You grunt, surprised by the kick and tension of the wire as it ties and connects.
The wires tying the mannequin to the ceiling resist only a few strong pulls. There appear to be no actual anchors on the ceiling, simple thin wires tied around the support beams. They snap by the third tug and the dummy slams to the ground. You rush over to it and crouch, intent on making sure the goods aren't damaged. It'd have been a terrible waste if the outfit had gotten torn during the fall, after all. Getting closer, you're struck by just how human-like the figure is, with a glossy plastic shell that shows the indentations and creases of a human body, even subtle brush strokes in red and grey to hint at veins and vellus. The figure of a woman, realistically rendered, with a whig of shimmering red corpsehair peaking out underneath the feather, wide-brimmed bonnet.
You reach for the wide-brimmed hat with your right hand, running your fingers along the thickened felt at the brim.
"MINE." A voice booms in the room. Not yours.
You recoil, and a black-gloved hand seizes around yours. It feels dense, heavy. The grip hurts.
The mannequin.
(GAIN 1 PROVIDENCE.)
You scramble back, throwing them off and respooling your grapple with a loud crack of the mechanism. Crook in hand, shaking. Your enemy is thrown for a moment, tossed against the counter and quickly rights itself. The witch mannequin, movements erratic, twitchy and limbs diverting in stiff, squarish angles, as though in the hands of an inept puppeteer. In its hands, the guillotine knife and and lantern shield you left behind, held with the ease of an expert despite the state of the body. The corpse. This thing was human once, but the stuff of it has become something utterly synthetic, immobile.
You exhale, waiting for a time to strike.
It charges in view of your hesitation striking hard horizontally. You block with your crook, the edge of the dull blade driving your weapon into your chest and tracing a path across your collarbone. Agony erupts, but your heart beats too quick and blood runs too hot- your body entertains no notions of running away or curling up. You swing out hard and drive with your legs, slamming the mannequin back into the counter, regarding you unfeeling. Your tongue tastes copper and fat.
PLASTINATED ARIETTA
CLASSIFICATION: ???
CLASSIFICATION: ???
The thing begins to circle slowly, gauging your defenses as you do the same. Amorphous, unwholesome features gaze at you from beneath the hat, painted-on eyes regarding you with an indeterminate animal intellect. You feel trapped in its nest. The shape of the room is squarish and mostly regular, with the counter, window, entrance door and empty fireplace offering the only disruptions to terrain. You decide to break the seconds-long standstill and immediately start swinging at the mannequin. It steps out of reach on the first and with a swift and deadly motion, manages to catch the crook on the sword-breaker teeth of the shield.
You blink, trying to wrench your weapon out- but it's too late.
The guillotine drives into your torso, sharp tip driving clean between ribs and gives off a loud hiss as heated gas boils your organs. Your ribs expand and you nearly black out from shock then and there, only keeping upright by dragging yourself away with your crook as a support and hitting the wound until your senses come back. You collapse back, clothes stained red with your own blood. You might die here.
You turn with a few yards of distance, fire a grapple into the assailant's torso and pull them in, and unleash the wire-edge on your crook. You swing, repeatedly. One, twice, three times, four times. Each hit seems to shear off a little bit of the thing's resilience, sending a scattering of white plastic shavings and embalming fluid every which way. It's revitalizing, rapturous. If you could only get a few more strikes in, you could defeat this thing!
But your stamina gives and you give a long, sucking breath by the fifth blow, arms too heavy to follow-up with another.
As you attempt to retreat, the shield gauntlet plunges forward- not for you, but your weapon, and the slender occultist anchors the prongs into your flesh and tosses you through the decorated glass window that dominates the front end of the shop. You manage to tuck and roll, saving your face and neck from destruction but larger shards have gutted you. Outside on the pavement now, the gentle snow falling overhead, and a heady ring of red expanding around your landing. Inside, the approaching steps of the mannequin. But you won't survive to see it finish you off, fading from consciousness as bootheels click on the cobble.
"...ahhhh." You wheeze. Is this how it ends?
YOU DIED
----
You gasp, awakening. A purple shroud over your eyes. The smells of incense, expensive perfumes, the warmth and faint sulfur stink of a small coal brazier and the saccharine aroma of embalming fluids mingle.
"It seems I've won the bet, Dear Brother." One voice, that of a young girl calls. "This one lives."
"I'm not sure I'm keen to learn to put stock in a vagrant's life, Dearest Sister." Another one, this one more boyish but strongly resembling the first.
"This tour of the metropole's been a bit of a wash. Maybe this one can be of use in getting past all this fossilized bureaucracy, hmm?" The girl retorts. "Or shall we simply repeat the same district carriage ride again and again like the mad?"
Sitting up is painless, though your hands tremble faintly at the memory of your last encounter. You tear the shroud off and look at the two, prying yourself out of what seems to be a small coffin. The voices are matched to upper class children: a boy in a white shirt and black shorts, with a purple cravat and a girl in an ornate black mourning dress with white lace trim and a purple bow of the same color and sheen as her sibling's garments. Her hair is done in neat tresses, mostly concealed by her bonnet. The two are strikingly similar otherwise, trim and delicate, silver hair and grey eyes, pale as moonlight.
"Where am I?" You look between them and can't think of much else to say.
"Our carriage. In the worst part of an exciting city." The sister takes the hem of her skirt with small fingers and sketches a curtsy while remaining seated. "I am Oinone and this is my little brother, Ion."
"Little only by length of name and mere seconds!" Ion protests, rubbing the bridge of his nose.
"Ah." You nod. "Why am I here?"
"We came to the city to see the sights, but there's obstacles and bureaucracy every which way. And there you are on the side of the road, discarded like trash." Oinone taps her fingers together, standing up. Though shorter than you, she seems tall for her apparent age. More surprisingly, this carriage you mistook for a small funeral hall is functionally quite spacious, with enough room that you needn't crouch. Rich mahogany panels, purple velvet cushions and silver incense burners give it the unmistakable atmosphere of the upper classes.
"I'm grateful." You pat yourself down quickly, glancing to your limbs and body. Your clothes are all intact. And the rest of you.
Odd.
Oinone smiles with her mouth, though her eyes remain piercingly still. "You could show your gratitude by showing us around. We could stand to hand out some trinkets for the trouble."
"I'm not familiar with this city either."
"Oh! That's quite fine, we're sightseers. If you can get the gates and lifts open, it's enough." She deposits a leather lanyard with a short flute of carved bone attached into your fingers and forces your fingers closed around it. "Here. A whistle. If you find a spot, just play it and our carriage driver will come to you. Good ears on that one. In return you could certainly warm yourself inside our carriage, or trade favors."
(GAIN 1 HEARST WHISTLE.)
"Favors?" you ask.
"I read palms and tell fortunes, and my brother is a tinker of sorts. In an era of such wonders, it's good to keep up to date with technology. It shows forethought."
Ion nods, regarding you with some melange of disdain and amusement. "We're missing some of our tools, but I'm sure you could be bothered to buy some from local vendors, couldn't you?"
You glance between the siblings again. "...I suppose."
"Well then, we have ourselves a contract!" Oinone claps. "Perhaps we can entertain ourselves before you feel well enough to go outdoors? A palm reading? Or Ion can show you some of his schematics. He'd like that."
How do you respond to this?
[ ] A palm reading should be fine. (Begin Character Creation/Leveling)
[ ] Let's see those schematics. (Open Ion's Shop)
[ ] Profoundly suspicious. (Sally forth)
IV: Stranger Answers
Exhack
We Won't Build The Plane!
- Location
- Montreal, Canada
[x] A palm reading should be fine. (Begin Character Creation/Leveling)
"A palm reading should be fine," you nod.
Oinone regards you for a moment, expectantly.
You realize she intends for you to sit or kneel in front of her, since there's no space to her left or right and the length of your arm, however spindly, is not enough to cross he full length of this cavernous carriage. You comply, however reluctantly, and proffer one palm outstretched. Ion observes, but feigns disinterest, flipping through the pages of a printed catalogue. She cups yours in hands protected by black fingerless gloves, running one digit over the arch between your index and wrist.
"Chiromancy is an old art, and forbidden for a rather long time. But when the taboos regarding the dead evaporated in the name of progress, all the other forbidden arts have enjoyed a popular resurgence. For most, it's just a fancy. It's said that a person's fate, made by their own hands, is written in the creases and lines of their palms. I relish every opportunity to test my knowledge of the lines and the spheres they connect to..." She smiles without affect, regarding you a coolness that doesn't match her words or self-described passion. "But yours say distressingly little."
"What do they say?"
"Were you in a fire recently? Or did you touch your palms to hot iron?" She prods a nail into your hand and gestures for you to look.
Perhaps it was too dark or you were never in the right mind to look, but your hands appear surprisingly smooth. No swirls of fingerprint or deep creases like you'd somehow expected. The fire, surely, scarred your hands so badly that they too would be unrecognizable."...oh. In a manner of speaking."
"So I see." Oinone puts her knuckles to her upper lip, contemplating. The furrow of her brow is very subtle, almost imperceptible. You aren't particularly bothered by the revelation of your injuries you suppose, so perhaps she's mirroring you. "Smooth palms, like a starless night, are ill-tidings for those of us who read fortunes for amusement. Though I must say there are lines here and there, however faint. Some that survived. Others fresh, forming from usage. Seems like you haven't totally scarred over."
"Do I not have a future then?"
"Oh hmm hmm, your fate won't be different from anyone else in the world, provided you survive the night. Really, I think it's quite riveting. I can read suggestions, outlines..." She smiles, grabbing both your palms as you contemplate them. "But these hands will take the shape of your labor, methinks. The creases, callouses, and frostbite of this temperature. Still, a bit disappointing isn't it? Shall I tell you what I can read?"
"Please do."
"Hmm hmm. I see..."
[ ] Gentle, ordinary hands. (10 MUS, 10 SIN, 11 ORG, 10 TCH, 10 ARK) [Lv. 11]
[ ] Rough hands, calloused by hard labor. (12 MUS, 8 SIN, 14 ORG, 10 TCH, 6 ARK) [Lv. 10]
[ ] Battered hands, hardened by fighting. (16 MUS, 12 SIN, 9 ORG, 7 TCH, 7 ARK) [Lv. 11]
[ ] Delicate fingers, suited to music and craftsmanship. (8 MUS, 15 SIN, 6 ORG, 9 TCH, 12 ARK) [Lv. 10]
[ ] Beautiful hands, that belong in a kinder place than this. (7 MUS, 12 SIN, 9 ORG, 15 TCH, 8 ARK) [Lv. 11]
[ ] Ink-stained digits, used to mechanical tinkering. (13 MUS, 10 SIN, 7 ORG, 8 TCH, 12 ARK) [Lv. 10]
[ ] Dry hands and dirty, chipped fingernails, deprived of comfort. (9 MUS, 9 SIN, 9 ORG, 9 TCH, 9 ARK) [Lv. 5]
ATTRIBUTE EXPLANATIONS:
"If you're done being fussed over, you can get to work. Or it's back out into the cold, as agreed. Those gates won't open themselves." Ion glances over as you finish up, setting his book aside. "Perhaps I can offer you a gander at my goods first, though I won't let you dawdle for too long."
You look to the door, and consider.
[ ] Take a look at the goods. (Opens Ion's Shop)
[ ] No thanks.
"A palm reading should be fine," you nod.
Oinone regards you for a moment, expectantly.
You realize she intends for you to sit or kneel in front of her, since there's no space to her left or right and the length of your arm, however spindly, is not enough to cross he full length of this cavernous carriage. You comply, however reluctantly, and proffer one palm outstretched. Ion observes, but feigns disinterest, flipping through the pages of a printed catalogue. She cups yours in hands protected by black fingerless gloves, running one digit over the arch between your index and wrist.
"Chiromancy is an old art, and forbidden for a rather long time. But when the taboos regarding the dead evaporated in the name of progress, all the other forbidden arts have enjoyed a popular resurgence. For most, it's just a fancy. It's said that a person's fate, made by their own hands, is written in the creases and lines of their palms. I relish every opportunity to test my knowledge of the lines and the spheres they connect to..." She smiles without affect, regarding you a coolness that doesn't match her words or self-described passion. "But yours say distressingly little."
"What do they say?"
"Were you in a fire recently? Or did you touch your palms to hot iron?" She prods a nail into your hand and gestures for you to look.
Perhaps it was too dark or you were never in the right mind to look, but your hands appear surprisingly smooth. No swirls of fingerprint or deep creases like you'd somehow expected. The fire, surely, scarred your hands so badly that they too would be unrecognizable."...oh. In a manner of speaking."
"So I see." Oinone puts her knuckles to her upper lip, contemplating. The furrow of her brow is very subtle, almost imperceptible. You aren't particularly bothered by the revelation of your injuries you suppose, so perhaps she's mirroring you. "Smooth palms, like a starless night, are ill-tidings for those of us who read fortunes for amusement. Though I must say there are lines here and there, however faint. Some that survived. Others fresh, forming from usage. Seems like you haven't totally scarred over."
"Do I not have a future then?"
"Oh hmm hmm, your fate won't be different from anyone else in the world, provided you survive the night. Really, I think it's quite riveting. I can read suggestions, outlines..." She smiles, grabbing both your palms as you contemplate them. "But these hands will take the shape of your labor, methinks. The creases, callouses, and frostbite of this temperature. Still, a bit disappointing isn't it? Shall I tell you what I can read?"
"Please do."
"Hmm hmm. I see..."
[ ] Gentle, ordinary hands. (10 MUS, 10 SIN, 11 ORG, 10 TCH, 10 ARK) [Lv. 11]
[ ] Rough hands, calloused by hard labor. (12 MUS, 8 SIN, 14 ORG, 10 TCH, 6 ARK) [Lv. 10]
[ ] Battered hands, hardened by fighting. (16 MUS, 12 SIN, 9 ORG, 7 TCH, 7 ARK) [Lv. 11]
[ ] Delicate fingers, suited to music and craftsmanship. (8 MUS, 15 SIN, 6 ORG, 9 TCH, 12 ARK) [Lv. 10]
[ ] Beautiful hands, that belong in a kinder place than this. (7 MUS, 12 SIN, 9 ORG, 15 TCH, 8 ARK) [Lv. 11]
[ ] Ink-stained digits, used to mechanical tinkering. (13 MUS, 10 SIN, 7 ORG, 8 TCH, 12 ARK) [Lv. 10]
[ ] Dry hands and dirty, chipped fingernails, deprived of comfort. (9 MUS, 9 SIN, 9 ORG, 9 TCH, 9 ARK) [Lv. 5]
ATTRIBUTE EXPLANATIONS:
MUSCULATURE: Raw power, ability to wield heavy weapons and tools.
SINEW: Flexibility, coordination and ability to make use of light, delicate weapons.
ORGANS: Overall health, ability to resist disease, toxins and injury.
STITCHING: Wholeness of self, resilience to distortion and inherent capacity for the sublime.
SPARK: Brilliance of the mind, skill at craftsmanship and understanding of mysteries.
SINEW: Flexibility, coordination and ability to make use of light, delicate weapons.
ORGANS: Overall health, ability to resist disease, toxins and injury.
STITCHING: Wholeness of self, resilience to distortion and inherent capacity for the sublime.
SPARK: Brilliance of the mind, skill at craftsmanship and understanding of mysteries.
"If you're done being fussed over, you can get to work. Or it's back out into the cold, as agreed. Those gates won't open themselves." Ion glances over as you finish up, setting his book aside. "Perhaps I can offer you a gander at my goods first, though I won't let you dawdle for too long."
You look to the door, and consider.
[ ] Take a look at the goods. (Opens Ion's Shop)
[ ] No thanks.
V: Stranger Wares
Exhack
We Won't Build The Plane!
- Location
- Montreal, Canada
[x] Gentle, ordinary hands. (10 MUS, 10 SIN, 11 ORG, 10 TCH, 10 ARK) [Lv. 11]
[x] Take a look at the goods. (Opens Ion's Shop)
Since awakening you hadn't given your hands much thought, ordinary as they looked. Your grip is measured and exacting but not particularly strong, your fingers show no wear other than the chill of winter on your palms and fingertips. How odd that the creases have been ironed flat. Still, the night won't last forever. You have work to do.
"Well? Will you sit here gawking all night?" Ion addresses you as you stand up.
"No, I'm alright. You said you had items for sale?"
Ion sneers. "Yes. Though I barter in oddities, not commoner goods. If you're looking to buy apples or gunpowder you'll be sorely disappointed."
"I see."
You slide over and lean closer, watching as he turns the paperback catalogue towards you. A shallow emboss in brazen lettering reveals the words ALDINE SALESMAN ALMANACH, laid neatly into the thick paper binding. Each page holds a generous woodblock print, article number and description of the virtues of a given item writ large. You crouch to get closer and flip page by page. Many of the pages appear blank, and the book insists on two currencies you don't recognize to be the norm in the city. Perhaps you've simply forgotten.
What might be worth taking?
[ ] Nalva Whisperer's Almanach [1 Providence]: A leatherbound almanac that enters the reader's hands empty but inevitably fills up with all sorts of drivel, as the blank pages compel even the most disciplined calendrist to vandalize the crisp white pages with their idle fancies. A few mad funeral workers in Nalva swear by these books, which they claim connect them to the voices of angels, the dead or the wisened men of the future. That the pages are treated with sickly-sweet embalming vapors provides a second, more obvious explanation. Allows for write-ins by players.
[ ] Dolne Pistole [3 Providence]: A fancy pepperbox revolver affixed to a set of brass knuckles, with a folded double-edged knife concealed in the handle. Typically used by a certain group of Ruffians from a distant metropole, the Dolne Pistol is commonly referred to the name of the gangs that carry them. In Nalva, the maker's name takes precedence, as the weapon was always intended to be used by a gentleman-duelist. Though small, quick cartridges are suited to killing men, the dead do not flag from blood loss. For burials, it's better to take advantage of the weapon's accuracy instead and score crippling blows on heads and spines.
[ ] Subscription to the Nalva Physician's Guild, Bronze [600 Odems]: The Nalva Physician's Guild have maintained a ten-year tradition of reviving their own to work as paramedics and delivery-men for medicine. Affixing this badge provides a subscription worth a few lifetimes, though the daily allowance is small. Provides 5 restores to full health, for 3 lives or resupplies.
[ ] Subscription to the Nalva Gunsmith's Association, Bronze [600 Odems]: Having disdain for corpse labor, the reclusive geniuses of the Nalva Gunsmith's Guild operate an elaborate network of ziplines, chutes and a pneumatic tube line that runs through the old undercroft of the city. Each medallion is a conductive plate designed to fit into an electrified recess by a delivery point, sending a signal that permits funeral workers and the gendarmes to refill their bullet pouches to their hearts' content. Poor alloys result in them eventually wearing out, but this merely guarantees repeat customers. Provides 5 bullets, for 3 lives or resupplies.
[ ] Embalmer's Jar [300 Odems]: Plastinating reagents popular in preserving corpses for cosmetic, rather than utilitarian purposes. These flasks burst on impact, coating corpses with skin-hardening tonic that makes them sluggish and vulnerable to heavy-handed strikes. Living creatures are also hampered by these tools, but become desperately ill instead.
[ ] Grounding Jar [450 Odems]: A tacky, greasy colloid of rubbers and certain metallic powders, designed to make electrified surfaces safe to cross. Electrified fences and flooring keep cattle and parasites from crossing their assigned barriers, but are powerfully painful for humans as well. Engineers in Nalva always keep a few flasks of this substance just in case.
[ ] Old Crusader's Mechanical Key [10000 Odems]: A strange mechanical key unlike the typical machinery found in modern Nalva. The intricate engraving speaks to an era when men lived and died for faith and the hereafter, rather than reason and the now. Opens locks to a certain old tomb.
[ ] Too rich for my blood right now. (Leave)
"How exactly should I pay for this?" You ask.
"I prefer to trade in oddities, as I said. Any little bit of odd information, or a handful of Odems pulled from the dead to freshen up our horses and other helpers. That said... a secret is never valuable once more than one person knows about it, so I won't give you nice things just to be told the same odd story again and again. Hnf!" Ion regards you again, tugging on the lapels of his waistcoat and straightening out. Trying to seem taller, maybe. He's not small for his apparent age, but competing with an adult must cause some sort of insecurity in him.
You are an adult, after all.
"I should take something but my pockets seem to have gone empty after that beating I took in the shop," you comment.
"Hah, I knew it. A pauper, this one." Ion smirks and hands you a vial containing a gas that swirls and glows, like nighttime thundercloud dissolved into dirty sluice from the street. Electricity arcs between the extremities. "Here, consider it a present to a first-time customer: a centilitre of rendered Odems, I'd say, and a Cloudcatcher Jar to hold them."
(GAIN 1000 ODEMS, CLOUDCATCHER JAR)
"Odems?" You mutter under breath, eyes still fixed to the contents.
"Ah, damn. Aren't you supposed to be in the business of burials? It's that synthetic scrap of animus that all the continental philosophers claim is a materialization of the essence of man, or the essential lightning. No shortage of usages for that, especially if you're looking to raise some dead yourself tonight."
You look to your hands. "That's unlikely."
Oinone grabs the hem of your jacket and tugs gently, eager to get your attention. "Any of that you spare could be put to use extending your life-lines. Regaining your strength is more important than trinkets on a night like this."
"Says my Dearest Sister, who never once read the schema of the era's finest inventors." Ion cackles to himself quietly, clipping his book shut as you finish shopping. "Now, you've had enough time to warm your bones. Go outside and break some on our behalf, that this trip wasn't all a waste of time."
You give a small nod and push out through the carriage doors. Neither horse nor driver greet you, both dead-still and sewn into harnesses of purple quilt, black leather and silver filigree. Only the cold does.
It's still late and night. The clouds have parted to expose the pearlescent moon, bathing the streets in cold blue light. You're not far from where you were before, ablock closer to the gates at most in a cul-de-sac framed by a trio of fanciful mansions, one of which has the gates open. A long procession of the laborious dead still mill up the hill towards the gates with parcels, coal and lumber. Among them you recognize a few wearing doctor's coats and masks, carrying sacks of medicine, and the delivery chutes of the Gunsmith's on the streetcorner opposite the carriage spot.
You draw your crook and slide your arm back into the grapple, drawing it taut and secure.
It's time to work.
What are you doing? Pick 2:
[ ] Go check on the old man.
[ ] Go up the hill to the gates.
[ ] Explore the district.
[ ] Return to the crematorium.
[ ] Return to the clothier and fight Plastinated Arietta again.
[x] Take a look at the goods. (Opens Ion's Shop)
Since awakening you hadn't given your hands much thought, ordinary as they looked. Your grip is measured and exacting but not particularly strong, your fingers show no wear other than the chill of winter on your palms and fingertips. How odd that the creases have been ironed flat. Still, the night won't last forever. You have work to do.
"Well? Will you sit here gawking all night?" Ion addresses you as you stand up.
"No, I'm alright. You said you had items for sale?"
Ion sneers. "Yes. Though I barter in oddities, not commoner goods. If you're looking to buy apples or gunpowder you'll be sorely disappointed."
"I see."
You slide over and lean closer, watching as he turns the paperback catalogue towards you. A shallow emboss in brazen lettering reveals the words ALDINE SALESMAN ALMANACH, laid neatly into the thick paper binding. Each page holds a generous woodblock print, article number and description of the virtues of a given item writ large. You crouch to get closer and flip page by page. Many of the pages appear blank, and the book insists on two currencies you don't recognize to be the norm in the city. Perhaps you've simply forgotten.
What might be worth taking?
PROVIDENCE: 1, ODEMS: 1000
[ ] Nalva Whisperer's Almanach [1 Providence]: A leatherbound almanac that enters the reader's hands empty but inevitably fills up with all sorts of drivel, as the blank pages compel even the most disciplined calendrist to vandalize the crisp white pages with their idle fancies. A few mad funeral workers in Nalva swear by these books, which they claim connect them to the voices of angels, the dead or the wisened men of the future. That the pages are treated with sickly-sweet embalming vapors provides a second, more obvious explanation. Allows for write-ins by players.
[ ] Dolne Pistole [3 Providence]: A fancy pepperbox revolver affixed to a set of brass knuckles, with a folded double-edged knife concealed in the handle. Typically used by a certain group of Ruffians from a distant metropole, the Dolne Pistol is commonly referred to the name of the gangs that carry them. In Nalva, the maker's name takes precedence, as the weapon was always intended to be used by a gentleman-duelist. Though small, quick cartridges are suited to killing men, the dead do not flag from blood loss. For burials, it's better to take advantage of the weapon's accuracy instead and score crippling blows on heads and spines.
[ ] Subscription to the Nalva Physician's Guild, Bronze [600 Odems]: The Nalva Physician's Guild have maintained a ten-year tradition of reviving their own to work as paramedics and delivery-men for medicine. Affixing this badge provides a subscription worth a few lifetimes, though the daily allowance is small. Provides 5 restores to full health, for 3 lives or resupplies.
[ ] Subscription to the Nalva Gunsmith's Association, Bronze [600 Odems]: Having disdain for corpse labor, the reclusive geniuses of the Nalva Gunsmith's Guild operate an elaborate network of ziplines, chutes and a pneumatic tube line that runs through the old undercroft of the city. Each medallion is a conductive plate designed to fit into an electrified recess by a delivery point, sending a signal that permits funeral workers and the gendarmes to refill their bullet pouches to their hearts' content. Poor alloys result in them eventually wearing out, but this merely guarantees repeat customers. Provides 5 bullets, for 3 lives or resupplies.
[ ] Embalmer's Jar [300 Odems]: Plastinating reagents popular in preserving corpses for cosmetic, rather than utilitarian purposes. These flasks burst on impact, coating corpses with skin-hardening tonic that makes them sluggish and vulnerable to heavy-handed strikes. Living creatures are also hampered by these tools, but become desperately ill instead.
[ ] Grounding Jar [450 Odems]: A tacky, greasy colloid of rubbers and certain metallic powders, designed to make electrified surfaces safe to cross. Electrified fences and flooring keep cattle and parasites from crossing their assigned barriers, but are powerfully painful for humans as well. Engineers in Nalva always keep a few flasks of this substance just in case.
[ ] Old Crusader's Mechanical Key [10000 Odems]: A strange mechanical key unlike the typical machinery found in modern Nalva. The intricate engraving speaks to an era when men lived and died for faith and the hereafter, rather than reason and the now. Opens locks to a certain old tomb.
[ ] Too rich for my blood right now. (Leave)
"How exactly should I pay for this?" You ask.
"I prefer to trade in oddities, as I said. Any little bit of odd information, or a handful of Odems pulled from the dead to freshen up our horses and other helpers. That said... a secret is never valuable once more than one person knows about it, so I won't give you nice things just to be told the same odd story again and again. Hnf!" Ion regards you again, tugging on the lapels of his waistcoat and straightening out. Trying to seem taller, maybe. He's not small for his apparent age, but competing with an adult must cause some sort of insecurity in him.
You are an adult, after all.
"I should take something but my pockets seem to have gone empty after that beating I took in the shop," you comment.
"Hah, I knew it. A pauper, this one." Ion smirks and hands you a vial containing a gas that swirls and glows, like nighttime thundercloud dissolved into dirty sluice from the street. Electricity arcs between the extremities. "Here, consider it a present to a first-time customer: a centilitre of rendered Odems, I'd say, and a Cloudcatcher Jar to hold them."
(GAIN 1000 ODEMS, CLOUDCATCHER JAR)
"Odems?" You mutter under breath, eyes still fixed to the contents.
"Ah, damn. Aren't you supposed to be in the business of burials? It's that synthetic scrap of animus that all the continental philosophers claim is a materialization of the essence of man, or the essential lightning. No shortage of usages for that, especially if you're looking to raise some dead yourself tonight."
You look to your hands. "That's unlikely."
Oinone grabs the hem of your jacket and tugs gently, eager to get your attention. "Any of that you spare could be put to use extending your life-lines. Regaining your strength is more important than trinkets on a night like this."
"Says my Dearest Sister, who never once read the schema of the era's finest inventors." Ion cackles to himself quietly, clipping his book shut as you finish shopping. "Now, you've had enough time to warm your bones. Go outside and break some on our behalf, that this trip wasn't all a waste of time."
You give a small nod and push out through the carriage doors. Neither horse nor driver greet you, both dead-still and sewn into harnesses of purple quilt, black leather and silver filigree. Only the cold does.
It's still late and night. The clouds have parted to expose the pearlescent moon, bathing the streets in cold blue light. You're not far from where you were before, ablock closer to the gates at most in a cul-de-sac framed by a trio of fanciful mansions, one of which has the gates open. A long procession of the laborious dead still mill up the hill towards the gates with parcels, coal and lumber. Among them you recognize a few wearing doctor's coats and masks, carrying sacks of medicine, and the delivery chutes of the Gunsmith's on the streetcorner opposite the carriage spot.
You draw your crook and slide your arm back into the grapple, drawing it taut and secure.
It's time to work.
What are you doing? Pick 2:
[ ] Go check on the old man.
[ ] Go up the hill to the gates.
[ ] Explore the district.
[ ] Return to the crematorium.
[ ] Return to the clothier and fight Plastinated Arietta again.