[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.
PLASTINATED ARIETTA
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)
