The Mask and the Rattle [Claymore/Bleach Inspired Original Quest]

[Gargulec]

THE MASK AND THE RATTLE
a Quest about those who chose death and those who were never born​

The dead beast stands tall as a tree. It wears its skin like a poorly-fitted coat, ripping at the seams and laying bare the body beneath: a cage of bone closed around a damp mass of writhing flesh. Glistening things drip from between the ribs, half-putrefied, and crawl back up the massive trunk of the body, squeezing once more into their cracked vessel, through tears in the fabric of its skin.

Your kinsmen drove a pair of spears through its heart and skull, so hard that they pierced through and out the other side. Now sun glints red off the iron spearheads. The beast does not care. It does not seem to notice. Its attention rests solely on the slender man standing in front of it, as motionless as itself.

He is wrapped in a white robe, stained grey and black with the ash of the field. To his face is is affixed a simple wooden mask, carved in the awkward semblance of a devil, adorned solely with a handful of yellow bristles. His hands are empty, but he is not unarmed: from his neck, there hangs a knife in a worn-down sheathe.

You know that you should not have followed him all the way to this fallow field, that you should not have hidden yourself in the shadow of a twisted birch, watching him approach the dead thing. You should not have, but you had to. With bated breath and feeling that you recognize, but fail to name, you watch and wait for him to issue the challenge.

Even though it has no mouth to speak with, it is the beast that first breaks the silence:

"I was born knowing you would come."

Its voice is a quiet rattle, the clattering of bones and the whisper of midnight ghosts. Yet, it reaches far and wide.

The man bows his head.

"Pitiable creature" he says, straightening. "What was never alive could never have been born."

There are no more words. With a growl, the beast raises its massive arms, to bring them down onto the masked man and smash him, like it did with your kinsmen. Each of them is easily his size, perhaps larger. The beast swings down. You shout a useless warning.

Unnaturally quick, the man brings his palms together with a loud clasp. You feel a sharp tug at your insides; around you, the grass wilts and dies, turning to rotten dust in a single instant. With its death, the man swells. He raises his hands and meets the beast's blow head-on. The force of the impact drives him an inch into the damp soil, but he does not bend. He clasps his hands on the beast's wrists, grips tight, and pulls.

There is a crash as the monster is brought down, and a roar. He wastes no time. Before it can stand back up, he makes a single step forward. He releases the hold and in that same motion takes one swing, then another. Fists smash into bone, and it is bone that yields. The ribs crack open. Their contents splatter his hands, drenching them in sickly rot, but he pushes on, blow after blow, deeper and deeper.

"Fool" the beast rattles.

The liquid flesh surges, spewing forth from its broken vessel, engulfing the man in an undulating mass. Those were not ribs, you realize, but teeth. They were not broken, they opened. It was not a ribcage, but a mouth.

With a slurp, the twitching putrefied flesh is pulled back, man and all. The ribs snap back in place, locking their catchinside. The beast makes a dry, empty sound and straightens, turning to face you, like it turned to face your kinsmen before.

Something wet drips down onto your head. You look up, and see the tree you hid under liquefy. Something pulls at your entrails and you drop to your knees, seeing blood drip from your nose. You yelp, but it is the beast that roars.

There is distress in its voice.

The mass of flesh contained within it convulses. Once, twice. And then, its ribcage-maw explodes. Splinters of bone and droplets of rot shrapnel around. Free from his prison, the man drops down to the ground. He is no longer slender: he is a hulk of muscle, plated in spiked carapace. Hands like bread-loafs clinch around the beast's trunk-thick spine.

He snaps it as if it was a twig.

The beast drops to the ground with a wet thud, sinking into death-soaked soil. But the man is not done yet. He kneels by the skull, and draws the knife. The blade shines dull, like barrows' gold.

"How…?" the skull clatters a question.

The man brings the knife down, through the eye-socket, into the hollow within. There is a pop, and the corpse dissolves. You expect more rot and sewage, but it is clear water that flows. Clearest you have ever seen.

***​

The goddess of Life, from which all growth and fertility flows, sits still on her throne, forever locked between dying and death. The wound in her chest should have been fatal. The sword that pierced struck true. Only foul magics, once forbidden and still maligned, keep her on the precipice, holding back her death, and the death of all else that lives.

The world she sustains reflects the wounds inflicted. The sun burns bleeding red; ash clogs the sky. What little growth can be coaxed out of the stinking soil comes stunted and deformed. The waters taste of rot and the spring smells of decay. But life still courses through the land, diminished though it is.

But when its flow twists, and the natural order is disrupted further, never-born beasts rise from old bones and mangled corpses. Unknown to life, they refuse death; even cut down and made dust, they return more grotesque than before.

They are the stillborn children of Life, and only by the weapons with which the Life itself was slain can they be destroyed. Thus, the sword that pierced the goddess' heart was broken into 108 pieces, each of them forged into a tool by which the never-born beasts could be destroyed.

As no living would dare to touch a weapon of Life's unmaking, those who pick up those arms become dead to their kin and the world. Unknown to life, but not yet embraced by death, they are the custodians of the twilit world.

***​

You approach him before he has a chance to leave. You see his muscles deflate, his swollen body draining of life he stole. By the time you step into his path, he is again slender, frail. You look him in the face – at his mask – and open your mouth to speak.

No words come. You don't know how to say what you want to say. But somehow, he understands.

"You have a life to live, child" he says, without rebuke, but also without encouragement. "If you follow me, it will be forfeit."

He expects you to turn and leave. You know you should. But you can't. He waits, then asks the one question you can answer:

"Why?"

[ ] "Because I am alone."
Death came into your life and took away all who were close to you. You have no family and kin and you know - as much as you can know anything - that no company of the living will ever be kin to you again. Therefore, it is the dead that you must join.

[ ] "Because I am angry."
What happened to you you wasn't fair and it wasn't right. It makes you want to cry, then to scream loud enough for the dead goddess to hear. You will not allow it to happen to anyone else. If to fight for the world, you have to abandon it, you will never look back.

[ ] "Because I am afraid."
There must be more to living than a fallow field and a twisted birch, more than scurrying in fear at the thought of the dead that come to kill. You've been afraid all your life. But you do not want to be afraid any longer. If it takes death to live, you will gladly pay the price.

 

[Gargulec]

Welcome to The Mask and the Rattle, an original, narrative Quest set in a barren, twisted world, heavily inspired by the grandiose austerity of Dark Souls and shounen series as Bleach and Claymore, where a special caste of warriors wages a never-ending war against beasts that only they are equipped to fight.

You will be playing as Griet, a young girl who chose – for a reasons decided – to apprentice herself to the Masked Men, an order of warriors who symbolically choose to be treated as dead to be allowed to wield the only weapons capable of slaying the never-born monsters that threaten the world.

While most Quests set in established settings use the opportunity to skip over the initial steps of the hero's journey, The Mask and the Rattle will make use of the original (however familiar) setting in order to go through the story-beats of coming to power and learning about the secrets of the world. In this way, it will be starting at an earlier point of the protagonist's journey to power and recognition, allowing for a more in-depth exploration of the unknown world, its complexities and problems. It will also (hopefully) avoid massive setting documents or info-dumps: the world-building will be done organically, through the perspective of a character first exposed to the world at large.

The initial arc will see Griet go through the training and learning of a prospective Masked Woman. This sequence, in addition to establishing the setting, will serve as an extended chargen, so do not worry: you will have the opportunity to tweak her abilities and fighting style as you see fit.

---

To avoid a certain concern: to avoid early burnout and establish myself clear deadlines, I will be putting this quest on a roughly twice-a-week update schedule. This should help ameliorate issues of setting myself too high of a bar in previous Quests and then crashing against it.

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The System​

The system used in this Quest will be borrowed from the two other pieces of Quest writing which serve as my main inspiration: @Omicron's Now You Feel Like Number None and @Maugan Ra's Of Noble Purpose. Instead of providing hard numbers for various stats the character has, the ranks in abilities will instead serve a function of informing and guiding the dice-less narrative.

Skills can be improved by allocation of XP. It will be dispensed in large chunks at story arc conclusions, and in smaller ones if there is every any sort of omake-kind material.

The ranks are as follows:

• Novice (N/A) - You have begun to practice this skill and have some basic theoretical knowledge of how it functions, but cannot yet reliably employ it under pressure. For the initial arc, this will be the level of your skill in all abilities.
• Apprentice (100xp) - You have received some training in this skill, and as a result can call upon it in times of need. This is the level of skill you will acquire in all your basic abilities over the course of your apprenticeship.
• Journeyman (200xp) - Your training is complete, and you can now reliably employ this skill under pressure to solid effect; absent external pressure, you no longer make mistakes when wielding your abilities.
• Adept (400xp) - The basic understanding imparted by training has been reinforced by practical experience and personal specialisation, allowing you to use the skill absent error even under pressure or outright attack. This is the level of skill held by most Masked Men after the first few years of their service.
• Veteran (800xp) - Your technique has been refined to a point beyond simple training, including the personalised moves and individual techniques that are the markings of a true veteran. No two people at this rank will practice a skill in quite the same way. It is the level of experienced Masked Men and generally represents the peak of unaugmented human ability.
  • Advancing beyond this point is stepping beyond the realm of human and into something stranger and different. Therefore, it will only become possible when a certain in-story mile-stone is reached.
• Master (1600xp) – The mastery in a skill is the nominal peak of a Masked Man's aspiration; it far beyond the ordinary and closer to the stuff of folklore and tall-tale. Among the 108 Masked Men, perhaps a third holds this rank in their area of focus.
• Arch-master (2400xp) – There is the human, there is the beyond-human, and there is the arch-mastery. This is the ability of those Masked Men who brush against the realm of possible, and of strange creatures and monsters only whispered about. No more than a tenth of Masked Men of each generation ever approach this skill – often fewer.
  • Advancing beyond this point is stepping into myth and legend; it is something few even dream of. Therefore, it will only become possible after reaching a major, in-story milestone, propelling the character to the new heights.
• Sublime (3600xp) - If it can be done, you have done it; if you cannot do it, it cannot be done. You are the very definition of this skill. If you cross your path with another being of such power, your fight becomes the stuff legends are woven from.
• Legendary (5400xp) - The things you can do defy belief and shatter any kind of expectation. You are the unattainable ideal against which the prodigies of tomorrow will measure themselves.
• Ineffable (N/A) – Some deeds and some abilities are not for words to describe and not for minds to grasp. Reaching this rank is not a question of experience or effort: it is the pinnacle. It is the sword with which even the God can be cut. Only one person in generation can hold this rank, but it is unknown if such a person has ever existed for most skills.

The skills themselves are divided into Basic (representing a number of aptitudes common to all Masked Men) and Advanced (representing more exotic and often less combat-related abilities). Certain skill ranks will also open the access to perks, special, highly idiosyncratic abilities setting Griet apart from her peer Masked Men.

The seven basic skills are as follows:

• Combat Art: the skill of a warrior – the ability to wield a mortal weapon. It represents your basic combat ability: the instincts, technique and determination of a melee fighter.
• Physique: the refinement of the body in areas other than direct combat ability. This skill represents both raw stamina, agility and strength, as well as the capacity to wield it by exerting control over own body such as by by enduring hardships or exhibiting fine motor skills.
• Focus: the ability to control own mind and emotion, to resist mental influence and maintain the clarity of thought and reason even in the face of greatest dangers
• Lifesense: in a half-dead world, it is the primordial energy of Life that animates all that keeps on existing. This energy can be drawn on. This is the skill which allows one to perceive it, draw on it and better store it in their body. You need to learn more about it in-character before further details are provided.
• Life Sealing – Enhancement: the first of the Fourfold Forbidden Arts. A skill that no living is allowed to wield, and thus only the Masked Men make use of it. You need to learn more about it in-character before further details are provided.
• Life Sealing – Rejuvenation: the second of the Fourfold Forbidden Arts. You need to learn more about it in-character before further details are provided.
• Life Releasing – Absorption: the third of the Fourfold Forbidden Arts. You need to learn more about it in-character before further details are provided.
• Life Releasing – Infliction: the fourth of the Fourfold Forbidden Arts. You need to learn more about it in-character before further details are provided.

 

[Gargulec]

Character Sheet:

Your name Griet. As far as you can tell, you are about twelve years old, but without your kinsmen to keep track, you can't be sure. You have made the first step on the way to becoming a Masked Woman, but are yet to don the mask and pick up the rattle which are the token of that status. You know little of the world, and even less of yourself.

Basic Skills:

• Combat Art:
  • Novice (n/a): You are fearsome on the playground, but little more than that. You have never wielded a weapon in your life.
• Physique:
  • Novice (n/a): You are a child, Hopefully, you will grow out of it.
• Focus:
  • Novice (n/a): You don't cry as easily as other children you grew up with.
• Lifesense:
  • Novice (n/a): All you know about Life is that it exists. You are yet to develop your own Lifesense.
• Life Sealing – Enhancement:
  • Novice (n/a): You know nothing of the Fourfold Forbidden Arts.
• Life Sealing – Rejuvenation:
  • Novice (n/a): You know nothing of the Fourfold Forbidden Arts.
• Life Releasing – Absorption:
  • Novice (n/a): You know nothing of the Fourfold Forbidden Arts.
• Life Releasing – Infliction:
  • Novice (n/a): You know nothing of the Fourfold Forbidden Arts.

Advanced Skills:

• None yet!

 

[Gargulec]

ARC 1
the grave at the end of the road​

1.0: Alive

There is no hesitation.

"Because I am afraid" you answer in a cracking voice and then cry.

In the eastern lands, it is not a womanly thing to cry. Your kinsmen have scolded you for that many times, for you have always found the nights to be too dark, the days too short, the terrors too great and hopes too slim. You tried to hide your fear and to hide your tears, and in neither you were successful. They would tell you that it is bad luck, that it shames your kin, no women of your blood was ever so fearful, so pitiful, so wasteful in weeping.

Their final moments flash before your eyes, blood and horror. Although you try, tears again flow down your cheeks. Even when your kin are no more, you cannot help but to bring them shame.

But the Masked Man does not care. For a silent moment, he considers your words and then, wasting no word, puts his hand on your shoulder. He is dead, you know, but there is no cold in his touch. It is then that you see how familiar his mask is - a simple piece of grooved wood and bristles that the women wear when chasing the men through the muddy fields in the times of spring. Then, you remember your kinswomen running, laughing, and do your best to stifle a sob.

His grip tightens to keep you steady. After a while, you look at him again, and nod.

Together, you walk down the field, feet sinking deep into the damp soil. Like you, he wears no boots. You stumble, but he holds you up, and soon, you reach the broken fence to which he tied his pale, skinny mare. He mounts you up in front of him, a hand still on your shoulder. Helpful. You have never ridden a horse before, and you fear you would slip and fall. Into your hands, he puts his staff – a long, smooth piece of wood, a rattle affixed at the end. Your hands shake, making it click and crack, but the noise does not bother him.

"Go" he whispers at the horse, and turns her around, down the winding trail between the fields, towards the smoke rising, towards the village. You ride slowly. The path is narrow and treacherous, but there is no need to hurry. The fields lie fallow. Come fall, your kin intended to sow them with rye. As you were nearing the age when the girls are initiated into mysteries of crop and soil, you had hoped that you would be allowed to join them, hoe in hand. You think of that, and shame your blood and sex some more.

The men and women of the village emerge to meet you. The men wail and raise songs of woe and lament, but the women keep their faces stern and empty. They watch you ride through, between the buildings, next to the well, next to the shrine, and say nothing. If the Masked Man returns, then there is no need to worry about the beast; if he does not, there is nothing to be done. Then, they see you, and the tears on your cheeks. One of them steps forward, but the others hold her back, point at the Masked Man's hand that holds you close and tight. She steps back immediately and looks away. In the eastern lands, it is not a womanly thing to deal with what the dead have touched.

You shake the rattle, and they allow you to pass unobstructed, down the winding trail and away from the village of your birth. The voices of mourning linger long after you have left, carried far over the fields. You look back. You do not want to, but you can't resist. Leaning to the side, trying not to slip from the horse's back, you take one last look at the land that was once your kin's. At the fields, huts, the crooked shrine's tower, at the women who follow you away, as if to make sure that nothing will lure you back into the dwellings of the living.

When you were very small, you thought you would grow up to be like your other kinswomen. Tillers and reapers, quiet and brave. That you would live your life like they have lived, and their kinswomen before. That when you died, your kinsmen would have wrapped you in shrouds and carried away, into the bogs, to rest there in the depths for the age to come. Then, you grew up and started to fear. To worry that you would not have the strength. That you would not have the chance. That you would be like the bad crop that needs to be weeded out, leaking and ugly.
That your corpse would be left where it fell, along with other refuse. That your kinswomen would not look at you and your kinsmen would not remember you.

They are all dead now, and soon, you will be too. But nothing is like it was supposed to be.

You break.

You weep and you sob. The tears flow freely, and the shame you feel only adds to them. But for all of it, you can't stop. You no longer want to. What has been welling up in you for years finally spills over. The Masked Man says nothing. He does not look, does not reprimand. Only his hand on your shoulder grips tight, keeping you steady and upright.

There comes a time when your tears dry up. You want to cry more, but there is nothing inside of you to cry with. You lose your voice. What you feel is emptiness; something has drained. It is a relief, even if it is an ache.

"I will not cry again" you declare with a child's unwavering resolve. The Masked Man takes his hand off the reins, and reaches down to the side, then brings up to your lips a water-skin. He squeezes, and you drink; it is not water, but wine. Thick and strong. You almost cough it up, but then swallow and soon, it cloys your mind.

The fields you ride through stretch out forever. The same greys, the same tans, the same yellows. Much of them are flooded. A great many birds rise at your passage, launching into flight, cawing and crowing. It is the rattle, you belatedly understand, the dry sound that stirs and scares them. Through their flocks, you travel, ever west.

Near the end of the day, you arrive at a village. At the sound of the rattle men hide and the women leave out sparse offerings to placate the haunting dead. Some milk, some cheese, some bread. The Masked Man gathers them and puts them in his pack, then turns to leave. You expect to come with him, but his raises his hand and addresses the village-people.

"Give the girl shelter" he commands. "I will come for her in the morning."

You try to protest, but he does not hear any of it. Instead, the village-women lead you to an inn and offer you a place on the floor, near the fire-pit, where the embers are still warm. There are others with you in the room, men and women both, but they do not approach. An empty zone separates you from them, a wall of silence and dead air. At first, you think that it is because you are not from their kin and they do not want to have you among them but then, you understand. They have seen the hand on your shoulder and the rattle in your hands. In their eyes, the dead have laid their dominion over you. To touch you, to address you, to see you would all be dire fortune.

With those thoughts on your mind, you collapse into a heavy sleep; the sound of the rattle wakes you in the morning. Again, you are mounted up, again you take the staff in your hand, again you find there is someone holding you. You do not exchange many words over the day, and come evening, once again you reach a village and once again you are put near a fire, among people who fear you.

"I want to be with you" you say on the third day as you approach another township. The Masked Man nods. When you enter, he collects the alms as always; you shake the rattle. Then he turns the horse around and rides out into the fetid heath outside. There, in the crook of a stream, underneath a slender alder-tree, he dismounts and ties the horse. You expect him to ready up a fire, however small, but all he does is to eat some of the flat-breads left to him by the townspeople, drink a bit of the creek's water and sit. Soon, he appears to be asleep.

The night's chill is not too long away, and although you try to curl down and foster some warmth, you are left exposed. Your little dress is all that covers you, and it is thin and damp. You do not close your eyes all night long, and when the morning comes and the Masked Man awakes, he finds you at his side, shivering. He sighs.

Next evening, he starts a small fire, and from his packs procures a tattered blanket for you to wear. As you warm yourself by the burning pile, he sits across of you and sighs again.

"The fire will not last long" he declares "and the nights are getting colder."

You know that this is no lie. Even with the additional layer of cloth on your back, the night scares you.

"I am not afraid of the cold" you say instead.

He says nothing in turn. But he reaches up to his head and unlaces the string holding the mask affixed to his face. When he pulls it down, you see him for the first time. In the bonfire's dim, red glow, he appears to you elderly, sanded down by time and travail. You think you should avert your eyes, but he smiles.

"Girl" he says, kindly. "What's your name?"

"Griet."

"A good name" he nods. "I am Njal, known as the Elder. You want to become a Masked Woman, Griet?"

You nod in turn.

"You do not have to live like the dead, if you are not yet counted among them" he says softly. "There is time before you take up the mask and the rattle, Griet. The last years of your life."

"But…"

He raises his hand and silences you. A gesture of a teacher well experienced in his work.

"I will keep the fire up tonight" he announced, and you keep your face steady. But inside, you cry out in joy. "Tomorrow, I will take you to a fair."

***​

Viewed from the hill, the tents and stalls down before the city's walls appear like scattered flakes of paint, mottling the dry brown of the fields with specks of vivid red, blue, green and yellow. Even up here, the song and merriment reaches you. The tunes they sing are the same you have heard in the towns where your kinsmen took you to. There, fairs were smaller, less colourful, yet no less happy for that. You grasp the pouch of coin that Njal gave you, and make your way downhill, into the vibrant swirl below.

He had two tasks for you. First, so that you buy yourself clothing which will ward away the cold and keep you in good health as you make your way to the seat of the Masked Men, wherever it might be. Two, that you enjoy the day and make good use of it. Himself, he had to stay away, hidden from view, lest he would spoil your time and scare the folk at the fair. After all, it is a celebration of life, and he has no place it.

At first, you think that you too do not belong. The initial steps between the stands, in the wild noise of hundreds of voices calling out in cheer and trade, are confusing and scary. Without anyone to guide you, you feel lost, wandering from a stall to a stall, viewing trinkets and items that you do not understand and do not want. Vendors cry towards you, wave and shout, their voices are loud, overwhelming.

But then you spot a minstrel-woman in a dazzling red vest and hear the familiar wail of a hurdy-gurdy being spun. It draws you in, and you sit among others; warriors and men alike. The minstrel sings a song of the green days, of the times of plenty, and in spite of yourself, you join others in clapping to the tune. When the dance breaks out, you slip away – your kinsmen were always quite adamant that a dance is an improper thing, and although their voices are dull now, you do not know how. But instead, you go mousing where the vendors put out their cloth and fabric, until you finally find what came onto your mind.

A cloak, thick and warm, velvet-lined, red as fresh blood or flowers in bloom. You buy it without paying heed, and only then realize it is cut for a grown woman, not a girl like you. But you do not mind. It is yours. It is yours, it is red, it is warm and perfect. You wrap yourself in it as if in a toga, and even if the ends trail mud, your day is all the better for all of it.

You hear more songs, you buy yourself sweet-cakes until your belly is full. When a vendor pushes into your hand a jug of wine, you throw him a coin and drink all of it, then laugh and scream because you are still alive, you have a red cloak and in a few years you will be dead and everything seems so bright and so good and everything you fear is a dim, silly shadow that will never lay a hand on you ever again.

You try dancing and trip over your beautiful cloak. You find a stick and a place where other girls fight with them to impress their kin-women and show to be good warriors in the days to come. You lose a few coins in a game of cups, then win a few more.

Finally, the sun draws close to the horizon line and the vendors close up their stalls; men and women vanish into the city walls, or to take a night's trek back to their homes. You loiter and linger until an elderly woman shoos you away from the now-empty fairgrounds. Reluctantly, you drag yourself, and the bag of trinkets and cakes and all the other things you have bought, up the hill, where Njall waits.

He says nothing at all the excess. "How was it?" is all that he asks.

In response, you bombard him with all the words and stories that you can muster. About the minstrel-woman, about how you were first afraid, but then no longer, about how you were never afraid, about how good the cakes were and how much your stomach ached until a medicine woman gave you a herbal cordial stiff enough to restore a dead man to life (he chuckles at that), about how you were not afraid at all, about how it was a great day, about the wine that was so sweet that you never want to drink another wine ever again, about all those things you want to say but you do not know how. But above all, you tell, in great details, about that one little thing you were especially proud of.

[ ] How you defeated all the other girls who were stick-fighting and rubbed your triumph in their face.
Combat Art will become your favoured non-magical ability, costing 50% less XP to advanced and gaining an additional, free rank at the end of the arc.

[ ] How it took you just a few tries to get the gist of this dancing business and how you kept dancing well past other girls collapsing.
Physique will become your favoured non-magical ability, costing 50% less XP to advanced and gaining an additional, free rank at the end of the arc.

[ ] How there were dozens of men and women trying to cheat you out of your coin, con you and deceive you, but even drunk on the sweet wine, you saw through all of their tricks.
Focus will become your favoured non-magical ability, costing 50% less XP to advanced and gaining an additional, free rank at the end of the arc.

[ ] How happy this day managed to make you, glad to be alive and giving you a reason to feel warm and glad when the night comes.
Lifesense will become your favoured non-magical ability, costing 50% less XP to advanced and gaining an additional, free rank at the end of the arc.

 

[Gargulec]

1.1 Reason

There was a stall, near the playground, where you would go between rounds of stick-fighting to quench your thirst. It belonged to an old man, shriveled and tiny, his frame hidden by folds of colourful, heavy fabric. You remember their vivid reds and greens, stitched in dazzling, ragged patters, adeptly dotted with splotches of white and blue. You would come to his stall battered and bruised, smiling wide, and toss him a coin. He would catch it, hand darting from beneath the fabric like a striking snake, and then without a word would split a fruit – an orange, or a lemon, or a grapefruit – and squeeze it into a jug of water. He had no tool for that and his fingers would get stick sticky with juice, so much so that the leaves of spear-mint would cling to them as he tried to shake them into the drink. Lastly, he would add a dash of honey, uncaring of the plethora of small flies buzzing around the jar to drown inside. Only then, he would pass you the jug and you would take it into your hands and drink quick and deep, the sweet-sour taste lingering on your tongue as you went back to the muddy fighting rink to batter and bruise other girls. Near noon-day, with wind picking up, a gust of it would bring the scent of the stall to the rink and you would fight in its pleasant, refreshing haze, rushing to throw another coin at the elder man after each round.

After the last fight, he would notice your black eye and bloodied knuckles and then chuckle.

"Brave" he would call you, and then prepare you the last drink of the day, smiling and adding one more little ingredient as you were about to take it from your hands. Something for a warrior such as you, he would say. It would burn with pleasant warmth, going down your throat, and making it so much more difficult to explain to Njall all the wonderful things that have happened to you. Even with a year passing, you dreamed of that often and was always loathe to wake from such a dream.

Reluctantly, you open your eyes and welcome the day with a loud groan. Hervor is still fast asleep next to you, and so you don't forget to stumble over her frail, lanky body after dragging yourself up. The dark-skinned girl protests dreamily, but does not stir yet, winding herself tighter in the red cloak that serves you as a blanket. In a fit of a morning pique, you jerk it up from her to drape yourself in it. She looks at you, you look at her, and she says nothing. The cloak is yours and she better remember it.

There are some embers left in the firepit, but they give no heat. In the dim light, you shuffle towards the door and push them open, giving them an elbow shove when they don't give. With a croak, they open, letting in a gust of cool, damp air. You step out, bare feet into mud.

The sky above the home of the Masked Men is laced with clouds, tinted yellow and rose by the rising of the sun. It's late – you should have woken up hours before, when the moon was still creeping down towards the mountainous horizon. You spit. Still, there is no one else outside; all the other huts seem cold and empty and as far as you know most of them are. Only above the forge you spot a thin billow of smoke. The Smith never extinguishes her furnaces. You doubt she ever sleeps.

It is the mutt that notices you first. It jumps out from its den in the leaves, barking happily, the stub of its tail wagging. He wants something to eat and so you retreat inside. Unless you toss him something, he won't let you be.

You didn't expect Hervor to be kneeling by the firepit and so almost trip over her. She stifles a yelp as you push against her back to stay up. In her place, you'd have just yelled, but she's not like the girls you know.

"Don't start the fire" you mumble at her. "We're going today."

She raises her head from and opens her mouth, but then shuts it and puts away the handful of kindling. You find some leftovers from yesterday, quickly stuff some into your mouth and swallow, then throw the rest in the direction of the dog. Across of you, Hervor squats, dipping stale bread in milk and chewing in silence. One more thing you don't understand is how people can eat like that. But it is apparently a northerner thing. At least that is how Njall explained it to you when introduced Hervor. Still, you find it odious.

After she is done, she throws this strange cape of hers over her shoulder. It is an ungainly, northern thing, little more than a pelt skinned from some animal. You watch her clasp it over her breast with a bone pin, then wrap fabric around her feet so that they don't touch the soil.

You have been living together for many months now, but you are no closer to understanding her than you were when you've first met.

Together, you go to the well, collecting the pails along the way. The mutt follows behind you, all the way between ancient, moss-covered shacks and huts. Unlike Hervor, they quickly became familiar to you. Of course, in the home of the Masked Men they built them differently, on a foundation of stone, and with slanted, shingled roofs touching all the way to the ground. But the wood, blackened with age, damp and overgrown with the green creep of mosses and moulds, was just like in the home of your kin. The well, too, was similar. Sturdier, of course, build around with grey stone, but just as deep as the one before the house you grew up in. And just like there, it took two people to draw water from it. One holding the loose crank, the other pulling out the bucket.

You hold, Hervor pulls. After a few moments, the pails are filled and you are ready to go into the woods. You put the water on your backs and go.

There is a wall surrounding the home of Masked Men, a stone fence as old as the village itself. Once, there was a gate in it, but now it has crumbled so that there are many entrances and exits; Heidrek keeps demanding that you repair it and claiming that it will be good for you to do, but neither you nor Hervor know the first thing about working with stone, so the best you can manage is carrying piles of stone from one end of the wall to another. That seems to satisfy him. As for you, you would prefer to make the wall sturdy again, and you know that Hervor would too – she is afraid of the wolves that can come in the night. But right now, with the heavy pails burdening you, you are just glad that there is a nearer exit. You cross through a hole in the wall and take direction for the alder grove on the hill overlooking the village.

Hervor trails close behind you as you walk; you expect her to be like you and grunt and curse the heavy weight on your backs, but she keeps womanly quiet. The one womanly thing she does, you think to herself. Yesterday, you had to yell at her again. She was afraid of going, thinking that there were beasts between the village and the grove that would surely beset you, insisting that you both take a javelin or an ax to fight them back. Her fear annoyed you, and even more annoying was how she listened.

There were other girls in your kin, and they were not like Hervor. You wish she would be more like them.

The way uphill is steep and slippery and with the burden on your back, it takes you well over an hour until you finally arrive at the top, on the edge of the grove. Although the place is not far away from the village, you have never been here before, so you take a curious look. At a glance, it is just a grove; tall trees, their canopies full and green. It is only a moment later that you notice that something is out of joint. You put the pails down to rest and crouch and then notice how thick and vivid the grass is. Tiny flowers peek from between the green blades, white and yellow. Behind you, Hervor plucks a handful.

"Do you feel it?" she asks.

You shake your head. For once, it is she who takes the first step. She slings the buckets over her back again and heads straight into the grove. You hesitate, berate yourself for that, and go after her.

In the shade of the trees, the soil and wood smell of spring in unrelenting bloom. The tiny flowers are everywhere you look. In the underbushing, on the vines creeping up the trunks of the trees, seemingly finding purchase even in the crevices of bark. It is as if the scene has been sprinkled with a handful of glitter. You smile; Hervor does too.

The girl keeps on rushing forward and you can barely keep up. You are surprised, to be honest – the climb taxed her less than you would have expected it to. Soon enough, however, she stops before a great, tall tree, so large that a natural den has formed between its roots.

"Do you feel it?" she repeats her question, and this time, you nod. A strange feeling. Like something pulling at your insides, then releasing them. It reminds you of something. "I think it's here" she adds.

Somehow, you don't doubt her. When Heidrek ordered you to bring water to the man in the grove, he did not specify further, and you did not ask – he hate clarifying. But now, deep inside, you feel that if there is a place on this hill you were supposed to find, it is this den. You step closer, trying to look in the dark inside, but you see nothing.

"Hello?" you call.

The answer is a shuffling, croaking sound, then the click-clack of a rattle. Hervor takes a step back, you stand your ground. Then, from the dark depth emerges a strange figure. A stunted shape of a man, cowled in rags so old that they may as well be pages of moss and fiber. A mask cast in brass and stripped of features covers his face, and a small rattle in his hands announces his arrival. You could mistake him for a human, but for the way he moves. Hervor takes another step back.

You stand your ground.

"Novices?" the man rattles. His voice does not come from his mouth. It comes from the soil.

"We brought you water" you reply, making sure to sound brave. You are not sure if you manage.

He coughs and after a moment you realize that the sound is a laughter of sorts, earthy and deep.

"Young Heidrek's jests! You seek to take up the mask and the rattle, then?"

He twists himself further from the den, allowing you to notice that beyond his torso, there is no body. No human body, at least, only a tangle of sinew and bramble, tightly wound into a serpentine trunk, disappearing in the darkness beneath the tree. In a flash, you imagine it, the veins of the earth, going down to the roots of the hill, and then back up, growing up as alder and grass and vivid flowers. You feel the weight of the life around you and gasp.

It is too heavy to shoulder. You have seen a dead beast as tall as a tree, but the man you are facing now is so much more than that. He is the hill and more than the hill, he is the grove, each trunk and each leaf, each blade of grass and each flower. His breath is the wind and his voice the croak of the soil, the squelch of mud, the chirping of the bird. His voice is life, the life speaks to you. Hervor stands her ground.

"You seek to take up the mask and the rattle?" he repeats his question.

"Yes" Hervor replies for you, womanly, quietly.

"Then see!"

And you see. Again the depths of life, and then the fault in all of it. It is not for the eyes to perceive nor for the mind to grasp. It is something you feel: like muscles tired after a day of work, like a wound bleeding, like an illness spreading, like the most visceral joy, like the most choking fear. For the briefest moment you understand the weave of life around you, the complex tapestry of breath and decay, of sound and quiet. So difficult to put together. So easy to unravel.

The grass is soft, heavy with dew. Fragrant, like you have never smelled before. You lie in it, comfortable. The voice comes from all around you, soft and caring.

"I can show you how to carry this burden. I can show you how to wield it."

Your memory goes back to the day when Njall came for you. To the trees turning into fetid water, to his body swelling. This is when you first felt that tug on your insides. When you first touched Life as it was, raw, unleashed.

"But what makes you think you can learn?"

Hervor speaks her reason and you speak yours.

[ ] Determination.
No matter whether you are capable of learning or not, you will not stop trying. You gain the Hot-blooded trait which allows you to endure more stress and trauma than your stats would imply and overcome certain forms of coercion through sheer fury. However, your Focus skill becomes unfavoured, costing 50% XP more to upgrade. Madcap determination goes poorly with quiet, collected approach.

[ ] Brilliance.
Your mind is keen. You know how to imitate technique, and, even more importantly, how to analyze and understand it. You gain the Analytical trait which allows you to apply your Skills to learn, mimic and find flaws in the other's use. For example, your brilliance with sword may allow you to spot flaws in the opponent's fighting style, or copy his signature move. However, your Lifesense skill becomes unfavoured, costing 50% XP more to upgrade. It is hard to both expand your perception and keep an analytical eye.

[ ] Authority.
You are not just some kid. You are a Masked Woman in training and that alone makes you worthy. You gain the Voice trait, representing a natural charisma and strength of character. Others tend to listen when you speak, you are difficult to resist and easily put on masks of confidence and authority. However, your Physique skill becomes unfavoured, costing 50% XP more to upgrade. Making others work for you does not engender certain kinds of growth.

 

[Gargulec]

Okay, so - the quest has not update after Christmas and as you may already suspect, it will not be updating in the future. After writing and throwing away several drafts of the update, I've come to the conclusion that while I had a solid idea for a setting and powers, they did not combine into a Quest I felt like running. Turns out I am not Omicron and the stories that I want to be told are not Bleach-like. In this sense, the Quest is a failure of not realizing what you want to write and instead attempting to get some easy publicity. I seriously apologize for that and hope that if I ever decide running something else in the future, you will not hold this stillbirth against me.

Gargulec out.