Remove ads

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

Reader mode
I liked every single quest by you so far, so sure, I'll bite.

[x] "Because I am angry."
 
And on this, I think I will be calling the vote. "Because I am afraid" wins.

Expect an update tomorrow or Saturday.
 
Remove ads
1.0 Alive
  • Threadmarks
    • 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.
     
    Last edited:
  • Threadmarks
    • [X] How you defeated all the other girls who were stick-fighting and rubbed your triumph in their face.

    become sasaki

    weak magic powers

    ace combat skills
     
    [X] 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.

    I feel like this quest will be full of warm and happy things so obviously the correct thing to do is select the warmest and happiest option.
     
    [X] How you defeated all the other girls who were stick-fighting and rubbed your triumph in their face.

    give me a sword lady of swording plz
     
    As a reminder.

    Gargulec said:
    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.
    Click to expand...
    Click to shrink...

    Gargulec said:
    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.
    Click to expand...
    Click to shrink...

    Gargulec said:
    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
    Click to expand...
    Click to shrink...

    Gargulec said:
    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.
    Click to expand...
    Click to shrink...

    I have an automatic aversion to Combat Art and Physique, as they sound boring. Sword Girl or Muscle Girl is just wasting the setting to me.

    Focus has a good amount of narrative synergy with our background. We took the Mask because we didn't want to be afraid anymore. With this, we won't be. On the other hand, it is a little weird for this to be the great skill of someone who has always been afraid. In terms of utility, it is a boosted resistance to mental attacks, and certainly sounds nice, especially if we have powers that threaten to overpower our mind, like Claymore does.

    Lifesense, though perplexingly named, has a flavor to it that I like, we remain connected to life even when steeped in death. That by itself draws me in quite a bit. Utility wise, it also seems really great. We can take in environmental chakra/Qi/etc and use it to boost ourselves, presumably. We evidently aren't told the rest of what it does until we learn about it in-game, so I will be a little put out if this just results in Be A Mage. I have higher expectations for a setting inspired by Claymore.

    Sooooo, I'm torn between these two. In terms of being on theme with the world, I like Lifesense, in addition to the tantalizing potential applications of the energy we gather. In terms of making a character I would like, Focus has an advantage of being a mental power that retains composure under great duress. If there is a Turn Into The Monster superpower coming up, we'd be a bit safer in specializing in it.

    Welp, writing it out has resolved my decision.

    [X] 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.
     
    Last edited:
    [X] 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.
     
    [X] 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.
     
    [X] 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.

    I'm struggling to decide between swords and Lifesense.

    On one hand, the girl whose fear defined her turns that on its head by focusing on, and becoming empowered by, the little good mojo that remains in this world.

    On the other hand, swords.

    Is tuff stuff.

    Edit: I flip-flopped.
     
    Last edited:
    [X] 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.

    Treasuring the moment
     
    [X] 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.
     
    [X] How you defeated all the other girls who were stick-fighting and rubbed your triumph in their face.

    Between this combat and lifesense. Ended up going with combat as it is hard to beat the raw value of being better at fighting in a role which your job is fighting.
     
    [X] How you defeated all the other girls who were stick-fighting and rubbed your triumph in their face.
     
    [X] 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.
     
    [X] 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.
     
    [X] 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.
     
    [X] 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.
     
    Reader mode
    You must login or register to reply here.
    Remove ads
    Back
    Top