The Streetwalker's Guide to the Hierarchy
- Thread starter Birdsie
- Start date
- Location
- United States
- Pronouns
- He/Him
[X] Masker of Circumstance
With the addition of Crimson Lost Wolfy's build is quite mechanically sound.. I'd also like to reiterate that we can only get Facelessness quality from Masked world.
We could probably make something like Artificer's Face again, but away from the homeworld I imagine it would run into a whole host of challenges. Taking it now lets us skip that headache and improves our ability to make better masks suited to Dorian, based on the worlds.
It feels like such an opportunity loss to not go with masks of our design. We will not get our next mask soon either, that with the challenges and the need for a workshop.
We could probably make something like Artificer's Face again, but away from the homeworld I imagine it would run into a whole host of challenges. Taking it now lets us skip that headache and improves our ability to make better masks suited to Dorian, based on the worlds.
It feels like such an opportunity loss to not go with masks of our design. We will not get our next mask soon either, that with the challenges and the need for a workshop.
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OctarineShrike
Avatar of Mandos
I have no objections to The Artificer's Face Proposal _brightwing made.
As per popular demand I've swapped out Tinkerer for Artificer. Just a word though - every mask has some level of power, and if you want more there are tradeoffs. If Assassin is 100% combat and Healing is 100% healing, then Crimson Lost is trying to be 80% combat 20% healing. If you go over that 100% then the tradeoff is somewhere else.
I'm just saying this to make sure that you guys understand downsides of alternative masks.
I'm just saying this to make sure that you guys understand downsides of alternative masks.
- Location
- 1
I don't think this is true? Unless you mean, 'we can only have naturally-occurring(and so morally acceptable) materials from the masks of those who succumbed to facelessness from Drethir', in which case you're right, but in terms of the output effects of said mask, the default scenario inherently assumes we can and will make facelessness-generating masks to work our way up?
\~~Archivum Fabularum Personarum~~/
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Birdsie
The Glass Webweaver - A smooth surface of charcoal-black frosted glass, reflecting the face of whoever's looking at you.
Focus: Metamask
Abilities: Magic reflection and copying, 'shapeshifting' disguises, social manipulation, swift mask-swapping (can shift to Webweaver from current mask, or vice versa; it can conceal itself 'inside' of other masks as well.)
Focus: Metamask
Abilities: Magic reflection and copying, 'shapeshifting' disguises, social manipulation, swift mask-swapping (can shift to Webweaver from current mask, or vice versa; it can conceal itself 'inside' of other masks as well.)
Birdsie
The Crimson Butcher - A mask of twisted metal only faintly resembling a human, covered in dried flesh and papery pig-skin, with crooked nails instead of teeth.
Focus: Strife
Abilities: Enhanced attributes, enhanced combat skills and danger sense; tactile hemokinesis, capable of forming weapons and armor out of blood; spatial transference through sufficiently large pools of blood.
Focus: Strife
Abilities: Enhanced attributes, enhanced combat skills and danger sense; tactile hemokinesis, capable of forming weapons and armor out of blood; spatial transference through sufficiently large pools of blood.
Birdsie
The Tyrant's Countenance - An irony realized; a steel face with a steel crown, embodying what they accused you of being.
Focus: Governing
Abilities: Enhanced attributes (CON-oriented), ferrokinesis and metal creation, enhanced leadership and combat skills, a variety of area buffs affecting one's allies, and curses affecting one's foes. Incredible diversity of attainments.
Focus: Governing
Abilities: Enhanced attributes (CON-oriented), ferrokinesis and metal creation, enhanced leadership and combat skills, a variety of area buffs affecting one's allies, and curses affecting one's foes. Incredible diversity of attainments.
BrainyPicker
Isee Mask: Two wheels rotating around your head with eyes located all across them. I See.
The Idea I have for this is that it'd make the wearer much more perceptive at everything. Noticing stuff thats hidden, magical, or just unnoticed at the time and giving insight into how that stuff fits together. It could also have an ability where all the eyes focus on a target and intimidates them into freezing up for a bit (probably at least long enough for Dorian to switch masks quickly).
Also by wheels+eyes I meant something like this but without the wings. I couldn't find a better picture than this.
The Idea I have for this is that it'd make the wearer much more perceptive at everything. Noticing stuff thats hidden, magical, or just unnoticed at the time and giving insight into how that stuff fits together. It could also have an ability where all the eyes focus on a target and intimidates them into freezing up for a bit (probably at least long enough for Dorian to switch masks quickly).
Also by wheels+eyes I meant something like this but without the wings. I couldn't find a better picture than this.
_brightwing
A Mask of your own Face - That gradually turns back your body to your ideal state you were in when you first crafted the mask. Reverting your form to the pinnacle of your physical prime. Metaphysical abilities to save your mindstates as well as you progress, protection from memetic dangers. Capturing other physical states as well with time.
_brightwing
A Singing Mask - Fashioned after picking up one of the singing cobblestones from the street and using it as material for the Traveling mask. A mask suited to walking the streets, that grows with power with each world we hop.
firefrog600
Mask of the Sacrificial lamb: Made from the mask of a sacrificial lamb this mask was made with one thing in mind bloody sacrifice of a defenseless victim. From the sacrifice of the lamb this mask was forged from the death of a defenseless creature and then used on many others. Forced onto the faces of victims who soon were killed after putting this mask remembers the defenseless nature of the first life taken from it. Forcing the concept of a defenseless lamb onto those it seeks to sacrifice this mask hungers for the sacrifice of others. Those who have the mask put on become weaker like the lamb it once came from and unless they can manage to take off the mask designed to clamp onto its victims they will slowly succumb to weakness and be sacrificed as well.
_brightwing
The Trickster's Visage - The serpent's tongue that tempts. Fostering trust and desire in potential clients, making them more inclined to accept a mask. A gift, that binds the wearer's essence to it evermore. The Mask will feel their heart and always know where each bound mask is. And in the end, the gift must always be returned to its rightful master.
_brightwing
Devourer of Faces - The tool of the assassination. A featureless mask with a yawning maw that feeds on a target or area. With continued exposure, the power intensifies, stripping away the very identity of those caught in its grasp, rendering them faceless. Realizing the higher degree of facelessness has been invaluable in Mask creation.
Wolfy
The Crimson Lost - is a mask of haunting beauty. It is fashioned from a deep, lustrous ruby, its surface carved with the likeness of a blooming lotus, the petals unfurling in a mesmerizing pattern of light and shadow. The mask pulses with an almost lifelike rhythm, mirroring the steady beat of a heart, its glow intensifying with every beat. It grants the following abilities:
> Hemokinesis: Ability to control blood. Can use own or foreign blood to generate weapons or launch weapons. Can be used to deal catastrophic damage in tactile range by directly controlling opponents blood> Combat Tendency: Grants increased aptitude to combat
> Blood Sense: Gain ability to perceive blood of other people, acting as scuffed X-ray vision
> Consume: Expend blood, your own or blood of others, to heal. Pretty bad healing ratio but it's somethin
_brightwing
The Artificer's Face - Nailed together from the disjointed fragments of many a worn mask, wearers of which have all succumbed to Facelessness. Fused with the tools of maskcraft of old, sticking out of the mask in odd angles.
Donning the mask perceive the world through a lens of pure potential, seeing the underlying structures and materials of masks with unparalleled clarity. Furthermore, gauge the threshold of facelessness that can be projected by a given mask during creation, to overstep the risk of mask failure.
The mask naturally generates energies associated with Facelessness, creating a reserve that can only be tapped when crafting masks. This reservoir increases with Mask potential and must be used judiciously. If overfilled, it could lead to an uncontrollable outpouring of Facelessness.
Donning the mask perceive the world through a lens of pure potential, seeing the underlying structures and materials of masks with unparalleled clarity. Furthermore, gauge the threshold of facelessness that can be projected by a given mask during creation, to overstep the risk of mask failure.
The mask naturally generates energies associated with Facelessness, creating a reserve that can only be tapped when crafting masks. This reservoir increases with Mask potential and must be used judiciously. If overfilled, it could lead to an uncontrollable outpouring of Facelessness.
JOEbob
Mitosis Mask - Made of foggy orange crystal with off-white specks scattered within, this Mask has been carved to create an internal mechanism which can be subtly activated by prodding the interior through the wearer's cheek, causing the external layer to slide horizontally as though undergoing mitosis. Its power, accordingly, is duplication; at low Potential, merely creating an illusory duplicate with a slight amount of false solidity, but eventually replicating the wearer's mind to control the duplicate along with higher-quality physical replication, up to and eventually including magical abilities, and charging the duplicates with the ability to persist for a moderate span while the Mask is not worn, 'withering away' if their duration is exceeded. Of course, the duplicate is wearing half of the mask, so it cannot wear a mask itself.
The duplicate's mask itself contains the same mechanism, leaving open the option of developing into serial duplication. With sufficient potential, time, and resources in the form of food or any other needed bodily components, it is hoped the Mask will allow the conversion of the temporary duplicates into persistent, subsequently-mundane copies of the wearer, capable of even taking off their portion of the Mitosis mask and wearing another.
The duplicate's mask itself contains the same mechanism, leaving open the option of developing into serial duplication. With sufficient potential, time, and resources in the form of food or any other needed bodily components, it is hoped the Mask will allow the conversion of the temporary duplicates into persistent, subsequently-mundane copies of the wearer, capable of even taking off their portion of the Mitosis mask and wearing another.
Pseudopod
Smiling Mask - This mask of quilted appearance presents a sycophantic leer to the world. Its charming face exerts a minor, charm-based attitude alteration on the minds of those around the wearer; a subtle and insidious effect to the point where its victims won't believe they're under its effects, and unaffected bystanders are only likely to recognise the effect if they're looking for it. Befuddles or prevents reading of the wearer's actual body language or tells. Further upgrading may lead to stronger mind-altering effects, such as more blatant mental manipulation and "invisibility" through jedi mind trick.
Pseudopod
Opera Mask - A flair for the dramatic goes hand in hand with a masquerade; this mask rests plastered to the face like a layer of half-melted wax. The wearer's voice is loud enough to sing across a city, their gestures flamboyant enough to convey abstract meaning through interpretive dance. +Socialise, Singing, Charisma. Allows for instant "costume changes", exchanging the clothing and equipment one might reasonably wear and carry from a pocket storage.
Pseudopod
Plague Mask - A corvid's beaked countenance and hollow eye sockets shields the wearer. Once a symbolic measure of protection from contamination and infection, now turned conceptual. Protects from hostile environmental contamination, but can be empowered to also deny social, mental and magical contamination. At the most elevated levels of protection, the wearer is shielded from the most invidious and toxic of spiritual contamination.
The Samaritan - A translucent visor fashioned from the clear material of the medicine box, that is not quite glass. The original white cross emblem of the first aid box preserved and set in the center of the forehead. The bandages artistically woven around to resemble the winged serpent motiff of this world.
Grants the wearer an intuitive understanding of medical knowledge, with a heightened sense to detect injuries and severity. It manifests as flashes of insight, guiding them to take the most effective actions to preserve a life in a crisis - even with completely mundane items.
Furthermore, exudes an aura of regeneration that enhances natural healing processes, preventing vitals from dropping to critical levels. Pain is numbed, as well as the fear of death. The wearer experiences a degree of pain of all under the aura.
Grants the wearer an intuitive understanding of medical knowledge, with a heightened sense to detect injuries and severity. It manifests as flashes of insight, guiding them to take the most effective actions to preserve a life in a crisis - even with completely mundane items.
Furthermore, exudes an aura of regeneration that enhances natural healing processes, preventing vitals from dropping to critical levels. Pain is numbed, as well as the fear of death. The wearer experiences a degree of pain of all under the aura.
_brightwing
The Cure - A plaguemask. The beak shaped from purified zombie bones - a hundred slain by your hands. Worked together with leather fashioned from their treated skin. This mask is ritually imprinted with the knowledge of the true cause of infection during creation.
Grants complete immunity to zombification, protecting the wearer and those in close proximity from becoming infected.
With stronger potential, should the mask be placed on a zombie.. they start to revert back to who they once were. Cured. Wearers gains the ability to restore other recently infected as well.
With significantly great potential, work towards resetting the wearer to their ideal self, undoing entropy itself. Or any ontological harm. Immunity to compulsion of all possible form of self and others.
Grants complete immunity to zombification, protecting the wearer and those in close proximity from becoming infected.
With stronger potential, should the mask be placed on a zombie.. they start to revert back to who they once were. Cured. Wearers gains the ability to restore other recently infected as well.
With significantly great potential, work towards resetting the wearer to their ideal self, undoing entropy itself. Or any ontological harm. Immunity to compulsion of all possible form of self and others.
Wolfy
Ravaging Hive:
Flesh-eating Swarm - Conjure a cloud of flesh eating locust under user's control. Extremely lethal these locust are capable of consuming a grown men in minutes. Consumed flesh is converted into more locust.
Swarm sense - a very powerful information gathering ability that grows ever stronger with zombies killed.
Hunger Form: Requires consumption of Flesh eating locust equivalent to user's weight. For next hour gain ability to transform, together with your gear and Ravaging Hive, into swarm of locust
Evolve - Invest Potential spent on this ability into various locust upgrades. Start with set of basic upgrades; major consumption of certain species unlock additional options
-Wretched Hive(10 Potential, requires 10000 consumed Zombies): Gain Zombie virus bite. Instead of turning into a Zombie, victim turns into Wretched Hive, a shambling cadaver brimming with locust
Flesh-eating Swarm - Conjure a cloud of flesh eating locust under user's control. Extremely lethal these locust are capable of consuming a grown men in minutes. Consumed flesh is converted into more locust.
Swarm sense - a very powerful information gathering ability that grows ever stronger with zombies killed.
Hunger Form: Requires consumption of Flesh eating locust equivalent to user's weight. For next hour gain ability to transform, together with your gear and Ravaging Hive, into swarm of locust
Evolve - Invest Potential spent on this ability into various locust upgrades. Start with set of basic upgrades; major consumption of certain species unlock additional options
-Wretched Hive(10 Potential, requires 10000 consumed Zombies): Gain Zombie virus bite. Instead of turning into a Zombie, victim turns into Wretched Hive, a shambling cadaver brimming with locust
JOEbob
All-Seeing Scorn: Depicting a sneering, disdainful face with eyes hidden in the creases and scattered around the mask, preferably with thin twisted metal holding 'floating' eyes at a small distance. The details of the face are deliberately ambiguous and indistinguishable, save for the eyes and distinction of the sneer. Its power is twofold; firstly, a divination power of detachable gaze. It has no range limit, but the detached gaze must be moved on a continuous path through space at a swift but limited pace; to divine a target would not take as long as walking there, but would perhaps take as long as driving there in a high-speed car. This power has the secondary bonus of tending towards your target, correcting minor inaccuracies and serving as more general divination.
The second power is to attack through the detached gaze; by draining Facelessness from the wearer or target's surrounding area and drawing on the user's scorn, it afflicts the target with a degradation of identity carefully stopped at 0 rather than the negatives, crippling them without turning them into a proper Faceless. The used Facelessness is either stored in the Mask for future repetitions or destroyed by the process.
The second power is to attack through the detached gaze; by draining Facelessness from the wearer or target's surrounding area and drawing on the user's scorn, it afflicts the target with a degradation of identity carefully stopped at 0 rather than the negatives, crippling them without turning them into a proper Faceless. The used Facelessness is either stored in the Mask for future repetitions or destroyed by the process.
_brightwing
Screentime: The mask's base is a sleek, flat panel repurposed from one such TV. Colours dancing across the screen in tune with the wearer's emotions. Twisted cables vein around the edges, securing the frame in place. The eyes emit a soft, otherworldly luminance shifting with patterns - ever changing, never repeating.
See fragmented visuals, cryptic glimpses to places or things aligned with the wearer's current interest. Clues or impressions that they must interpret to understand the full picture. With greater potential invested, comes more focus and clarity of these glimpses.
The energy of the colours imbued in the mask grow dim after each vision. It must recharge allowing for about three visions' worth each day. Capable of being supercharged using the Artificer's Face's reserves, at the risk of the screen potentially shattering..
See fragmented visuals, cryptic glimpses to places or things aligned with the wearer's current interest. Clues or impressions that they must interpret to understand the full picture. With greater potential invested, comes more focus and clarity of these glimpses.
The energy of the colours imbued in the mask grow dim after each vision. It must recharge allowing for about three visions' worth each day. Capable of being supercharged using the Artificer's Face's reserves, at the risk of the screen potentially shattering..
Screentime v2: The mask's base is a sleek, flat panel repurposed from one such TV. Colours dancing across the screen in tune with the wearer's emotions. Twisted cables vein around the edges, securing the frame in place. The eyes emit a soft, otherworldly luminance shifting with patterns - ever changing, never repeating.
--[X] Set your goal, and the mask shall show you what you seek. Vision of you traversing towards the execution of your goal fills you, a map etching into your mind. Works specifically in regards to a physical location or person. With greater potential invested comes greater finetuning over the visions.
--[X] Rewind the visions and rewatch them at will, as long as the power of colours last. Furthermore, also gain the ability to record everything the wearers personally sees wearing the mask.
--[X] The energy of the colours imbued in the mask grow dim after each vision. It must recharge allowing for about three visions' worth each day. Capable of being supercharged using the Artificer's Face's reserves, at the risk of the screen potentially shattering..
--[X] Set your goal, and the mask shall show you what you seek. Vision of you traversing towards the execution of your goal fills you, a map etching into your mind. Works specifically in regards to a physical location or person. With greater potential invested comes greater finetuning over the visions.
--[X] Rewind the visions and rewatch them at will, as long as the power of colours last. Furthermore, also gain the ability to record everything the wearers personally sees wearing the mask.
--[X] The energy of the colours imbued in the mask grow dim after each vision. It must recharge allowing for about three visions' worth each day. Capable of being supercharged using the Artificer's Face's reserves, at the risk of the screen potentially shattering..
Rihaku
Thinking Cap: *Given at least a somewhat realistic goal in mind, the thinking cap provides a powerful, supernaturally intuitive hunch on how one might go about fulfilling that goal, especially with regards to physical location - if one desired to become a Visceralist, prolonged use of the Cap could point them towards an area where a powerful and reasonable Visceralist resides.
*Also augments perception and deduction skills to a substantial degree.
*Also augments perception and deduction skills to a substantial degree.
_brightwing
The Specter: What is a ghost but a memory? This world is a specter of its former self. Collect the soul of this world. Fragments of moss covered bricks, old newspapers and photographs, corrugated metal from billboards and engine carriages.. shards of a skull crumbling underfoot.
Sculpted together into the visage of a Specter, a legacy. Tattered headlines and faces cling to it like a second skin. The dome of a skull with its hallow eyes gazing onto eternity.
On activation, flesh becomes memory unfurling into obsidian smoke bearing only the mask visible.
The mask absorbs emotional resonance from objects touched by the wearer. Dormant until it comes into contact with an object imbued with personal significance. A locket, a handwritten note, a cherished book. A beloved family member, now a walking corpse.
Each memory absorbed charges its phasing ability.
Sculpted together into the visage of a Specter, a legacy. Tattered headlines and faces cling to it like a second skin. The dome of a skull with its hallow eyes gazing onto eternity.
On activation, flesh becomes memory unfurling into obsidian smoke bearing only the mask visible.
The mask absorbs emotional resonance from objects touched by the wearer. Dormant until it comes into contact with an object imbued with personal significance. A locket, a handwritten note, a cherished book. A beloved family member, now a walking corpse.
Each memory absorbed charges its phasing ability.
JOEbob
Faceless Cloth: Made of a worn piece of nondescript but preferably light-grey or skin-hued cloth, wrapped tight around the wearer's face. Viewers might just about discern the existence of a nose and mouth, perhaps even eyes, but the wearer's identity is as masked as that of the material itself, their words muffled, only the fiercest and most sudden of facial expressions discernible. Their vision, in turn, suffers the same; Even if worn carefully, with a marginally thinned portion over the eyes, only the vaguest of vision is possible, and discerning identity out of question. The energy of facelessness gradually afflicts and clings to the wearer, as well as anyone they gaze at too long, but of course, neither will be harmed so long as they wear Masks. This clinging has benefits, if one shoulders the cost; one appears faceless, nondescript, not unlike a true faceless- yet also not monstrous, as the conversion is yet incomplete.
JOEbob
Sacrifice Forger / Terminal Opus: A mask designed to be put on, but never removed. With a [spiked interior and clasp]/[powerful adhesive mixed with toxin on the inside face], this [mask of bloodstained and rusted metal with a crack which blood 'paint' seeps out of due to the spikes, not quite where the mouth should be]/[slate-grey mask with vision-correcting lenses over the eyeholes and lines resembling wrinkles drawn in the green blood of the undead] draws directly from the wearer's life, without restraint. Although theoretically survivable for someone sufficiently powerful, the power comes not with, but from the price, and skirting it will reduce the effectiveness unless a much larger amount of non-lethal life is absorbed. That power is expended with equal lack of restraint, catalyzing base objects into a single Mask with substantially higher initial and growth potential than normal, partially affected by the nature of the bearer.
Although not principally a source of Facelessness, the raw power of this crafting Mask, born of the sacrifice, ensures it will function regardless of this trivial hurdle.
Although not principally a source of Facelessness, the raw power of this crafting Mask, born of the sacrifice, ensures it will function regardless of this trivial hurdle.
_brightwing
The Scream: Faces of the undead still twitching, stitched meticulously together with interwoven bones - each shaved to resemble the tools of the trade of maskcraft. It hungers to be fed.
Capable of crafting masks from faces carved out of the undead, meshed with mask materials. Brought to life with an overcharge from Artificer, rendering it inert for now.
Capable of crafting masks from faces carved out of the undead, meshed with mask materials. Brought to life with an overcharge from Artificer, rendering it inert for now.
_brightwing
The Veil: A mask adorned with a halo undead fingers opening and closing, interlaced together. Questing apendeges seeking to ensure that your eyes, ears, and mouth remain enshrouded from the world, that you are hidden from shame, evermore. Generate facelessness aura directed to a single point.
_brightwing
The Vault: What is a lock? It is a threshold of control. A boundary between access and denial, bridging of the tangible and the intangible.
Crafted from the remnants of a world that once was. A still sturdy iron lock, now pitted with rust, a brass padlock slashed by a claw. A chrome deadbolt, torn out. Each lock gathered from abandoned homes, meticulously taken apart. Aligning them seamlessly with the contours of Dorian's face.
And where eyes should be, there are hollow recesses - the Keyholes. Hanging from the mask like charms are the Keys. Each tied to a specific part of the Vault's interdimensional space to summon or store.
For now, the keys bear a brief cooldown after use. As the mask grows in Potential, the keys combine to form the Master key, inscribed forever into the first wearer's mind. No one but he might use the mask, evermore.
Ability to store a single Mask to begin with, increasing in dimensional reserves as the Vault grows from power and use. The magic gradually extending to living beings, to be held in suspension. In its final iteration, gaining the ability for the storage of abstract concepts given form.
Crafted from the remnants of a world that once was. A still sturdy iron lock, now pitted with rust, a brass padlock slashed by a claw. A chrome deadbolt, torn out. Each lock gathered from abandoned homes, meticulously taken apart. Aligning them seamlessly with the contours of Dorian's face.
And where eyes should be, there are hollow recesses - the Keyholes. Hanging from the mask like charms are the Keys. Each tied to a specific part of the Vault's interdimensional space to summon or store.
For now, the keys bear a brief cooldown after use. As the mask grows in Potential, the keys combine to form the Master key, inscribed forever into the first wearer's mind. No one but he might use the mask, evermore.
Ability to store a single Mask to begin with, increasing in dimensional reserves as the Vault grows from power and use. The magic gradually extending to living beings, to be held in suspension. In its final iteration, gaining the ability for the storage of abstract concepts given form.
Addio
The Miniaturist: A mask carved from wood to resemble an avuncular gentleman in stylised proportion, magnificently mustachioed with white hair. The mask wears a monocle adapted from a salvaged camera lens. The quality of the mask is exquisite in its detail; engravings finer than hairs swirl and pattern the Miniaturist's ebullient cheeks.
The mask grants the power of miniaturisation: a possession can be replaced by a small scale imitation which appears to be composed of painted wood, and vice versa. Only the Miniaturist can perform this exchange, which occurs with fantastical immediacy, as though the copy held close to the eye becomes in a blink the genuine article.
While modifications to the miniature are reflected in the true object upon reversion, this is limited to gross cosmetic changes only; the inner complexity of the miniatures reaches only the standard of a dedicated but pragmatic artist working with millimetre-precision tools.
As Potential is invested, the size of acceptable targets increases, just as the resulting miniature shrinks. Model rooms, dollhouses, ships in a bottle... perhaps, in some far horizon of power, the Miniaturist may carry an orrery of celestial bodies in his suitcase.
The mask grants the power of miniaturisation: a possession can be replaced by a small scale imitation which appears to be composed of painted wood, and vice versa. Only the Miniaturist can perform this exchange, which occurs with fantastical immediacy, as though the copy held close to the eye becomes in a blink the genuine article.
While modifications to the miniature are reflected in the true object upon reversion, this is limited to gross cosmetic changes only; the inner complexity of the miniatures reaches only the standard of a dedicated but pragmatic artist working with millimetre-precision tools.
As Potential is invested, the size of acceptable targets increases, just as the resulting miniature shrinks. Model rooms, dollhouses, ships in a bottle... perhaps, in some far horizon of power, the Miniaturist may carry an orrery of celestial bodies in his suitcase.
_brightwing
Mooneater: Forged from tarnished silver tempered with werewolf blood, the mask's surface is meticulously shaved to mimic the cracked moon overhead. When donned, the Mooneater exuades a veil that dims the moonlight within its sphere of influence, as if a lunar eclipse is underway.
Continuously drains lunar essence from everything within its vicinity, silver ichor trailing down through mask's the craters. Tears shed by the moon.
The structural integrity of the mask is compromised as the cracks spread and spread and eventually the dam bursts, lunar essence unable to be contained any further. Unpredictable results, advisable to not wear it after the threshold point.
Continuously drains lunar essence from everything within its vicinity, silver ichor trailing down through mask's the craters. Tears shed by the moon.
The structural integrity of the mask is compromised as the cracks spread and spread and eventually the dam bursts, lunar essence unable to be contained any further. Unpredictable results, advisable to not wear it after the threshold point.
GenericName, _brightwing
The Joyous Lyre: A grin wide, no tear shall mar. For this Mask's Joy will ne'er drown.
A labyrinth of golden gossamer, like spun sunlight over a visage frozen in perpetual mirth. Strings that sing with the hidden music that lies within all things, from the rustling of leaves to the beating of a heart.
While donning this mask, no sorrow will touch the wearer, no anger in their heart, nor doubt. Only Joy reigns supreme. Weight of countless tales, with every note the wearer croons. Ushering joy to all who listen, the song of the spheres. Like Orpheus of old.
The Boundless Joy of the path. Feel the rhythm with the world itself deep in your bones, the wearer's steps dance as if pulled forward by melody of the song. To always know where exactly to place one's feet to be unmarred by the wear and tear of the road. As you travel, your song itself holding back entropy's sway while it lasts. Garments untouched by dust, scorch or frost. Skin unmarked by the passage of days..
A labyrinth of golden gossamer, like spun sunlight over a visage frozen in perpetual mirth. Strings that sing with the hidden music that lies within all things, from the rustling of leaves to the beating of a heart.
While donning this mask, no sorrow will touch the wearer, no anger in their heart, nor doubt. Only Joy reigns supreme. Weight of countless tales, with every note the wearer croons. Ushering joy to all who listen, the song of the spheres. Like Orpheus of old.
The Boundless Joy of the path. Feel the rhythm with the world itself deep in your bones, the wearer's steps dance as if pulled forward by melody of the song. To always know where exactly to place one's feet to be unmarred by the wear and tear of the road. As you travel, your song itself holding back entropy's sway while it lasts. Garments untouched by dust, scorch or frost. Skin unmarked by the passage of days..
JOEbob
Unyielding Ocean's Pallor: The hue of a drowning face, this mask just the same; blue lips and sallow skin, mouth slightly agape. The eyes, though, painted on and concealing the actual slits as dark shadows, are focused and resolute, of intense colors with not a hint of doubt or fear, and a few still-working blood-vessels are subtly included. Made of tough materials and completed by dunking the Mask in water, causing a thin layer of moisture to cling perpetually to the surface and interior. When worn, the Mask drowns the bearer, even should they be on land; all they breath shall be water in their lungs so long as they wear it. However, the Mask also prevents this drowning from killing or fully incapacitating the bearer; indeed, so long as it's worn, the Pallor shall render the bearer inured to death or unconsciousness by any source, at least to a degree. In the Mask's identity, the drowning is a burden, a side-effect of the baptism by water the notional figure suffered and actual wearer must endure to gain the same resilience the physical materials of the mask hold and more.
Wolfy
Sooth Teller - Hospital white mask with one cyclopean eye. Every breath wearer takes has a strange melody to it, and their words betray calmness and care
Req: Musical notes, blanket, certain medical supplies
Soothe: Singing, create aura of mental calm
Calm: Speaking to a person, calm their excessive feelings and bring them back to their senses. Can be used to heal damage done by mental attacks
Req: Musical notes, blanket, certain medical supplies
Soothe: Singing, create aura of mental calm
Calm: Speaking to a person, calm their excessive feelings and bring them back to their senses. Can be used to heal damage done by mental attacks
Wolfy
Star Pioneer - Proud medal and hardy wood make up this exquisite mask. Dorian's now finest work is punctured by dr Andrei's own PHD seal, showing to every and all that the man is indeed one and only Doctor Andrei
Req: Wood from professor's desk, metal used in significant research, dr Andrei's PHD
Learn: Increase skill gain when studying. Can be used to generate insights or breakthroughs, although this is mentally taxing to extreme. With enough investment, can develop various sensory powers centered around learning facts
Teach: Gain increased ability to bestow knowledge. Increases one's own skill relative to amount of knowledge of that skill bestowed to others both directly via this ability and indirectly via means such as publishing or your students disseminating knowledge
Research: Commit to a research goal. Portion of the mask Potential will be committed towards this research goal; once it is finished, users gains understanding of technology or magic the Mask has researched. Usually has some kind of cost required to start research, and most research goals have prerequisites that have to be met.
Renaissance Man: Increase personal ability based on total amount of skills known. Usually, this increases the potency of magic, physical stats and especially defensive capabilities against vectors well understood by the user. Turns hair purple
Req: Wood from professor's desk, metal used in significant research, dr Andrei's PHD
Learn: Increase skill gain when studying. Can be used to generate insights or breakthroughs, although this is mentally taxing to extreme. With enough investment, can develop various sensory powers centered around learning facts
Teach: Gain increased ability to bestow knowledge. Increases one's own skill relative to amount of knowledge of that skill bestowed to others both directly via this ability and indirectly via means such as publishing or your students disseminating knowledge
Research: Commit to a research goal. Portion of the mask Potential will be committed towards this research goal; once it is finished, users gains understanding of technology or magic the Mask has researched. Usually has some kind of cost required to start research, and most research goals have prerequisites that have to be met.
Renaissance Man: Increase personal ability based on total amount of skills known. Usually, this increases the potency of magic, physical stats and especially defensive capabilities against vectors well understood by the user. Turns hair purple
_brightwing
A Mask of Your own Face - Dorian meticulously peels off his face, stemming blood and pain with Viscerality.
Each nerve, artery, and ligament painstakingly snipped, leaving behind a living canvas. The features perfectly unmarred, as if he were merely asleep. Blood still pulsing through the capillaries.
When donned, the mask allows access to a perfect snapshot of Dorian Croft's identity at the time of the mask's conception. Memories, quirks.. His genius and recklessness, shame and rage. Pride and joys. His dreams, frozen in time within its contours. A mirror of the past.
Each nerve, artery, and ligament painstakingly snipped, leaving behind a living canvas. The features perfectly unmarred, as if he were merely asleep. Blood still pulsing through the capillaries.
When donned, the mask allows access to a perfect snapshot of Dorian Croft's identity at the time of the mask's conception. Memories, quirks.. His genius and recklessness, shame and rage. Pride and joys. His dreams, frozen in time within its contours. A mirror of the past.
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- Pronouns
- He/Him
[X] Masker of Circumstance
- Location
- washington
Fine brightwing wants help so sure. I'd like people to at least consider a sharingan equivalent efb later.
[X] Wolfy
[X] Wolfy
- Location
- 1
Mask design - Mitosis Mask
Made of foggy orange crystal with off-white specks scattered within, this Mask has been carved to create an internal mechanism which can be subtly activated by prodding the interior through the wearer's cheek, causing the external layer to slide horizontally as though undergoing mitosis. Its power, accordingly, is duplication; at low Potential, merely creating an illusory duplicate with a slight amount of false solidity, but eventually replicating the wearer's mind to control the duplicate along with higher-quality physical replication, up to and eventually including magical abilities, and charging the duplicates with the ability to persist for a moderate span while the Mask is not worn, 'withering away' if their duration is exceeded. Of course, the duplicate is wearing half of the mask, so it cannot wear a mask itself.
The duplicate's mask itself contains the same mechanism, leaving open the option of developing into serial duplication. With sufficient potential, time, and resources in the form of food or any other needed bodily components, it is hoped the Mask will allow the conversion of the temporary duplicates into persistent, subsequently-mundane copies of the wearer, capable of even taking off their portion of the Mitosis mask and wearing another.
Made of foggy orange crystal with off-white specks scattered within, this Mask has been carved to create an internal mechanism which can be subtly activated by prodding the interior through the wearer's cheek, causing the external layer to slide horizontally as though undergoing mitosis. Its power, accordingly, is duplication; at low Potential, merely creating an illusory duplicate with a slight amount of false solidity, but eventually replicating the wearer's mind to control the duplicate along with higher-quality physical replication, up to and eventually including magical abilities, and charging the duplicates with the ability to persist for a moderate span while the Mask is not worn, 'withering away' if their duration is exceeded. Of course, the duplicate is wearing half of the mask, so it cannot wear a mask itself.
The duplicate's mask itself contains the same mechanism, leaving open the option of developing into serial duplication. With sufficient potential, time, and resources in the form of food or any other needed bodily components, it is hoped the Mask will allow the conversion of the temporary duplicates into persistent, subsequently-mundane copies of the wearer, capable of even taking off their portion of the Mitosis mask and wearing another.
Drethir - Intro
Birdsie
Sharp Talons Cleave The Worthy
- Location
- Poland
Intro
Across the nightly streets of Drethir's capital, there was a celebration. Festive music played on every corner, and freewheeling revelry abounded, cheerful drunkards and hard-faced artisans working side by side as if set to banish the mere idea of sobriety.
On a cobblestone-floored courtyard between a castle's walls on the slopes of the noble quarters, its sides lit with amber lanterns, the rich folk of the Empire accumulated to celebrate as well, if in a more costly and palatial fashion; countless buffet tables were set with spiced victuals and jugs of imported alcohol, and noble lords and ladies in magnificent dress and opulently decorated masks danced with captivating skill and vigor, laughter spreading out infectiously. The sides of the castle were decked in an almost clownish mountain of streamers, ribbons, and balloons of every color except yellow.
A single young lord in an opulent cloak of dark velvet, as if he were draped a raven's feathers, stalked through the crowd of common merrymakers, approaching the castle's entrance. A hood covered his mask, yet careful observation showed a glint of reflected amber light.
Ahead of the castle's doors stood a trio of cheerful Inquisitors, smiling underneath classic theatrical comedy masks. Their armor was only a steel plackart over a cerulean uniform and violet-striped breeches; a woman among them had also threaded several purple ribbons into neck-length blonde hair.
"Invitation, sir?" asked the lead Inquisitor.
"It's a wonderful night for a party," said Dorian calmly, handing over a paper with meaningless content.
"Yes indeed, sir!" He smiled and looked down at the paper, still smiling. "This isn't a-"
That's when Dorian issued a signal; a crossbow bolt struck the Inquisitor's neck, its force causing him to drop to one knee. The female Inquisitor drew a rapier but within an instant froze as Dorian stepped forward and sunk a cold blade into her collarbone, slamming it through and neutralizing her. Before the final Inquisitor could decide on shouting for aid or intervening, a third assassin stepped out of the shadows from behind, and in one proficient motion, snapped his neck. The crossbowman fired a second bolt, right between the leader's eyes, as Dorian drew the blade out and allowed the woman's lifeless body to drop prone. Each of the inquisitors was smiling as they died.
Behind them, the commoners screamed and scattered like spiders escaping from underneath a rock picked up by a godly hand.
"Remember," said Dorian - or Glass, as he was known to his compatriots - with a somber tone, sheathing the blade. "We're here for Duke Bauta." Two stern nods answered his reminder, and without further ado, they proceeded inside.
Resistance was encountered right out of the gate. An Inquisitorial team and a platoon of castle keepers detected the breach, and came forward to arrest them - or, it seemed, apply lethal force if need be. In only a single moment of razor-sharp focus, Dorian exerted a stilling influence that radiated out like an invisible cone of fundamental repression; a wave analogous to Facelessness, yet subduing and crushing the supernatural effects of masks, rather than identity itself; serving as a prototype of his artificer mask.
It suppressed their combat talents, causing Inquisitors with near-supernal footing to stumble over cobblestones. An orb of azure energy came out of the arm of one of the smiling men and without even a thought, Dorian swatted it aside and pivoted on the balls of his feet, saber drawn, to slash across the neck of another. One of his allies, Cross, fired off several bolts in rapid succession with pinpoint precision, each one dropping a guard, while Shade crept through lightless spots with unnatural swiftness, attacking from the flanks. The skirmish was over in about fifteen seconds; swift and violent, with Dorian tempted to switch to Crimson Lost if they encountered more of this.
They entered the courtyard.
It wasn't empty.
Duke Bauta stood on the stone stage, a flute of sparkling champagne in one hand. A lazy smile adorned a bearded face. Although the noble revelers didn't leave, they'd moved to the sides, partaking in exotic meals and fine alcohol; not as a break from dancing, but seemingly as if this attack was expected.
"Congratulations!" said the Duke, clapping a hand on his wrist. "You've reached Duke Bauta's masquerade ball, Glass, Cross, and Shade."
"You're a real thorn, Bauta, and a pig," spat Cross. "Even as your defenders die, you celebrate here? Have you no shame?"
"None at all." The Duke smiled.
"You're outnumbered," Dorian noted, voice cold and apprehensive at the man's self-confidence, "But not worried at all?"
"Why would I be?"
The Duke continued to smile as an azure mist ran out from his mask's delicate peacock feathers, carrying a faint scent of blueberries; diaphanous and sparkling with luminescent glimmers, as it congealed into echoes of the Inquisitors and castle guards they'd slain on the way in, each still wearing their mask.
How naive. He's heard of me, but doesn't know how the Webweaver works?
Dorian smiled.
"Because I can do this."
And the invisible impetus shot forward, a dispellation of the Duke's mask condensed into a single nullifying wave.
The spirits shuddered and wavered, not unlike a candle's flame disturbed by a strong wind.
They didn't fall, and the mist continued to pour forth, creating more and more echoes; spirits of individuals Dorian hadn't met. He felt a chill of fear, a shuddering shock of failure where there should've been success; why didn't the emanation work? Bauta's carnival mask wasn't that strong; its facetime shouldn't have been...
"One consideration you failed to take into account, Glass," said Bauta's mouth, with another man's voice. A voice so majestic and terrifyingly imposing it could not be defied, like an angel's horn. Not a Duke's voice, but an Emperor's voice, each syllable cast through the mask of a subordinate from across an Empire. "The Duke is a subject of mine."
He attempted to nullify the voice; it didn't work. The Duke's face lifted up a notch, chin towards them, as its eyes narrowed in cold arrogance. Dorian turned on a heel and started to run, while Cross and Shade were frozen in stupefaction at beholding an even imperfect transmission of the Imperial Visage.
"Betray," the Emperor hissed imperiously, an absolute declaration that could be made thrice a day; once for each continent the Drethir Empire conquered.
As soon as the command reached Dorian's central nervous system, disobedience was impossible. He turned on a heel and without hesitation drove the saber's blade through Cross' stomach, who, in turn, fired a bolt at contact range into Dorian's sternum, punching solid bone into dusty splinters and causing Dorian to spit out flecks of blood that pumped up into his oral cavity. He stepped aside as Cross attempted to follow it with a dagger slash; among Cross' mask attributes were superlative dexterity and constitution. The stomach hole didn't even slightly bother him, forcing Dorian to reconsider how it'd be smartest to finish him off.
He didn't have to, as with one brutal sweep of the hand, Shade finished Cross off; a karate chop severing neck from head, a spray of blood coating the cobblestone floor. A couple of drops traveled through the air, like red petals from a rose, and struck the hem of a lady's dress. She let out a sad, annoyed whinging sound.
Meanwhile, Shade and Dorian focused on killing each other. He swiftly copied the man's fleetness of foot and eponymous nature to submerge into a fence's shadow, emerging on top of the corner, and leaping down adeptly with saber extended in a prompt thrust. Shade became insubstantial, avoiding an otherwise fatal attack. They danced against one another for a moment more, evasion and killing intent spiking in every exchange. It was nothing more than a brutal struggle of animal against animal, all fellowship and camaraderie over a shared foe discarded, all reasons and motives driving them forgotten under the Emperor's command, glaring within their minds like a bright star.
It concluded within half a minute, as Shade struck Dorian a second, almost telling stomach injury before Dorian swung at his former ally's neck, a shower of crimson splattering the courtyard as an exhausted Shade fell down. He stood over the corpse for a moment, breathing and shaking with effort, and mentally unable to even contemplate the sheer horror of what he'd done; the Emperor's command suppressed any notion of wrongness, even as he intellectually understood it was terrible.
The Emperor, borrowing Duke Bauta's form, stood with arms casually folded. He'd observed the spectacle as if viewing a show in a theater. The azure mist, in the meantime, had continued to spew out spirits of the dead and coating the courtyard's floor; a veritable battalion of soldiers facing Dorian and closing off access from his quarry.
"What now, then?" asked the Emperor.
"I'll kill you," answered Dorian breathlessly.
"And how do you propose you'll do that?"
"With brute force, if need be."
The Glass Webweaver's familiar fittingness was replaced with a mask of haunting beauty, fashioned from a lustrous ruby and carved with the likeness of a blooming lotus, the petals unfurling in a mesmerizing pattern of interlaced light and shadow; Dorian exerted a modicum of attention to draw in his dead allies' blood, its absorption healing him.
"Amusing," the Emperor answered. "But I don't think brute force is a strong suit of yours. Your friends are dead because you attempted that. Don't you think you should run, Glass? Or shall I say, Dorian Croft?"
If not for fine-tuned control over it, Dorian's blood might've frozen. "Dorian Croft?"
"Please, son, don't play those silly games with me," the Emperor dismissed with a chuckle, stepping forward as the sea of mist-spirits parted to admit him. "I know of all that occurs within my Empire's borders. Your current masks may not be so, but your original lifemask was that of a loyal subject. Of course I know you're behind this. I had intended to offer you some time to mellow out. Think over what you're even doing, mature from contact. But tonight? Slaying my Inquisitors? Intending to assassinate a Duke? You've overstepped. Why offer clemency to an unapologetic traitor? And that's what you are. You've betrayed your Empire."
"My Empire betrayed me first," he answered through gritted teeth, clots gradually fusing the wounds across his chest. His voice was still haggard, full of raw emotion. "My father and sister died for speaking out against your tyranny. That's what you call justice?"
"That's what I call order," answered the Emperor in a sharp rebuke that totally shut him down, an instinctive twinge of shame bubbling in Dorian's stomach, before he remembered he was supposed to hate this man; even so, mustering the emotion was difficult under the Imperial Visage. "I am creating a prosperous society, boy; a society where malcontents such as yourself do not exist. An Empire where commoner and noble walk the same street with glad, thankful smiles. That your relatives stood in the way of that was their mistake; you need not share it. Kneel and apologize to me, now, and I'll spare your life; work for me, and pay off your debt to society."
Dorian stood numbly, face down, fists clenched and shaking.
"One thing," he muttered.
The Emperor's tone was impatient. "What's that?"
He looked up with a hateful glare, the ruby lotus of his mask blooming as if in tune with some enraged heartbeat. "You ordered me to betray."
He lurched forward, saber moving in a slash. The Emperor raised a hand and a spirit intercepted the attack; then a new battle started, much swifter than before. He struck and was struck in return, blood solidifying into armor even as it abandoned him, or returning to close the many wounds across his body. Reality soon became a contest of stinging, burning torment and a single desperate man defying it with every breath, as cruel slits slashed open across his body, as if he were a painter's canvas open to incisions of crimson artistry. Countless bolts fired from crossbows penetrated him when he couldn't muster the strength to evade, each one bringing him closer to death.
It wasn't some beautiful heroic ideal manifesting out of a storybook that preserved him; it was that simplest of emotions that ultimately hid under every mask.
Fear.
Simple and plain cowardice; the realization that, no matter how much he tried, he couldn't push through the indomitable ranks of azure spirits. That for each one fallen, three more rose within short order at the Emperor's command from the Duke's mask, and the crowd of shades was already overwhelming him.
He returned to the Webweaver and reflected the Duke's mask, copying the mist; not to create spirits, but rather, as one constant exhalation to form a cloud cover. As the nobles on the courtyard's sides cried out in shock and annoyance, Dorian fled using one of the servant doors.
He slammed open an outer castle door and hurriedly stepped down a set of stairs surrounded by trees on each side. Ahead of him was the river, circumscribed on both sides by a stone balustrade; on the right side, a bridge with an iron fence. If he climbed over it, he'd be able to lose the chase in the Common Quarter.
But Dorian realized the flaw of that idea within a moment of thinking it, as he heard the footfalls of the Joyous Inquisitors chasing after him from within the castle; if the Imperial Visage was enhancing them as well, it'd make no difference to suppress their masks. His nullification was wholly useless on anyone so augmented.
And worse - his wounds weren't completely healed, even if the worst of the bleeding was dealt with, at least. He'd absorbed insufficient blood; under the site of every cut, the muscle tissue was frayed apart, and his sternum burned uncomfortably with agonizing pain with every deep breath he took.
That's when Dorian Croft stepped onto a cobblestone next to the river, and failing to notice its opalescent shimmer, disappeared from the world.
The Inquisitors appeared from down the stairs a moment after, confused.
"Wait, he jumped into the river?"
"He must've," answered a second Inquisitor. "Search it. We shouldn't leave this to chance."
---
The Street appeared beneath Dorian's feet, as the world's stable visage fell away like melting trails of hallucinatory paint; a nightly city with amber lanterns remade into some incomprehensible cosmic space, the interstice between the world's spatial folds.
A song reached his ears instantly, a celestial anthem produced by foot-sized cobblestones, each shimmering with unearthly opalescence. Dorian's head swam with confusion and vertigo, not from the stamina loss of the pursuit, but the sheer and abrupt alienness of his surroundings.
"Where the fuck am I?"
His question echoed across the cobblestones, like a message delivered to some distant eternity.
He stood there, pale and confused; after a few seconds of absorbing the foreign environment, he decided to move. Nothing more would be achieved by standing still and staring, or listening to the strange song - whose lyrics he couldn't even hope to decipher - for that matter.
Adrenaline came down soon, and with it, came a deeper, more abiding pain; no more muted by the strain of effort and loss. Gradually, the Emperor's command unwound, like a knot undone by years of decay, and he finally comprehended the crime of betrayal he'd committed. He'd not known Cross and Shade for more than a year, and it still ached.
And that it occurred by his own hand was even worse, a microcosm of everything Drethir stood for; seizing the agency of defenseless men, and making implements out of them. As soon as he figured a way out of here, he'd find a way to make the Emperor pay for inflicting that on him.
He focused on setting one foot in front of the other, one footfall after another. He was determined not to allow the pain to overwhelm him; not to lose the battle to his own body's weakness, as he'd lost tonight to the Emperor's order. The bright anthem of the cobblestones seemed almost comforting in light of those events, as much as its content confounded him; like an alleviating balm to every ache. It encouraged him to keep moving, and aided him in focusing on that, above every other thing. To move forward.
An hour became a second hour, then a third, as Dorian walked and mulled over the events. Adrenaline fell off a while ago, but now, the event of last night seemed more distant and prone to objective calculation. He considered it under more productive angles. What he could've done better to have succeeded. He concluded that managing to access the castle was almost too easy, and he should've ordered Cross to shoot the moment they saw the Duke, instead of engaging in some facile exchange of dialogue. It wouldn't have solved the Emperor's intercession, but might've at least scored a kill on the Duke himself.
He contemplated the nature of this Street as well, and its singing stones. Occasionally, the iridescent sheen on the roadside revealed glimpses of locations he didn't recognize from any book or geography lesson. As Dorian continued to walk the Street, pondering if he'd eventually reach some exit, the song appeared to intensify.
And then, as if out of nowhere, the next step caused him to emerge on a massive yard of smooth - almost paved, yet seamless - stone, some of it strangely painted with intricate rectangular patterns of white lines.
Around himself, Dorian noticed a shambling mass of unmasked individuals - alerting him, and causing him to immediately draw out his saber - that collectively began to notice his appearance amongst them a moment after.
Faceless?
All of them certainly resembled a Faceless on the surface, although only in that regard; their bodies sallow and thin, faces ashen and dead-eyed, as if deprived of meaning or human substance, and mouths producing no sounds except the guttural. And yet, he could still identify each one easily, and differentiate them. That wasn't true Facelessness.
One of these 'Faceless' lurched towards him with a growling sound. Alert, Dorian's blade severed a hand; out of the open stump came a stream of sickly greenish blood, and a scattering of something not unlike dust. Annoyed, Dorian kicked the monstrosity in the chest, feeling the burn of his own wounds at the maneuver.
It opened a path through the crowd. Dorian ran as quickly as he could across the open courtyard, his trajectory avoiding proximity with the other Faceless, not sparing a moment to question the sun's apparent zenith, which contradicted the fact midnight had been only a couple of hours ago at most.
Ahead, the doors of a white building with a red medical cross stamped on its side opened, and a young man - about three or four years Dorian's junior - waved at him and shouted, "Hey, dude, come in here! It's safe in the hospital!" He wasn't speaking Drethiri; it was some obscure accented dialect of Angelish, from which Drethiri drew heavily.
...He didn't wear a mask, either. Through the glass windows on the sides of the hospital door, Dorian could see an assembly of other people all unmasked.
"Why aren't you wearing a mask?" Dorian shouted, even as he continued running.
"What? There aren't any spores, man! Just get in here!"
He didn't especially like the idea of sharing a building with an unmasked man - especially a group of such - no matter how ostensibly safe it seemed, and even if the building in question was a hospital and Dorian himself was severely wounded; if these pseudo-Faceless were a recent occurrence, odds were high that young survivor, and anyone else inside the hospital, could also soon undergo Facelessness. Desperate to find another way out of the situation, Dorian looked across the street and saw a small building there, its door open, although with some furniture and shelves that could potentially be utilized to make a ramshackle blockade; the path relatively clear of monsters.
---
[ ] Enter Hospital - You're in a shitty situation, so you'll have to make do with it. Facelessness or not, there's a measure of safety in numbers; you can only use a single mask at a time either way.
[ ] Enter Building - Instead, enter the building across the street, barricade yourself in, and take better stock of the situation; if there's a way to enter the building's rooftop, you should be able to communicate with the people in the hospital. You'll potentially lack medical supplies but your current status doesn't seem life-threatening.
[ ] Write-in
Across the nightly streets of Drethir's capital, there was a celebration. Festive music played on every corner, and freewheeling revelry abounded, cheerful drunkards and hard-faced artisans working side by side as if set to banish the mere idea of sobriety.
On a cobblestone-floored courtyard between a castle's walls on the slopes of the noble quarters, its sides lit with amber lanterns, the rich folk of the Empire accumulated to celebrate as well, if in a more costly and palatial fashion; countless buffet tables were set with spiced victuals and jugs of imported alcohol, and noble lords and ladies in magnificent dress and opulently decorated masks danced with captivating skill and vigor, laughter spreading out infectiously. The sides of the castle were decked in an almost clownish mountain of streamers, ribbons, and balloons of every color except yellow.
A single young lord in an opulent cloak of dark velvet, as if he were draped a raven's feathers, stalked through the crowd of common merrymakers, approaching the castle's entrance. A hood covered his mask, yet careful observation showed a glint of reflected amber light.
Ahead of the castle's doors stood a trio of cheerful Inquisitors, smiling underneath classic theatrical comedy masks. Their armor was only a steel plackart over a cerulean uniform and violet-striped breeches; a woman among them had also threaded several purple ribbons into neck-length blonde hair.
"Invitation, sir?" asked the lead Inquisitor.
"It's a wonderful night for a party," said Dorian calmly, handing over a paper with meaningless content.
"Yes indeed, sir!" He smiled and looked down at the paper, still smiling. "This isn't a-"
That's when Dorian issued a signal; a crossbow bolt struck the Inquisitor's neck, its force causing him to drop to one knee. The female Inquisitor drew a rapier but within an instant froze as Dorian stepped forward and sunk a cold blade into her collarbone, slamming it through and neutralizing her. Before the final Inquisitor could decide on shouting for aid or intervening, a third assassin stepped out of the shadows from behind, and in one proficient motion, snapped his neck. The crossbowman fired a second bolt, right between the leader's eyes, as Dorian drew the blade out and allowed the woman's lifeless body to drop prone. Each of the inquisitors was smiling as they died.
Behind them, the commoners screamed and scattered like spiders escaping from underneath a rock picked up by a godly hand.
"Remember," said Dorian - or Glass, as he was known to his compatriots - with a somber tone, sheathing the blade. "We're here for Duke Bauta." Two stern nods answered his reminder, and without further ado, they proceeded inside.
Resistance was encountered right out of the gate. An Inquisitorial team and a platoon of castle keepers detected the breach, and came forward to arrest them - or, it seemed, apply lethal force if need be. In only a single moment of razor-sharp focus, Dorian exerted a stilling influence that radiated out like an invisible cone of fundamental repression; a wave analogous to Facelessness, yet subduing and crushing the supernatural effects of masks, rather than identity itself; serving as a prototype of his artificer mask.
It suppressed their combat talents, causing Inquisitors with near-supernal footing to stumble over cobblestones. An orb of azure energy came out of the arm of one of the smiling men and without even a thought, Dorian swatted it aside and pivoted on the balls of his feet, saber drawn, to slash across the neck of another. One of his allies, Cross, fired off several bolts in rapid succession with pinpoint precision, each one dropping a guard, while Shade crept through lightless spots with unnatural swiftness, attacking from the flanks. The skirmish was over in about fifteen seconds; swift and violent, with Dorian tempted to switch to Crimson Lost if they encountered more of this.
They entered the courtyard.
It wasn't empty.
Duke Bauta stood on the stone stage, a flute of sparkling champagne in one hand. A lazy smile adorned a bearded face. Although the noble revelers didn't leave, they'd moved to the sides, partaking in exotic meals and fine alcohol; not as a break from dancing, but seemingly as if this attack was expected.
"Congratulations!" said the Duke, clapping a hand on his wrist. "You've reached Duke Bauta's masquerade ball, Glass, Cross, and Shade."
"You're a real thorn, Bauta, and a pig," spat Cross. "Even as your defenders die, you celebrate here? Have you no shame?"
"None at all." The Duke smiled.
"You're outnumbered," Dorian noted, voice cold and apprehensive at the man's self-confidence, "But not worried at all?"
"Why would I be?"
The Duke continued to smile as an azure mist ran out from his mask's delicate peacock feathers, carrying a faint scent of blueberries; diaphanous and sparkling with luminescent glimmers, as it congealed into echoes of the Inquisitors and castle guards they'd slain on the way in, each still wearing their mask.
How naive. He's heard of me, but doesn't know how the Webweaver works?
Dorian smiled.
"Because I can do this."
And the invisible impetus shot forward, a dispellation of the Duke's mask condensed into a single nullifying wave.
The spirits shuddered and wavered, not unlike a candle's flame disturbed by a strong wind.
They didn't fall, and the mist continued to pour forth, creating more and more echoes; spirits of individuals Dorian hadn't met. He felt a chill of fear, a shuddering shock of failure where there should've been success; why didn't the emanation work? Bauta's carnival mask wasn't that strong; its facetime shouldn't have been...
"One consideration you failed to take into account, Glass," said Bauta's mouth, with another man's voice. A voice so majestic and terrifyingly imposing it could not be defied, like an angel's horn. Not a Duke's voice, but an Emperor's voice, each syllable cast through the mask of a subordinate from across an Empire. "The Duke is a subject of mine."
He attempted to nullify the voice; it didn't work. The Duke's face lifted up a notch, chin towards them, as its eyes narrowed in cold arrogance. Dorian turned on a heel and started to run, while Cross and Shade were frozen in stupefaction at beholding an even imperfect transmission of the Imperial Visage.
"Betray," the Emperor hissed imperiously, an absolute declaration that could be made thrice a day; once for each continent the Drethir Empire conquered.
As soon as the command reached Dorian's central nervous system, disobedience was impossible. He turned on a heel and without hesitation drove the saber's blade through Cross' stomach, who, in turn, fired a bolt at contact range into Dorian's sternum, punching solid bone into dusty splinters and causing Dorian to spit out flecks of blood that pumped up into his oral cavity. He stepped aside as Cross attempted to follow it with a dagger slash; among Cross' mask attributes were superlative dexterity and constitution. The stomach hole didn't even slightly bother him, forcing Dorian to reconsider how it'd be smartest to finish him off.
He didn't have to, as with one brutal sweep of the hand, Shade finished Cross off; a karate chop severing neck from head, a spray of blood coating the cobblestone floor. A couple of drops traveled through the air, like red petals from a rose, and struck the hem of a lady's dress. She let out a sad, annoyed whinging sound.
Meanwhile, Shade and Dorian focused on killing each other. He swiftly copied the man's fleetness of foot and eponymous nature to submerge into a fence's shadow, emerging on top of the corner, and leaping down adeptly with saber extended in a prompt thrust. Shade became insubstantial, avoiding an otherwise fatal attack. They danced against one another for a moment more, evasion and killing intent spiking in every exchange. It was nothing more than a brutal struggle of animal against animal, all fellowship and camaraderie over a shared foe discarded, all reasons and motives driving them forgotten under the Emperor's command, glaring within their minds like a bright star.
It concluded within half a minute, as Shade struck Dorian a second, almost telling stomach injury before Dorian swung at his former ally's neck, a shower of crimson splattering the courtyard as an exhausted Shade fell down. He stood over the corpse for a moment, breathing and shaking with effort, and mentally unable to even contemplate the sheer horror of what he'd done; the Emperor's command suppressed any notion of wrongness, even as he intellectually understood it was terrible.
The Emperor, borrowing Duke Bauta's form, stood with arms casually folded. He'd observed the spectacle as if viewing a show in a theater. The azure mist, in the meantime, had continued to spew out spirits of the dead and coating the courtyard's floor; a veritable battalion of soldiers facing Dorian and closing off access from his quarry.
"What now, then?" asked the Emperor.
"I'll kill you," answered Dorian breathlessly.
"And how do you propose you'll do that?"
"With brute force, if need be."
The Glass Webweaver's familiar fittingness was replaced with a mask of haunting beauty, fashioned from a lustrous ruby and carved with the likeness of a blooming lotus, the petals unfurling in a mesmerizing pattern of interlaced light and shadow; Dorian exerted a modicum of attention to draw in his dead allies' blood, its absorption healing him.
"Amusing," the Emperor answered. "But I don't think brute force is a strong suit of yours. Your friends are dead because you attempted that. Don't you think you should run, Glass? Or shall I say, Dorian Croft?"
If not for fine-tuned control over it, Dorian's blood might've frozen. "Dorian Croft?"
"Please, son, don't play those silly games with me," the Emperor dismissed with a chuckle, stepping forward as the sea of mist-spirits parted to admit him. "I know of all that occurs within my Empire's borders. Your current masks may not be so, but your original lifemask was that of a loyal subject. Of course I know you're behind this. I had intended to offer you some time to mellow out. Think over what you're even doing, mature from contact. But tonight? Slaying my Inquisitors? Intending to assassinate a Duke? You've overstepped. Why offer clemency to an unapologetic traitor? And that's what you are. You've betrayed your Empire."
"My Empire betrayed me first," he answered through gritted teeth, clots gradually fusing the wounds across his chest. His voice was still haggard, full of raw emotion. "My father and sister died for speaking out against your tyranny. That's what you call justice?"
"That's what I call order," answered the Emperor in a sharp rebuke that totally shut him down, an instinctive twinge of shame bubbling in Dorian's stomach, before he remembered he was supposed to hate this man; even so, mustering the emotion was difficult under the Imperial Visage. "I am creating a prosperous society, boy; a society where malcontents such as yourself do not exist. An Empire where commoner and noble walk the same street with glad, thankful smiles. That your relatives stood in the way of that was their mistake; you need not share it. Kneel and apologize to me, now, and I'll spare your life; work for me, and pay off your debt to society."
Dorian stood numbly, face down, fists clenched and shaking.
"One thing," he muttered.
The Emperor's tone was impatient. "What's that?"
He looked up with a hateful glare, the ruby lotus of his mask blooming as if in tune with some enraged heartbeat. "You ordered me to betray."
He lurched forward, saber moving in a slash. The Emperor raised a hand and a spirit intercepted the attack; then a new battle started, much swifter than before. He struck and was struck in return, blood solidifying into armor even as it abandoned him, or returning to close the many wounds across his body. Reality soon became a contest of stinging, burning torment and a single desperate man defying it with every breath, as cruel slits slashed open across his body, as if he were a painter's canvas open to incisions of crimson artistry. Countless bolts fired from crossbows penetrated him when he couldn't muster the strength to evade, each one bringing him closer to death.
It wasn't some beautiful heroic ideal manifesting out of a storybook that preserved him; it was that simplest of emotions that ultimately hid under every mask.
Fear.
Simple and plain cowardice; the realization that, no matter how much he tried, he couldn't push through the indomitable ranks of azure spirits. That for each one fallen, three more rose within short order at the Emperor's command from the Duke's mask, and the crowd of shades was already overwhelming him.
He returned to the Webweaver and reflected the Duke's mask, copying the mist; not to create spirits, but rather, as one constant exhalation to form a cloud cover. As the nobles on the courtyard's sides cried out in shock and annoyance, Dorian fled using one of the servant doors.
He slammed open an outer castle door and hurriedly stepped down a set of stairs surrounded by trees on each side. Ahead of him was the river, circumscribed on both sides by a stone balustrade; on the right side, a bridge with an iron fence. If he climbed over it, he'd be able to lose the chase in the Common Quarter.
But Dorian realized the flaw of that idea within a moment of thinking it, as he heard the footfalls of the Joyous Inquisitors chasing after him from within the castle; if the Imperial Visage was enhancing them as well, it'd make no difference to suppress their masks. His nullification was wholly useless on anyone so augmented.
And worse - his wounds weren't completely healed, even if the worst of the bleeding was dealt with, at least. He'd absorbed insufficient blood; under the site of every cut, the muscle tissue was frayed apart, and his sternum burned uncomfortably with agonizing pain with every deep breath he took.
That's when Dorian Croft stepped onto a cobblestone next to the river, and failing to notice its opalescent shimmer, disappeared from the world.
The Inquisitors appeared from down the stairs a moment after, confused.
"Wait, he jumped into the river?"
"He must've," answered a second Inquisitor. "Search it. We shouldn't leave this to chance."
---
The Street appeared beneath Dorian's feet, as the world's stable visage fell away like melting trails of hallucinatory paint; a nightly city with amber lanterns remade into some incomprehensible cosmic space, the interstice between the world's spatial folds.
A song reached his ears instantly, a celestial anthem produced by foot-sized cobblestones, each shimmering with unearthly opalescence. Dorian's head swam with confusion and vertigo, not from the stamina loss of the pursuit, but the sheer and abrupt alienness of his surroundings.
"Where the fuck am I?"
His question echoed across the cobblestones, like a message delivered to some distant eternity.
He stood there, pale and confused; after a few seconds of absorbing the foreign environment, he decided to move. Nothing more would be achieved by standing still and staring, or listening to the strange song - whose lyrics he couldn't even hope to decipher - for that matter.
Adrenaline came down soon, and with it, came a deeper, more abiding pain; no more muted by the strain of effort and loss. Gradually, the Emperor's command unwound, like a knot undone by years of decay, and he finally comprehended the crime of betrayal he'd committed. He'd not known Cross and Shade for more than a year, and it still ached.
And that it occurred by his own hand was even worse, a microcosm of everything Drethir stood for; seizing the agency of defenseless men, and making implements out of them. As soon as he figured a way out of here, he'd find a way to make the Emperor pay for inflicting that on him.
He focused on setting one foot in front of the other, one footfall after another. He was determined not to allow the pain to overwhelm him; not to lose the battle to his own body's weakness, as he'd lost tonight to the Emperor's order. The bright anthem of the cobblestones seemed almost comforting in light of those events, as much as its content confounded him; like an alleviating balm to every ache. It encouraged him to keep moving, and aided him in focusing on that, above every other thing. To move forward.
An hour became a second hour, then a third, as Dorian walked and mulled over the events. Adrenaline fell off a while ago, but now, the event of last night seemed more distant and prone to objective calculation. He considered it under more productive angles. What he could've done better to have succeeded. He concluded that managing to access the castle was almost too easy, and he should've ordered Cross to shoot the moment they saw the Duke, instead of engaging in some facile exchange of dialogue. It wouldn't have solved the Emperor's intercession, but might've at least scored a kill on the Duke himself.
He contemplated the nature of this Street as well, and its singing stones. Occasionally, the iridescent sheen on the roadside revealed glimpses of locations he didn't recognize from any book or geography lesson. As Dorian continued to walk the Street, pondering if he'd eventually reach some exit, the song appeared to intensify.
And then, as if out of nowhere, the next step caused him to emerge on a massive yard of smooth - almost paved, yet seamless - stone, some of it strangely painted with intricate rectangular patterns of white lines.
Around himself, Dorian noticed a shambling mass of unmasked individuals - alerting him, and causing him to immediately draw out his saber - that collectively began to notice his appearance amongst them a moment after.
Faceless?
All of them certainly resembled a Faceless on the surface, although only in that regard; their bodies sallow and thin, faces ashen and dead-eyed, as if deprived of meaning or human substance, and mouths producing no sounds except the guttural. And yet, he could still identify each one easily, and differentiate them. That wasn't true Facelessness.
One of these 'Faceless' lurched towards him with a growling sound. Alert, Dorian's blade severed a hand; out of the open stump came a stream of sickly greenish blood, and a scattering of something not unlike dust. Annoyed, Dorian kicked the monstrosity in the chest, feeling the burn of his own wounds at the maneuver.
It opened a path through the crowd. Dorian ran as quickly as he could across the open courtyard, his trajectory avoiding proximity with the other Faceless, not sparing a moment to question the sun's apparent zenith, which contradicted the fact midnight had been only a couple of hours ago at most.
Ahead, the doors of a white building with a red medical cross stamped on its side opened, and a young man - about three or four years Dorian's junior - waved at him and shouted, "Hey, dude, come in here! It's safe in the hospital!" He wasn't speaking Drethiri; it was some obscure accented dialect of Angelish, from which Drethiri drew heavily.
...He didn't wear a mask, either. Through the glass windows on the sides of the hospital door, Dorian could see an assembly of other people all unmasked.
"Why aren't you wearing a mask?" Dorian shouted, even as he continued running.
"What? There aren't any spores, man! Just get in here!"
He didn't especially like the idea of sharing a building with an unmasked man - especially a group of such - no matter how ostensibly safe it seemed, and even if the building in question was a hospital and Dorian himself was severely wounded; if these pseudo-Faceless were a recent occurrence, odds were high that young survivor, and anyone else inside the hospital, could also soon undergo Facelessness. Desperate to find another way out of the situation, Dorian looked across the street and saw a small building there, its door open, although with some furniture and shelves that could potentially be utilized to make a ramshackle blockade; the path relatively clear of monsters.
---
[ ] Enter Hospital - You're in a shitty situation, so you'll have to make do with it. Facelessness or not, there's a measure of safety in numbers; you can only use a single mask at a time either way.
[ ] Enter Building - Instead, enter the building across the street, barricade yourself in, and take better stock of the situation; if there's a way to enter the building's rooftop, you should be able to communicate with the people in the hospital. You'll potentially lack medical supplies but your current status doesn't seem life-threatening.
[ ] Write-in
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[X] Enter Building
OctarineShrike
Avatar of Mandos
[X] Enter Hospital
I loved it so much. The beginning, the middle and the end. Excellent writing as always. I loved seeing the Masks in action, Dorian's sheer drive. The reveal and the fight with the emperor is a boss fight Dorian will return to, perhaps one day. And the street itself was beautiful.
His culture shock about non masked world is going to make for a lot of interesting interactions! Zombie world huh?
His culture shock about non masked world is going to make for a lot of interesting interactions! Zombie world huh?
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OctarineShrike
Avatar of Mandos
[X] Write-In: (Switch back to Crimson Lost if switched off, then) wound a few of the pseudo-faceless and sense if their blood is safe for healing. If unsure, head to the Hospital, if usable, enter building and use the blood from those wounds to make more wounds and heal up.
Does the crimson mask come with a blood sense ability because I'd imagine hospitals usually have blood bags stashed away somewhere and just stabbing wounded people seems a tad aggressive.