Zearth - Smoke on the Water
Birdsie
Sharp Talons Cleave The Worthy
- Location
- Poland
Smoke on the Water
Dorian ditched Scott the following morning and reclaimed the Crimson Lost, a cruel action borne of necessity. The young man sadly outlived his usefulness as a companion, and it was dangerous to sneak into a Warlord's compound as a duo, especially when Scott lacked the fundamental experience for such an operation.
The next several hours were a slogging slideshow of deep stealth interspersed with sudden animalistic violence.
The new divination-based mask's insights were imprecise and partitioned, flashes of incomplete logic only understood as a whole image. So Dorian did some of its work ahead of time and took down several patrols of more intelligent zombies, emerging from concealment only to dismantle them within seconds of cutting violence, leaving a sole survivor for interrogation. The zombies were uncooperative at best, although this didn't matter. He found out most zombies didn't fully 'die' until the spine was extensively damaged or the head removed from the torso, so Dorian abused this feature to flimsily trawl through memories, before finishing the screaming heads off with a coup d'etat.
The Warlord was surprisingly - almost frightfully - reactive and not at all a fool. As if realizing the true nature of Dorian's gambit, intelligent Undead were recalled within a couple of hours, after squads failed to call in. Then a swarm of enraged dumb zombies flooded the streets of the town, ostensibly on a mission to end the assassin's life.
It didn't matter: although the response was smart on the Warlord's part, it was done a cut too late. Dorian's accumulation of data was already sufficient to perform a successful infiltration of the Undead compound. However, as Dorian's memories informed him, that wasn't needed either.
After all, the zombies weren't stupid. All you needed to contact them was the correct radio frequency.
"Warlord Sixfold," he spoke into the receiver. "I am Lord Glass, and I come to you bearing an offer of trade you will be interested in."
A voice answered him within several moments of silent waiting; husky and multilayered, as if several people's voices were woven into one chilling chord of sound, like the voices of the damned speaking from beyond the grave, "Acknowledged. State your allegiance."
He waited a second to calm down, chilled by the tenor of the Warlord's voice. It was so cold and inhuman, yet so full of animation and logic; it reminded Dorian of some stories he'd overheard from merchants speaking of making deals with the Trazirnate. The Republic's self-replicating mask was a different sort of horror story, though.
"Human independent."
"Acknowledged. Lord Glass, state desired meeting grounds and parameters?"
"Somewhere neutral, but ideally convenient." He considered. "Does Scranton Plaza work?"
"Acknowledged. Standby."
Almost fifteen seconds of silence followed, after which a reply finally came.
"Affirmative. A single trusted delegate will be dispatched shortly to conduct trade. Meet them at your convenience." From what he remembered, in Undead terms to a human independent, that was 'meet them in five seconds or five years, it doesn't matter to us; rot won't claim more flesh and we're very patient.' Not that Dorian had much time.
"I understand. Goodbye."
"Goodbye," the voice said, before it went quiet; a surprisingly human affectation he'd almost not expected of the Undead.
"Alright. Good," Dorian stated to himself, calmly. This saved a lot of time and trouble. His initial idea of breaking into the Undead compound would've almost certainly been far more insanely dangerous. This was still a dangerous event; the Undead could set an ambush. But they were known for being surprisingly reliable in negotiations. He'd scope out the location and make sure it wasn't a snare for a rabbit either way, but this was miles better than penetrating the defenses of a facility on the edge of town.
Scranton Plaza was a sizeable quadrangle near the abandoned campus of a local academy, surrounded on each side by deserted educational facilities; aesthetically-arrayed cream-and-brown tiles surrounded a round fountain whose water no longer flowed.
There, stood a single zombie; a young female with a calm expression by appearance; skin not decayed at all, beyond a pallor that was almost appealing. Her black hair was done in a ponytail, dressed in what Dorian recognized as 'business casual' from Scott's protracted explanations of local fashion.
Compared to that, Dorian's Glass-masked and raven-feather-robed countenance was otherworldly and threatening, almost as if he were a spirit from the void between the stars. He contemplated unmasking for the meeting since Facelessness did not exist on Earth: it made for a friendlier mien. However, he didn't think the zombie would care.
After scanning the environment for typical signs of an ambush, Dorian was satisfied to find nothing. Or, at least, nothing obvious. The Crimson Lost didn't find any active circulatory systems through any of the walls or the earth, although that could simply mean a mutant zombie without such an anatomical element was hidden somewhere. He decided not to quibble over the specifics; the potential gains of a trade were immense, and the risks of an ambush reasonably minimal. He dropped from the rooftop.
As he approached, the female zombie wheeled around to face him.
Her voice was refreshingly normal, with no huskiness or rasping. Just a calm, soothing woman's voice.
"You're Lord Glass?"
"I am. You're the Undead negotiator?"
"I am." Her neutral expression didn't shift. "My Warlord informed me to ask if you were the one taking down our patrols. You're not in trouble if your offer of trade is legitimate; he does not bear a grudge where this doesn't make strategic sense. However, depending on what you're offering, I've been instructed to demand minor reparations."
He nodded slowly. No sense hiding the truth, then. "Yes, I am the individual responsible. But you'll find what I am selling is exotic enough to make it worth your time."
"I'm all ears, then," she stated.
"In brief, I am capable of crafting magical masks with a variety of capabilities. To demonstrate." He shifted his appearance into a young woman, then an elderly man, and finally a child, before returning to Lord Glass' guise. "These masks' abilities develop over time, alongside their identity - or facetime, the accumulation of experiences and time wearing them. I can sell you a mask, or several. In return, I am interested in acquiring Viscerality and I've discovered your Warlord may have a method there."
There was no break in her neutral expression, only an instant of cold calculation.
Then she asked, "How strong are these masks initially?"
"One such mask can turn a human into a skilled athlete, or grant a minor supernatural capability. Allow me to demonstrate a mask I crafted earlier today." He shifted the Webweaver into the Specter, and became a cloud of smoke, swiftly moving through the courtyard and terminating the effect.
From there, she asked countless clarifying questions, going down an exhaustive list: the effort and materials required to construct a mask, the 'exotic' mechanism which is required to create them, if masks could be shattered or stolen, and other elements of that nature. It forced him to provide answers on the nature of Facelessness and Fixation. His answers were mostly honest, although with several grey lies or technical omissions.
"Understood." She nodded and considered the price. "Your Artificer's Face then, shall be an adequate compensation for what I'd consider a full Visceral initiation. According to what you've said, making a new mask of a similar nature wouldn't pose much of a challenge. Therefore you do not incur long-term losses with such a trade."
"Perhaps. But I am not so eager to part with such a prize. My Artificer's Face is a powerful mask; I've been developing its facetime for a while."
"Viscerality is difficult and laborious to grant, often taking months or years when done by a specialist. Time which you implied you do not have, what with your 'intent to travel soon.' I do not ask for the Artificer's Face out of mere greed but out of practicality for both sides; Visceral power scales with emotional investment. In granting my Warlord a boon so difficult - if not downright impossible otherwise - to replicate, capable of so much, you'll purchase a measure of true loyalty as well. It's your only real hope of initiation before your departure. Otherwise, the best we could do is give you a Visceral genebank and leave you to figure it out; a process which'd take, as I've said, months at best."
Of course, unsaid went that 'at best' here implied a broad and thorough knowledge of anatomy and these 'genetics' she mentioned off-handedly several times throughout the conversation. A corpus of knowledge that Dorian simply didn't possess, complicating the acquisition.
He considered the deal.
---
Last time, Smoke on the Water was the winner.
The Specter mask you crafted emerged slightly worse than its intended result; at 9 Potential, its chief ability is [Phase], allowing you to become a semi-incorporeal humanoid cloud of stealth-attuned smoke; if something breaks your cohesion, you'll suffer damage. Given its subpar Potential, this is all it can do for now.
[ ] Full Trade - Accept the offered deal. Artificer's Face in return for complete Visceral accession.
[ ] Partial Trade - Offer Screentime for a Visceral bank instead; it's not ideal and it'll take you forever to figure out, but it's cheaper and doesn't massively empower them.
[ ] No Trade - Call off the trade. The Undead might not take kindly to your refusal, but they won't attack you for at least a day. By which time you'll, of course, be long-gone.
[ ] Write-in - If you're feeling ambitious, you could try out alternative negotiation tactics; a host of multiple lesser masks in return for complete Viscerality, which risks overstaying on this world before you can claim your payment. Or you could attempt to be greedier, although this is unlikely to work or be appreciated.
Dorian ditched Scott the following morning and reclaimed the Crimson Lost, a cruel action borne of necessity. The young man sadly outlived his usefulness as a companion, and it was dangerous to sneak into a Warlord's compound as a duo, especially when Scott lacked the fundamental experience for such an operation.
The next several hours were a slogging slideshow of deep stealth interspersed with sudden animalistic violence.
The new divination-based mask's insights were imprecise and partitioned, flashes of incomplete logic only understood as a whole image. So Dorian did some of its work ahead of time and took down several patrols of more intelligent zombies, emerging from concealment only to dismantle them within seconds of cutting violence, leaving a sole survivor for interrogation. The zombies were uncooperative at best, although this didn't matter. He found out most zombies didn't fully 'die' until the spine was extensively damaged or the head removed from the torso, so Dorian abused this feature to flimsily trawl through memories, before finishing the screaming heads off with a coup d'etat.
The Warlord was surprisingly - almost frightfully - reactive and not at all a fool. As if realizing the true nature of Dorian's gambit, intelligent Undead were recalled within a couple of hours, after squads failed to call in. Then a swarm of enraged dumb zombies flooded the streets of the town, ostensibly on a mission to end the assassin's life.
It didn't matter: although the response was smart on the Warlord's part, it was done a cut too late. Dorian's accumulation of data was already sufficient to perform a successful infiltration of the Undead compound. However, as Dorian's memories informed him, that wasn't needed either.
After all, the zombies weren't stupid. All you needed to contact them was the correct radio frequency.
"Warlord Sixfold," he spoke into the receiver. "I am Lord Glass, and I come to you bearing an offer of trade you will be interested in."
A voice answered him within several moments of silent waiting; husky and multilayered, as if several people's voices were woven into one chilling chord of sound, like the voices of the damned speaking from beyond the grave, "Acknowledged. State your allegiance."
He waited a second to calm down, chilled by the tenor of the Warlord's voice. It was so cold and inhuman, yet so full of animation and logic; it reminded Dorian of some stories he'd overheard from merchants speaking of making deals with the Trazirnate. The Republic's self-replicating mask was a different sort of horror story, though.
"Human independent."
"Acknowledged. Lord Glass, state desired meeting grounds and parameters?"
"Somewhere neutral, but ideally convenient." He considered. "Does Scranton Plaza work?"
"Acknowledged. Standby."
Almost fifteen seconds of silence followed, after which a reply finally came.
"Affirmative. A single trusted delegate will be dispatched shortly to conduct trade. Meet them at your convenience." From what he remembered, in Undead terms to a human independent, that was 'meet them in five seconds or five years, it doesn't matter to us; rot won't claim more flesh and we're very patient.' Not that Dorian had much time.
"I understand. Goodbye."
"Goodbye," the voice said, before it went quiet; a surprisingly human affectation he'd almost not expected of the Undead.
"Alright. Good," Dorian stated to himself, calmly. This saved a lot of time and trouble. His initial idea of breaking into the Undead compound would've almost certainly been far more insanely dangerous. This was still a dangerous event; the Undead could set an ambush. But they were known for being surprisingly reliable in negotiations. He'd scope out the location and make sure it wasn't a snare for a rabbit either way, but this was miles better than penetrating the defenses of a facility on the edge of town.
Scranton Plaza was a sizeable quadrangle near the abandoned campus of a local academy, surrounded on each side by deserted educational facilities; aesthetically-arrayed cream-and-brown tiles surrounded a round fountain whose water no longer flowed.
There, stood a single zombie; a young female with a calm expression by appearance; skin not decayed at all, beyond a pallor that was almost appealing. Her black hair was done in a ponytail, dressed in what Dorian recognized as 'business casual' from Scott's protracted explanations of local fashion.
Compared to that, Dorian's Glass-masked and raven-feather-robed countenance was otherworldly and threatening, almost as if he were a spirit from the void between the stars. He contemplated unmasking for the meeting since Facelessness did not exist on Earth: it made for a friendlier mien. However, he didn't think the zombie would care.
After scanning the environment for typical signs of an ambush, Dorian was satisfied to find nothing. Or, at least, nothing obvious. The Crimson Lost didn't find any active circulatory systems through any of the walls or the earth, although that could simply mean a mutant zombie without such an anatomical element was hidden somewhere. He decided not to quibble over the specifics; the potential gains of a trade were immense, and the risks of an ambush reasonably minimal. He dropped from the rooftop.
As he approached, the female zombie wheeled around to face him.
Her voice was refreshingly normal, with no huskiness or rasping. Just a calm, soothing woman's voice.
"You're Lord Glass?"
"I am. You're the Undead negotiator?"
"I am." Her neutral expression didn't shift. "My Warlord informed me to ask if you were the one taking down our patrols. You're not in trouble if your offer of trade is legitimate; he does not bear a grudge where this doesn't make strategic sense. However, depending on what you're offering, I've been instructed to demand minor reparations."
He nodded slowly. No sense hiding the truth, then. "Yes, I am the individual responsible. But you'll find what I am selling is exotic enough to make it worth your time."
"I'm all ears, then," she stated.
"In brief, I am capable of crafting magical masks with a variety of capabilities. To demonstrate." He shifted his appearance into a young woman, then an elderly man, and finally a child, before returning to Lord Glass' guise. "These masks' abilities develop over time, alongside their identity - or facetime, the accumulation of experiences and time wearing them. I can sell you a mask, or several. In return, I am interested in acquiring Viscerality and I've discovered your Warlord may have a method there."
There was no break in her neutral expression, only an instant of cold calculation.
Then she asked, "How strong are these masks initially?"
"One such mask can turn a human into a skilled athlete, or grant a minor supernatural capability. Allow me to demonstrate a mask I crafted earlier today." He shifted the Webweaver into the Specter, and became a cloud of smoke, swiftly moving through the courtyard and terminating the effect.
From there, she asked countless clarifying questions, going down an exhaustive list: the effort and materials required to construct a mask, the 'exotic' mechanism which is required to create them, if masks could be shattered or stolen, and other elements of that nature. It forced him to provide answers on the nature of Facelessness and Fixation. His answers were mostly honest, although with several grey lies or technical omissions.
"Understood." She nodded and considered the price. "Your Artificer's Face then, shall be an adequate compensation for what I'd consider a full Visceral initiation. According to what you've said, making a new mask of a similar nature wouldn't pose much of a challenge. Therefore you do not incur long-term losses with such a trade."
"Perhaps. But I am not so eager to part with such a prize. My Artificer's Face is a powerful mask; I've been developing its facetime for a while."
"Viscerality is difficult and laborious to grant, often taking months or years when done by a specialist. Time which you implied you do not have, what with your 'intent to travel soon.' I do not ask for the Artificer's Face out of mere greed but out of practicality for both sides; Visceral power scales with emotional investment. In granting my Warlord a boon so difficult - if not downright impossible otherwise - to replicate, capable of so much, you'll purchase a measure of true loyalty as well. It's your only real hope of initiation before your departure. Otherwise, the best we could do is give you a Visceral genebank and leave you to figure it out; a process which'd take, as I've said, months at best."
Of course, unsaid went that 'at best' here implied a broad and thorough knowledge of anatomy and these 'genetics' she mentioned off-handedly several times throughout the conversation. A corpus of knowledge that Dorian simply didn't possess, complicating the acquisition.
He considered the deal.
---
Last time, Smoke on the Water was the winner.
The Specter mask you crafted emerged slightly worse than its intended result; at 9 Potential, its chief ability is [Phase], allowing you to become a semi-incorporeal humanoid cloud of stealth-attuned smoke; if something breaks your cohesion, you'll suffer damage. Given its subpar Potential, this is all it can do for now.
[ ] Full Trade - Accept the offered deal. Artificer's Face in return for complete Visceral accession.
[ ] Partial Trade - Offer Screentime for a Visceral bank instead; it's not ideal and it'll take you forever to figure out, but it's cheaper and doesn't massively empower them.
[ ] No Trade - Call off the trade. The Undead might not take kindly to your refusal, but they won't attack you for at least a day. By which time you'll, of course, be long-gone.
[ ] Write-in - If you're feeling ambitious, you could try out alternative negotiation tactics; a host of multiple lesser masks in return for complete Viscerality, which risks overstaying on this world before you can claim your payment. Or you could attempt to be greedier, although this is unlikely to work or be appreciated.
Last edited:
