You awake on the shores of the Soundless Sea.
You spit out black salt water from your mouth and recall. It comes hazy and in pieces to you. Names without association. Places without memory. This and that. Colagualting slowly. Like a soup, you think through a delirium (so fucking cold, that fucking wind). We can start with something simple. My name is-
[]- ??#$%#%^?
[]- #$%#%##)$
Whatever it was you can't remember it. Something slides out of your brain and into your ear. You think it's important, but more importantly is that it's fucking disgusting. The living imago of all phobias of all things slimy and scuttling. You rip it out and throw it to the Soundless Sea. It demonstrates its name. Not a sound, not a splash nor a ripple when the disgusting fucking worm-spider-centipede thing sunk into the sea.
You think it's important, and then not for long.
Around you is a length of black water meeting black sand. Ships lie broken, bleeding oil into the water. Light shines off of the prismatic slicks, and to the east the lighthouse. The lying bastard. You have a mind to tear it down stone by stone for guiding you to shipwreck. You stagger upwards. You are as a newborn lamb. Behind you, the lightning, coming down from the gray storm clouds like nails. Red, stop sign red. Border post red. The divine immanence, securing the Soundless Sea from the barbarian riff raff. HOUSE ANZIR's necromantic storm, the Soul Severer.
HOUSE ANZIR:
Third Lineage of the Empire (only called the Empire to imply singularity). Rules the marches near the Sea. Skilled necromancers and golem techs. ANZIR necramechs have caused nine forever wars. Stripped cities and fields to the bone. Self perpetuating armies. Rumors say that they began the SHATTERING to divert imperial attention from their side hustles and ventures into heretical sciences. Barbarian princes and merchant concerns have still sought out ANZIR technology.
THE SHATTERING:
What you are currently living through. Ow, your head.
Right. You remember why you're here. You're a-
[]- PISTOLERO: Bravo. Ruffian. Thug. You're all those and more, a mercenary for hire, on the battlefields and the courts. With your six shooter by your side, and the promise of spending your pay in soaks and wine pubs, the world had been your oyster. Except for all the murders. Oh, so much murder. Although none of it was ever proven in a court of law, the vics families were coming after you, and not in a legal, civilized way either. So you signed up to defend an egghead on her journey to the shattered heartlands of the EMPIRE, just to beat the heat. Now, if you could only find that binoclard.
You have a Magna Arms .33 Revolver, with thirty six bullets, a najava folding knife, and a hip flask on your person.
[]- WITCH-KIND: You are a witch. Unlicensed magical practitioner. Lots of poisons. A tad bit of the vain alchemy. Double boil cauldron trouble and all that. You lived your life in a great city, a port, selling your wares and offering diagnoses for cheap. One day the watch officer was changed, and the new one no longer accepted your bribes. And then you joined the iron gang but thank the Thrice Great! A storm swept you to the shattered heartlands of the EMPIRE. You are agog at what you could find.
You have three vials of poison- one that eats iron, one that causes an eternal sleep, and one that hides all pain. You also have a kitten in your clothes somewhere.
[]- MONASTIC: Wake up. Chop wood. Meditate. Wake up. Chop wood. Bury the tax collector in a shallow grave. Meditate. Wake up. Carry water. A simple life for a simple soul, devoted to the glories of god and writing the infinite permutations of the Divine Name, feted by donations of the faithful. The baron wasn't happy though, and eventually she raised an army and burned your temple to the ground. Jokes on her- you escaped with the sacred books, which are incidentally bound in gold. You had vague plans to rejoin your original monastery, in the shattered heartlands of the Empire. You suppose you should make a go at it now, instead of grifting around.
You have a sacred book bound in 2kg of 24-karat gold, an iron shod stave, and your steely honed body.
-of course.
The wind blows through you again. Bastard, you think. Give a body some time to think. There's the lighthouse, that's a likely. Or, you could follow the roads beyond the dunes, where city lights formed a pseudo-horizon to the south. Or you could try the few rusting and rotting hulks on the shore, salvage what you can.
Your choice.
[]- The LIGHTHOUSE
[]- The ROAD
[]- The WRECKS
