You lick your lips.
You have to do something— but you don't want to draw the light a second time, not with the mask so close, and trying to attack or run seems like an equally bad idea. You're trapped, it seems. You're so stupid. Why didn't you just swing your sword at them? Why didn't you just dodge it, like was supposed to happen? Your arm's back on, but there's still blood all down your front. It's never going to come out, is it?
No, positive, positive. It is going to come out! You will use tincal and a scrub brush and a lot of water! It will never be white again (you have experience with this), but it will be off-pink, and you can claim it's too advanced a fashion for anyone to understand. There you go. It'll be fine. Yes.
?Reminder: it's not a real coat, and you are surrounded.?
Reminder: he doesn't have feelings, so you shouldn't trust anything he says.
?So you believe that, I see.?
...Yes?
?I'm not surprised. It's exactly what you want to hear. Oh, dear, I'm not trustworthy. Better, I'm tragic. I'm suffering inside. I'm a brooding dime-novel anti-hero.?
?Tell me, why would this be the case. It's not because it's true. It's because you're telling
?Like me or not, but I'm the genuine article. I am experiencing no hidden depths of suffering. Go ahead and trust me when I've got a face to look at— I know you want to. But you're deluding yourself.?
?Literally.?
You think he put a lot of effort into the dramatic pause. There's still no sign of the person. It's only gotten darker, if anything, and the mask brighter. It's claustrophobic.
You can't stay here a second longer. You need to leave— you need to decipher this urgent memory that's bobbing up, something useful, something important, but you can't quite reach it. You need to— break a mirror. Tap on a doorframe. No. No. You need to…
[OPEN] your way out. The word is on your lips before you know it's there. There's nowhere to look at, so you just direct it ahead, into the darkness. "OPEN."
From nowhere, the raspy voice: "Oh, god. You're one of those."
Something stringlike quivers in response. Something peels open: not a door, but a doorway, a gateway. Inside: a red sky, a dark fortress. Lightning.
Abruptly, the shadows are snatched up, bundled, from under you— you stagger into the dusk of the road. The person has reformed around the mask. They gesture, rudely, at the doorway now lodged in their gauze. "Excuse me?! What the fuck?!"
"Uh," you say. You remain not sober enough for anything. "Good. Suck it."
"I'm just trying to maim you like a normal person, okay? I don't go around sticking doors in people's bodies. You lot are lunatics."
You scratch your chin. "Will you, uh, leave now?"
"No! I just want fair play! Would it kill you to follow the standards?"
"…Yes?" you wager.
"God. You are the absolute worst. Take your sword, or whatever, go down there. I'll go to the opposite end. Okay? We can try this again— again, like normal people. No doors."
>[1] This seems like a good time to stab them, right? Chest.
>[2] Stabby stab. Mask.
>[3] You're a normal person, yes? Go down there and follow the standards. Whatever those are.
>[4] (Hey uhhh Richard what did I just do there with the door thing)
>[5] (Hey uhhh mask person what do you mean by "standards" and "those people" and so on)
>[6] Write-in.
You fold your arms awkwardly— your left sleeve remains stiff with blood. "I don't listen to people who dismember me. That's— why am I part of the 'you lot'? You're the murderer."
"For the last time," the person rasps, "it's not murder; it's assault, and it's for an excellent cause. And you're a bad sport. Just because you've got a dirty little shortcut doesn't entitle you to—"
"To what?"
"To cheat!" They throw up their gloved hands. "Damn, you're a thick one. Are you going to move?" They pause. "No, of course not. Goddamn. I guess I'll have to, out of, you know, basic decency..."
You watch in bemusement as the person turns on their heel(?) and begins strolling back down the street.
?Charlotte.?
?Charlotte, now.?
?Charlotte,
It takes an insistent jolt to the small of your back before you're kicked into action. You sink into a crouch, fumbling for the hilt of your sword all the while, and begin to trail the person up the street. They have begun to whistle.
You make a studious effort to avoid pools of shadow, sticking instead to the last remnants of sunlight or to the green phosphorescence of the streetlamps beginning to flicker on. It pays off. You have made it within sword-thrust distance with them nary the wiser.
Now it just remains to do it. This is the tricky bit.
?Charlotte, you know how.?
You've never sworded anybody before. You've knifed people, but never sworded.
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?Just do it, Charlotte, don't undermine yourself. And kindly never use 'sworded' again.?
If it goes wrong, it's entirely Richard's fault. You drum out a little prayer onto the hilt, fix an eye on the person's indistinct rags, stand— bringing your sword up with you. It makes a neat and satisfying arc as you plunge it into the person's ribs.
Wow! You did know how. Look at that. Only—
Some things happen in rough sequence.
- You keep plunging. There are no ribs. There is nothing underneath the rags but more rags.
- The person's head rotates 180° to watch you attempt to stab them.
- "Damn," they say, blithely. "You are a thick one."
- Something shadowy and hand-shaped grips you by the shoulder. Something else shadowy and hand-shaped grips you by the wrist. You squirm, briefly, to no avail.
- You make a sound approximating "agck."
- The person casually produces their double-bladed axe. It is matte black, except for your blood on it.
- ?Shit,? Richard says.
And it's the last that jolts you out of your clinical stupor. Richard doesn't curse unless he's feeling homicidal, or unless you're going to die.
All the blood has drained from your cheeks.
The person doesn't seem in any particular rush to cut your limbs off. They have turned slightly away and are wiping down the axe with a black cloth. They figure they have you caught.
You have your left arm free.
>[ID: 3/11]
>[1] Flail. Try to escape the grip or, at least, knock the mask off. [Roll.]
>[2] Beg. Plead. Tell them what they want to hear. [Roll.]
>[3] Do the unexpected. Duck directly into the rags. What's in there? Who knows?
>[4] Sit still. Resign yourself. If you know it's coming, it may not hurt so much.
>[5] Write-in. [This is your head. Feel free to get creative.]
You fidget. You swallow. You glance around in the hopes you'll light on something to save you. It's to little avail. In the end, you're reduced to glaring at the shadow-hands holding you hostage in the hopes they'll up and vanish.
?Unviable. You can't affect another individual directly like that.?
The person is polishing the second axe-head.
You scuff at the cobblestones with your boot and half-wonder about the logistics involved. If there's no body, where do the arms come from? What's under the cloak, really? Some kind of shadow dimension? Nothing? Is it just rags all the way down?
What if you went in there?
?No.?
Yes. This is exactly the kind of terrible idea you like best. God, wouldn't it be interesting, though? What would you have to lose? Your limbs? You've got that covered. You're liking this better all the time.
?Okay, to begin with, your life. Your sanity.
Right! You won't know until you try, and you're supposed to try everything once, right? Right. Yes.
?No. No. No.?
The person has finished. The axe is nigh-invisible once again. They cradle it lovingly.
"'Kay. Just as a formality—" they say.
You don't wait to hear the rest. You duck your head and charge them shoulder-on, like you're breaking down a door. Like before, there's no resistance: the rags part to your assault, and you stumble into them.
It is impossibly dark. The air smells, strangely, of wood polish. The grip on your wrist and shoulder is released.
The gold mask is in front of you, no body attached. "Well," it says. "I suppose this also works."
Two identical masks flank it, then two more, then two more, until they ring you entirely. Something pushes you down onto a chair (hard, uncomfortable), something binds your hands and legs. More shadow-hands? You can't tell. It's too dark.
A spotlight flicks onto you. One of the masks have stepped forward. "Like I said, I didn't want to maim you— it was just, you know, quick. But if you're choosing to ditch your home turf privileges…"
There's a different quality to the voice. It's still raspy, still androgynous, but there's something warmer around the edges. You're not sure what it reminds you of.
"—Well, I'd be happy to do the old-fashioned, ehh, 'enhanced interrogation'."
The mask gleams. There is a radio buzz in the back of your skull, but Richard hasn't quite gotten through yet. You clutch the sword in one sweaty hand, but your wrists are bound.
"Before we get too ahead of ourselves, though, let me ask. Where's that crown?"
>[1] Lie. [Roll.]
>[2] Tell the truth. You do actually have no idea. But you'll have to mention Richard.
>[3] Say nothing. They'll have to enhance this interrogation if they want anything from you.
>[4] Perform some kind of daring escape. [How?]
>[5] Write-in.
>-8, 61, 11 vs. DC 60 - Mitigated Success.
How do you lie? You pluck something out of thin air, then say it so confidently you start believing it yourself. That works, sometimes. Occasionally.
You look the principal mask straight in its eyeholes and say "I don't know. Monty took it."
It recoils. "What?"
"M…" Picking a random name is seeming less like a good idea, suddenly. What if this thing shows up in Monty's head? It wouldn't be fair. The man's already missing an arm.
Somehow, though, you don't care enough. "…Monty?"
"Monty as in, uh, Gewecke?" The mask bobs nervously.
You haven't the faintest idea what Monty's last name is. "Probably? Yeah, he, er, confiscated it. Something about contraband? Or quarantine? Or something?"
"Montgomery Gewecke? Lost his arm to a squid-type thing? Yea tall?" If it's indicating a height, it's impossible to tell. "That one?"
You nod a little.
"God-fucking-dammit. That two-faced stinking bastard." The mask turns skyward. "The absolute nerve! You know what— don't trust him, hear me? Not as far as you can throw him. He can wear as many goddamn sweaters as he wants, it's not gonna hide the nasty— God. This sucks."
You nod more.
"You know what? Thanks. You're a good kid, even if you're a fucking cheater. Sorry about the arm and such, though it's still kinda your fault, yeah? Why didn't you start off with this?"
It takes you a second before you realize you're being asked a question. "Uh," you say. "You were trying to murder me."
"Assault. Assault. I don't murder people anymore." The mask shakes. "Well, I might Monty."
"Oh," you say.
"What can I say? I don't like liars. Don't worry—" it must notice the sweat glistening on your brow— "I'll talk to him about it first. But he can join Constance in hell after, yeah?"
"Uh," you say.
"Thanks again, pal. I'll get out of your hair."
And with that, the darkness is once again pulled out from under you. You spill out onto the street— your sword clatters out after you. Your wrists are raw, but you're unbound.
The gold-masked person gives you a two-fingered salute and vanishes.
[END THREAD 3]