Bang, bang, ba- you hear the sound of porcelain being smashed.
As you look around to see where the sound came from time drifts until your eyes rest on a long abandoned gold and white clay bottle. Dust has settled onto its remains, but you make out what could have been some form of bird head. The only easily discernible feature is a single sigil painted on its side. As your vision pulls away from the remains of this jar the light catches golden sand scattered across its dias. ~
The tavern had a familiar stink—sweat, dust, and the bitter tang of spilled ale—and tonight, windblown sand.
The gust rattled the windows, unsettling the few patrons who lingered at their tables, but the small huddle in the corner—Raustri horns poking out from the hair of each—paid it no mind.
Olrik scratched at his graying beard, squinting at the half-carved piece of bone in his hand. "You heard about the new taxes, right?" he grumbled, shaking his head. "The Empress is bleeding us dry. Worse this year than last. Just look at the cost of flour. Can’t keep a decent meal on the table."
Halin, a man whose face had seen more seasons than most, snorted. His blackened hands tightened around his chipped mug. "You’re still talking about taxes when there’s real trouble brewing. You heard about what’s goin’ on in the Water Gardens?"
Another of the group, Jaila, shifted uncomfortably, her eyes flicking toward the door as if expecting something—or someone—to blow in on the next gust of wind. "What about it?"
"They’re sayin’ the Resplendent Empress brought in a strange lot. No one’s been allowed near the Gardens since they arrived," Halin said, lowering his voice.
Olrik scoffed, setting his carving down. "Guests? In the Water Gardens? You mean prisoners."
"Not prisoners," Jaila whispered, leaning in closer. "I heard it from one of the servants. Said they’re not like anyone we’ve seen before. They don’t come from the same world as us. One of ‘em looked... ...like they’ve been touched by something we can’t see."
Olrik’s face darkened. "You mean the Dreaming?"
"Not in the way you and I are," Jaila said, her voice careful. "I think they’re Dreamwalkers from the west."
At that, the table went silent. The word hung heavy in the air, mingling with the grit of sand that scratched along the floorboards. The wind howled outside again, carrying more dust with it, a reminder that the Ivory Wastes were never far from Thesila.
"Dreaming, huh?" Olrik muttered, a chill creeping into his tone. "If that’s where they’re from, then they’ve brought trouble with ‘em. Always does."
"I saw one," Halin said suddenly, his nostrils flaired as he weaved the lie. "Last night. Walking through the streets, like they didn’t belong. Eyes like shadows, but no light behind 'em. Gave me a look that near stopped my heart."
Olrik’s brow furrowed. "What were they doing in the streets?"
"Don’t know," Halin admitted. "But I’ll tell you this: they ain't here for tea and pleasantries."
"They’re probably here to help fix whatever’s broken in this city," Olrik grumbled, more to himself than the others.
Jaila’s hand shook slightly as she raised her drink. "If they’re from the Dreaming," she whispered, "nothing good follows them. My mother used to say... they bring death in their wake."
Olrik frowned, his fingers tightening on the carved bone in his hand. "They say the Empress only brings outsiders like that when something dark’s on the horizon."
The trio finished their ales and signaled the barmaid for another round as their conversation continued back to more mundane topics. The wind slammed against the door again, and this time, the sand hissed as it slid across the floor like a whispering omen. ~
Olrik scratched at his graying beard, squinting at the half-carved piece of bone in his hand. "You heard about the new taxes, right?" he grumbled, shaking his head. "The Empress is bleeding us dry. Worse this year than last. Just look at the cost of flour. Can’t keep a decent meal on the table."
Halin, a man whose face had seen more seasons than most, snorted. His blackened hands tightened around his chipped mug. "You’re still talking about taxes when there’s real trouble brewing. You heard about what’s goin’ on in the Water Gardens?"
Another of the group, Jaila, shifted uncomfortably, her eyes flicking toward the door as if expecting something—or someone—to blow in on the next gust of wind. "What about it?"
"They’re sayin’ the Resplendent Empress brought in a strange lot. No one’s been allowed near the Gardens since they arrived," Halin said, lowering his voice.
Olrik scoffed, setting his carving down. "Guests? In the Water Gardens? You mean prisoners."
"Not prisoners," Jaila whispered, leaning in closer. "I heard it from one of the servants. Said they’re not like anyone we’ve seen before. They don’t come from the same world as us. One of ‘em looked... ...like they’ve been touched by something we can’t see."
Olrik’s face darkened. "You mean the Dreaming?"
"Not in the way you and I are," Jaila said, her voice careful. "I think they’re Dreamwalkers from the west."
At that, the table went silent. The word hung heavy in the air, mingling with the grit of sand that scratched along the floorboards. The wind howled outside again, carrying more dust with it, a reminder that the Ivory Wastes were never far from Thesila.
"Dreaming, huh?" Olrik muttered, a chill creeping into his tone. "If that’s where they’re from, then they’ve brought trouble with ‘em. Always does."
"I saw one," Halin said suddenly, his nostrils flaired as he weaved the lie. "Last night. Walking through the streets, like they didn’t belong. Eyes like shadows, but no light behind 'em. Gave me a look that near stopped my heart."
Olrik’s brow furrowed. "What were they doing in the streets?"
"Don’t know," Halin admitted. "But I’ll tell you this: they ain't here for tea and pleasantries."
"They’re probably here to help fix whatever’s broken in this city," Olrik grumbled, more to himself than the others.
Jaila’s hand shook slightly as she raised her drink. "If they’re from the Dreaming," she whispered, "nothing good follows them. My mother used to say... they bring death in their wake."
Olrik frowned, his fingers tightening on the carved bone in his hand. "They say the Empress only brings outsiders like that when something dark’s on the horizon."
The trio finished their ales and signaled the barmaid for another round as their conversation continued back to more mundane topics. The wind slammed against the door again, and this time, the sand hissed as it slid across the floor like a whispering omen. ~
"Dun-da-da-da! Cha-cha-cha—GRAND!"
This vision tears into you mind like an infomercial on six cups of coffee.
“Get ready for the ultimate showdown! With the official Leonardo Grand Mask replica, you can harness the power of the legendary Grand Family’s ancient curse. Feel the raw energy of Leo’s spirit, passed down through generations, in your hands! Perfect for cosplayers, collectors, and fans of LoCo's Strange Journey!
The voiceover is smooth, almost too slick, as an animated version of Leonardo Grand appears on screen, his face adorned with the sinister mask that pulses with dark energy. The background flashes with lightning, and Leo strikes a dramatic pose—just before the camera cuts to a cheerful group of teenagers donning the replica masks, smiling brightly as they mimic their favorite scenes from the show.
Then reality hits as the vision fills with static.
One of the teens, laughter still echoing from a moment before, suddenly convulses. The mask on his face—the one that was supposed to be nothing more than plastic and cheap LEDs—flares with an unnatural light, a pulse of power that has no place in the real world. His eyes bulge, veins darken, and the others back away, panic spreading like wildfire.
The Ad continues.
“It’s not just a mask—it’s power! Be the hero or the villain in your own story!”
In a suburban backyard, a boy, maybe thirteen, shows off his new mask to a group of friends. He grins, striking a pose. The mask hums. It hums louder. Before anyone can react, the kid's arm swings out in a jerky, unnatural motion, knocking a table clean off the deck. His friends scatter as he stands frozen, terror behind his eyes.
"Step into the shoes of a Grand and command the power of the Ace of Spades! Order now and unlock your inner strength!”
Cut to a department store, where one mask-wearing customer stands frozen, blood trickling from his nose. His hand—gripping a shelf—twists with a crack, bending the metal frame like putty. Shoppers scream, rushing for the exits. Security footage flickers with static, catching only glimpses of the man standing tall, his body moving in jerky, unnatural rhythms, like a puppet controlled by invisible strings.
More tv static as the voice warbles.
“Feel the legacy-y. Unleash the Grand-d power! —Power. Order today before supplies run out!” ~
“Get ready for the ultimate showdown! With the official Leonardo Grand Mask replica, you can harness the power of the legendary Grand Family’s ancient curse. Feel the raw energy of Leo’s spirit, passed down through generations, in your hands! Perfect for cosplayers, collectors, and fans of LoCo's Strange Journey!
The voiceover is smooth, almost too slick, as an animated version of Leonardo Grand appears on screen, his face adorned with the sinister mask that pulses with dark energy. The background flashes with lightning, and Leo strikes a dramatic pose—just before the camera cuts to a cheerful group of teenagers donning the replica masks, smiling brightly as they mimic their favorite scenes from the show.
Then reality hits as the vision fills with static.
One of the teens, laughter still echoing from a moment before, suddenly convulses. The mask on his face—the one that was supposed to be nothing more than plastic and cheap LEDs—flares with an unnatural light, a pulse of power that has no place in the real world. His eyes bulge, veins darken, and the others back away, panic spreading like wildfire.
The Ad continues.
“It’s not just a mask—it’s power! Be the hero or the villain in your own story!”
In a suburban backyard, a boy, maybe thirteen, shows off his new mask to a group of friends. He grins, striking a pose. The mask hums. It hums louder. Before anyone can react, the kid's arm swings out in a jerky, unnatural motion, knocking a table clean off the deck. His friends scatter as he stands frozen, terror behind his eyes.
"Step into the shoes of a Grand and command the power of the Ace of Spades! Order now and unlock your inner strength!”
Cut to a department store, where one mask-wearing customer stands frozen, blood trickling from his nose. His hand—gripping a shelf—twists with a crack, bending the metal frame like putty. Shoppers scream, rushing for the exits. Security footage flickers with static, catching only glimpses of the man standing tall, his body moving in jerky, unnatural rhythms, like a puppet controlled by invisible strings.
More tv static as the voice warbles.
“Feel the legacy-y. Unleash the Grand-d power! —Power. Order today before supplies run out!” ~
Bang, bang, ba-
A porcelain lid is unscrewed gently placed next to the base by unseen hands, golden ibis head facing away from the base as if to scan the horizon. ~
“Aurore, my dear, let me walk you home.”
Thibault had spoken over his shoulder as he finished counting the cash drawer for the night. “I want to make sure you are safe.”
“Thibault, darling, can I please have this last night of normalcy, my life is about to get turned upside down.” She put her arms around his neck. “I am to lose everything I love, the stage, my voice…”
There was a pause for something unspoken between the two of them.
“Close up and I will walk home and see you in the morning," she continued. " We can say goodbye over breakfast before you escort me.”
That smile again. He had known she was going to win before he even opened his mouth. To him, she was still the golden haired goddess he was lucky enough to have sing at his tiny club. He never could see the silver in her hair, or her wrinkles, or her Hex as it creeped across her skin.
He relented. “Alright, my love, have your night and I will see you in the morning, we will go to that cafe you like. Order whatever you want. But please be careful getting home.” He pressed his forehead to hers. Just a little too long. Too many feelings over the years left unsaid. He supposed they would have to stay that way, now.
Aurore stepped out into the night air. Still warm from the summer sun, but cooling as autumn approaches. She breathes in deep like it is her last chance to and starts on her way back to her apartment. She turns a corner and sees a cloaked figure in the middle of the alley. “Oh! You startled me!” she said with a nervous laugh. Another shadowy figure appeared behind her.
--
Thibault waited, dressed in his best, sitting alone at a table on the patio of the Scarlet Magnolia Cafe, hoping that he could see down the street and spot Aurore as she approached. She was late. It was unusual, a worried voice in his head began to whisper, she was— is always so dedicated to promptness, especially these days. He was quite sure that at this point, half an hour after he’d been seated, he must have looked like he was being stood up, but that embarrassment was just unhelpful background noise to his rapidly accelerating anxiety.
The dusk was already settling into night with no word or sign when he managed to work up the courage to go to her apartment. As he ascended the metal stairs, the echo of each step rang in his ears. She had given him a key years ago, in case of emergencies, and he fumbled it in the lock for a very long thirty seconds before managing to open the door. Everything was pristinely arranged for maximum efficiency, still waiting for her to get ready for bed after arriving home last night. Her nightgown was laid out on the bed, her shoes and shawl were missing from the rack, and her kettle and small tea service were set on the counter but upon brief, frantic assessment, had not been used. The only conclusion he could draw was that she had never made it home last night.
“Aurore…where are you?” ~
“Thibault, darling, can I please have this last night of normalcy, my life is about to get turned upside down.” She put her arms around his neck. “I am to lose everything I love, the stage, my voice…”
There was a pause for something unspoken between the two of them.
“Close up and I will walk home and see you in the morning," she continued. " We can say goodbye over breakfast before you escort me.”
That smile again. He had known she was going to win before he even opened his mouth. To him, she was still the golden haired goddess he was lucky enough to have sing at his tiny club. He never could see the silver in her hair, or her wrinkles, or her Hex as it creeped across her skin.
He relented. “Alright, my love, have your night and I will see you in the morning, we will go to that cafe you like. Order whatever you want. But please be careful getting home.” He pressed his forehead to hers. Just a little too long. Too many feelings over the years left unsaid. He supposed they would have to stay that way, now.
Aurore stepped out into the night air. Still warm from the summer sun, but cooling as autumn approaches. She breathes in deep like it is her last chance to and starts on her way back to her apartment. She turns a corner and sees a cloaked figure in the middle of the alley. “Oh! You startled me!” she said with a nervous laugh. Another shadowy figure appeared behind her.
--
Thibault waited, dressed in his best, sitting alone at a table on the patio of the Scarlet Magnolia Cafe, hoping that he could see down the street and spot Aurore as she approached. She was late. It was unusual, a worried voice in his head began to whisper, she was— is always so dedicated to promptness, especially these days. He was quite sure that at this point, half an hour after he’d been seated, he must have looked like he was being stood up, but that embarrassment was just unhelpful background noise to his rapidly accelerating anxiety.
The dusk was already settling into night with no word or sign when he managed to work up the courage to go to her apartment. As he ascended the metal stairs, the echo of each step rang in his ears. She had given him a key years ago, in case of emergencies, and he fumbled it in the lock for a very long thirty seconds before managing to open the door. Everything was pristinely arranged for maximum efficiency, still waiting for her to get ready for bed after arriving home last night. Her nightgown was laid out on the bed, her shoes and shawl were missing from the rack, and her kettle and small tea service were set on the counter but upon brief, frantic assessment, had not been used. The only conclusion he could draw was that she had never made it home last night.
“Aurore…where are you?” ~
The air smelled like iron and wet stone, an acrid stench hanging in the fog.
Darnell tightened his grip on the sword at his side, the old leather biting into his palm. He didn’t like this part of the Avalon City ruins. Too many shadows. Too many things that didn’t stay dead.
“You feel that?” His voice came out quieter than he wanted.
Beside him, Jova crouched by the cobblestone, fingers tracing a dark smear that bled into the cracks. “Blood,” she muttered. “Fresh.”
Darnell’s stomach churned, but he forced himself to look. It wasn’t just blood. The deep maroon color shimmered with something unnatural, a thin sheen like oil on water. Dread—the Nightmare King’s touch.
“We need to get moving.” His voice cracked with urgency. They both knew what this meant—something had slipped through. A Nightwalker or worse.
Jova stood, her eyes hard beneath the hood of her cloak. “You don’t have to tell me twice.”
They moved through the alley, the mist swallowing their footsteps. Darnell’s mind wandered to the stories he’d heard about this place. Old, forgotten streets, where the nightmares never really left. He’d been part of the Compass Rose long enough to know that sometimes the things you feared weren’t just in your head.
Jova stopped again, this time at the base of a crumbling wall. A stone arch loomed over them, etched with worn symbols of the old world. Darnell recognized them. Ashir runes, like the ones carved into the ancient relics stored in the Temple Archives. But these were different—darker, twisted, as if the stone itself had bled to form them.
"That wasn’t there last week," Jova whispered. "I swear to Serenity."
Before he could answer, the fog shifted, a low growl vibrating through the stones. Something moved in the mist, something big. Darnell drew his sword, feeling the weight of the selfless mantle he carried settle in his chest. The rose sigil on his armor gleamed faintly, as if responding to the darkness ahead.
“Get ready,” he said, voice tight. But he didn’t have to tell Jova that. She already had her hands raised, fingers curling as she summoned a soft glow, the barest hint of Chaos coiling around her like a living thing.
The growl grew louder. A shape, impossibly tall, stepped into view. Pale skin stretched too tight over long limbs, eyes vacant, but glowing with a sickly yellow light. It smiled, a grotesque mimicry of something once human.
Darnell felt the chill of Dread wash over him, gnawing at the edges of his mind. It was a ghoul. But not just any. This one had the mark of a Templar Knight—a Knight of the Inquisition.
“It can’t be…” he breathed, the horror settling in.
Jova’s voice was sharp, cutting through the fear. “That’s why we’re here. To stop this.”
The creature lunged, faster than it should have been for its size, and Darnell barely raised his sword in time. Sparks flew as the blade met bone, and the impact sent him reeling. Behind him, Jova shouted something in a language older than Avalon itself, and the air crackled with energy.
But the thing wasn’t stopping.
And as Darnell staggered back, his mind racing, a single thought clawed at his brain, seeping through the haze of Dread.
This was no accident. Someone—or something—had sent it here.
And it was up to them to send it back. ~
“You feel that?” His voice came out quieter than he wanted.
Beside him, Jova crouched by the cobblestone, fingers tracing a dark smear that bled into the cracks. “Blood,” she muttered. “Fresh.”
Darnell’s stomach churned, but he forced himself to look. It wasn’t just blood. The deep maroon color shimmered with something unnatural, a thin sheen like oil on water. Dread—the Nightmare King’s touch.
“We need to get moving.” His voice cracked with urgency. They both knew what this meant—something had slipped through. A Nightwalker or worse.
Jova stood, her eyes hard beneath the hood of her cloak. “You don’t have to tell me twice.”
They moved through the alley, the mist swallowing their footsteps. Darnell’s mind wandered to the stories he’d heard about this place. Old, forgotten streets, where the nightmares never really left. He’d been part of the Compass Rose long enough to know that sometimes the things you feared weren’t just in your head.
Jova stopped again, this time at the base of a crumbling wall. A stone arch loomed over them, etched with worn symbols of the old world. Darnell recognized them. Ashir runes, like the ones carved into the ancient relics stored in the Temple Archives. But these were different—darker, twisted, as if the stone itself had bled to form them.
"That wasn’t there last week," Jova whispered. "I swear to Serenity."
Before he could answer, the fog shifted, a low growl vibrating through the stones. Something moved in the mist, something big. Darnell drew his sword, feeling the weight of the selfless mantle he carried settle in his chest. The rose sigil on his armor gleamed faintly, as if responding to the darkness ahead.
“Get ready,” he said, voice tight. But he didn’t have to tell Jova that. She already had her hands raised, fingers curling as she summoned a soft glow, the barest hint of Chaos coiling around her like a living thing.
The growl grew louder. A shape, impossibly tall, stepped into view. Pale skin stretched too tight over long limbs, eyes vacant, but glowing with a sickly yellow light. It smiled, a grotesque mimicry of something once human.
Darnell felt the chill of Dread wash over him, gnawing at the edges of his mind. It was a ghoul. But not just any. This one had the mark of a Templar Knight—a Knight of the Inquisition.
“It can’t be…” he breathed, the horror settling in.
Jova’s voice was sharp, cutting through the fear. “That’s why we’re here. To stop this.”
The creature lunged, faster than it should have been for its size, and Darnell barely raised his sword in time. Sparks flew as the blade met bone, and the impact sent him reeling. Behind him, Jova shouted something in a language older than Avalon itself, and the air crackled with energy.
But the thing wasn’t stopping.
And as Darnell staggered back, his mind racing, a single thought clawed at his brain, seeping through the haze of Dread.
This was no accident. Someone—or something—had sent it here.
And it was up to them to send it back. ~
The room was dark, save for the sputtering glow of the oil lamps hanging from wrought iron hooks above.
Dust hung thick in the stale air, unmoving, like a suffocating presence. Old books, piled on every surface, swallowed sound, save for the groan of the floorboards—louder than it had any right to be.
Caldric hunched over the long table, thumbing through a stack of mail. He cracked another letter open with his worn knife, eyes scanning the text as his free hand popped his knuckles, one after the other.
"Are you sure that says Galeston?" His voice was barely a mutter, but in the quiet, it hit like a shout.
Veeolet didn’t look up. She’d grown used to his habit of talking to himself, especially when buried deep in thought. Weeks had blurred together in the library, among rotting parchment and crumbling books that felt like they might turn to dust if handled too roughly. Time was slippery here—in and out until the difference between dawn and dusk seemed like an illusion.
"Galeston?" Veeolet echoed, her voice breaking the stillness. She blinked, tossing aside a scroll before leaning in, elbows on the table. "The ruin where Dreamwalkers reemerged over 200 years ago?"
Caldric nodded, eyes still glued to the letter. His lips moved silently, reading, rereading, the furrow between his brows deepening. Veeolet watched the flicker of lamplight dance over his face. Something was wrong; she could feel it in the space between them.
"I heard it was closed off," she said after a beat, voice low. "Council didn’t want anyone poking around in there. Too much..." She hesitated, searching for the right word. "...danger."
"Too much history," Caldric corrected, his eyes finally lifting to meet hers. That edge in his voice—it always surfaced when they stumbled into darker waters than expected. "But this letter—this expedition—they say they found something."
Her breath hitched. "What?"
"Something inside Gregory’s Tomb."
Veeolet's grin was immediate, cutting through the tension. "Gregory?" She shook her head, amused. "It's pronounced Grigori."
"Grigori, Gregory, who the hell cares," Caldric snapped, the bite in his words sharp but charged with something darker. "He’s supposed to be buried in a shallow grave nowhere near Galeston.” He shoved the letter across the table, frustration etched in his expression.
Veeolet took it, running her thumb over the edge of the parchment like she could pull secrets straight from the ink. "Yeah, that's what the records say," she murmured. "But this expedition claims they've found a... tomb. And Grigori’s name—"
Her words trailed off, the air in the room growing tight around them, thick with something unsaid. The lamps flickered. Shadows twisted across the walls, creeping in from the edges.
Veeolet’s mind raced, pulling at threads, trying to make sense of it. Her stomach knotted as the puzzle pieces clicked into place, pieces that shouldn’t belong. "Grigori’s Curse," she whispered. Her voice barely broke the space between them. "Some say the Dreamwalkers didn’t just reemerge in Galeston… they had to break a curse first."
Caldric leaned back in his chair, his face pale, heavy with realization. “If that’s true," he said, his words slow, deliberate, "then we’re not just dealing with any tomb."
He paused, letting the weight of it sink in.
"We’re dealing with a Reaper Oubliette." ~
Caldric hunched over the long table, thumbing through a stack of mail. He cracked another letter open with his worn knife, eyes scanning the text as his free hand popped his knuckles, one after the other.
"Are you sure that says Galeston?" His voice was barely a mutter, but in the quiet, it hit like a shout.
Veeolet didn’t look up. She’d grown used to his habit of talking to himself, especially when buried deep in thought. Weeks had blurred together in the library, among rotting parchment and crumbling books that felt like they might turn to dust if handled too roughly. Time was slippery here—in and out until the difference between dawn and dusk seemed like an illusion.
"Galeston?" Veeolet echoed, her voice breaking the stillness. She blinked, tossing aside a scroll before leaning in, elbows on the table. "The ruin where Dreamwalkers reemerged over 200 years ago?"
Caldric nodded, eyes still glued to the letter. His lips moved silently, reading, rereading, the furrow between his brows deepening. Veeolet watched the flicker of lamplight dance over his face. Something was wrong; she could feel it in the space between them.
"I heard it was closed off," she said after a beat, voice low. "Council didn’t want anyone poking around in there. Too much..." She hesitated, searching for the right word. "...danger."
"Too much history," Caldric corrected, his eyes finally lifting to meet hers. That edge in his voice—it always surfaced when they stumbled into darker waters than expected. "But this letter—this expedition—they say they found something."
Her breath hitched. "What?"
"Something inside Gregory’s Tomb."
Veeolet's grin was immediate, cutting through the tension. "Gregory?" She shook her head, amused. "It's pronounced Grigori."
"Grigori, Gregory, who the hell cares," Caldric snapped, the bite in his words sharp but charged with something darker. "He’s supposed to be buried in a shallow grave nowhere near Galeston.” He shoved the letter across the table, frustration etched in his expression.
Veeolet took it, running her thumb over the edge of the parchment like she could pull secrets straight from the ink. "Yeah, that's what the records say," she murmured. "But this expedition claims they've found a... tomb. And Grigori’s name—"
Her words trailed off, the air in the room growing tight around them, thick with something unsaid. The lamps flickered. Shadows twisted across the walls, creeping in from the edges.
Veeolet’s mind raced, pulling at threads, trying to make sense of it. Her stomach knotted as the puzzle pieces clicked into place, pieces that shouldn’t belong. "Grigori’s Curse," she whispered. Her voice barely broke the space between them. "Some say the Dreamwalkers didn’t just reemerge in Galeston… they had to break a curse first."
Caldric leaned back in his chair, his face pale, heavy with realization. “If that’s true," he said, his words slow, deliberate, "then we’re not just dealing with any tomb."
He paused, letting the weight of it sink in.
"We’re dealing with a Reaper Oubliette." ~
“You cannot possibly expect me to publish this.”
Her assistant was pacing next to where she had managed to slump down before her legs ceased function, still trying to figure out something that had been missed, something that could stop this. There was nothing.
“Do it or don’t, Trichet, I don’t care. It's not like it matters to me in the next—” She squinted at the clock on the wall, an antique mechanical thing comprised entirely of gears and springs and mundane materials. “—17 minutes before I lose consciousness. It certainly won’t matter 30 minutes after that when my pulmonary functioning ceases entirely.”
They looked stricken as they froze mid-step but she ignored it, leaned back against the wall, and closed her eyes. “You’ll have to send word to my brother. A telegram, probably. His address is, is... I don’t remember his address. Check through the mail, it’ll be the only one from Izumrud. Send him the obituary too, he knows its accurate. The safe key is under the left-back leg of the bed. Not all the fresh materials in the storeroom are labeled yet so be careful when you go to preserve them because if you cross-contaminate your own stock it's on your head, now, not mine. And, Lou?”
She forced open one eye, fixing it on her assistant. “Get out. Find someone to help you move the cadaver, get a drink. Whatever. I want to be alone. Come back when...”
The unspoken when I’m dead hung in the air for a moment before she heard the front door of the apothecary building slam shut, and she was left with the ticking clock.
Some small, stupid part of her still raged, even now. Why not just say what happened—we know what happened! And now nobody will ever know! A childish, indignant, fervent belief in a universal justice; one which she of all people knew did not exist. She had, in the end, been bested at her own game, and now nobody would even know it was one which had been played.
Something alien tugged at the corner of her mind. She ignored it. Nothing to be done now. Time was, after all, up.
—
V. I. Lamirault - Born Aug. 13 291, Deceased Sept. 6 324
Mme. Vivienne Ignacja Lamirault, known by most as “that insane, backwards, harpy of a woman” if they did not refer to her formally, was a 33 year old Apothecary and disgraced medical student. Lamirault took over the Apothecary located in a Cloudpainter artists commune on the island of Stonebloom Haven after the retirement of its former owner, following her expulsion (shortly before her intended graduation) from the Izumrud College of Medicine in 314. She has died both stupidly and ignominiously, and if any mourn her passing it will be due to their own personal failings. ~
“Do it or don’t, Trichet, I don’t care. It's not like it matters to me in the next—” She squinted at the clock on the wall, an antique mechanical thing comprised entirely of gears and springs and mundane materials. “—17 minutes before I lose consciousness. It certainly won’t matter 30 minutes after that when my pulmonary functioning ceases entirely.”
They looked stricken as they froze mid-step but she ignored it, leaned back against the wall, and closed her eyes. “You’ll have to send word to my brother. A telegram, probably. His address is, is... I don’t remember his address. Check through the mail, it’ll be the only one from Izumrud. Send him the obituary too, he knows its accurate. The safe key is under the left-back leg of the bed. Not all the fresh materials in the storeroom are labeled yet so be careful when you go to preserve them because if you cross-contaminate your own stock it's on your head, now, not mine. And, Lou?”
She forced open one eye, fixing it on her assistant. “Get out. Find someone to help you move the cadaver, get a drink. Whatever. I want to be alone. Come back when...”
The unspoken when I’m dead hung in the air for a moment before she heard the front door of the apothecary building slam shut, and she was left with the ticking clock.
Some small, stupid part of her still raged, even now. Why not just say what happened—we know what happened! And now nobody will ever know! A childish, indignant, fervent belief in a universal justice; one which she of all people knew did not exist. She had, in the end, been bested at her own game, and now nobody would even know it was one which had been played.
Something alien tugged at the corner of her mind. She ignored it. Nothing to be done now. Time was, after all, up.
—
V. I. Lamirault - Born Aug. 13 291, Deceased Sept. 6 324
Mme. Vivienne Ignacja Lamirault, known by most as “that insane, backwards, harpy of a woman” if they did not refer to her formally, was a 33 year old Apothecary and disgraced medical student. Lamirault took over the Apothecary located in a Cloudpainter artists commune on the island of Stonebloom Haven after the retirement of its former owner, following her expulsion (shortly before her intended graduation) from the Izumrud College of Medicine in 314. She has died both stupidly and ignominiously, and if any mourn her passing it will be due to their own personal failings. ~
“I think, given the forced shut down it would be best to ask for some help to investigate these leads.”
The usual bustle and noise of headquarters faded into the background for two familiar officers as they stood over a map of The Dreaming, documents scattered across it. Admiral Tiberius Shriver studied the papers splayed out before him. "Run me through the ones you're recommending for the Dreamwalkers again."
Admiral Praetoria Greene nodded and picked up one of the files “Let's start here. We recently received a distress signal from a technohaven ship that went down between Telhamra Harbor and Fort Aetherloon. Unfortunately given the rough state of our internal systems we weren’t able to respond in time.”
Your vision begins to blur as you see the shore line of a small island. Unformed dreaming seems to roil up and down the coast almost like waves lapping up along the edges of reality.
“We still don’t know exactly what happened out there, but we were able to track back to a general area in the unformed dreaming based on the debris.”
As the unformed dreaming pulls out from the coast chunks of metal are left embedded into the shoreline. As your vision pulls in closer you can make out the symbol of the Technohaven Company still visible on a few pieces of debris.
“It’s not much to go on, but if we’re able to find out what happened here, maybe we can prevent this from happening again in the future.”
Your vision returns to the table with the two Admirals reviewing documents.
Admiral Shriver nods gravely.
“It’s a shame that we weren’t able to respond in time to help, but we can at least ask the Dreamwalkers to route themselves over to the salvage efforts. See what they can learn. It’ll then free us up to put our resources elsewhere. What’s next?”
Admiral Greene slides a file across the table.
“Prophetic pens” she stated matter of factly.
Rus looked up skeptically, but returned to the document as Greene continued.
“Mobile Encampment Bitterroot is in possession of an item that allegedly has prophetic powers.”
Your vision quickly turns to see a massive structure carving its way across the unformed dreaming.
“The encampment is too heavily fortified for a full frontal assault, but with a small strike team we should be able to recover the item without incident.”
Your vision swoops in over the mobile fortress to show a number of bunkers, watch towers, and other buildings scattered along its surface.
“Unfortunately with communications being what they are we couldn’t effectively monitor any teams sent in. The dreamwalkers on the other hand could portal in fairly accurately and get out before anyone notices.”
The sound of a file folder closing pulls you back to Technohaven operations.
“Well hopefully they’ll be able to pull it off,” said Shriver, moving the file off to the side. “Anything else for them?”
“There’s one more that I think they’ll be interested in,” Praetoria said, pulling a file from the bottom of a stack “The so-called God of Machines.”
Your vision shifts to a small town in the dead of night. On the outskirts you see a man in a white shirt with a black vest and a black and gold crown set upon his head.
“The main intel we have is that he gave himself the name and the nightmares are interested in him.”
You see the man raise his hands as mechanical bodies form to his left and right.
“He has powers of conjuration… and that's about it.”
With a flick of his wrists the robots sprint off into the town below, your vision returns to the meeting.
“A few dreamwalkers have expressed interest in looking into it, and I’m inclined to let them.” Admiral Greene leaned back slightly in her chair waiting for Shriver’s response.
He looked over the files in front of himself again.
“Given how stretched thin we are, I think it’s a good idea to leverage their resources. Besides, with that portal they can get wherever they need to. Sending a single team three places sure beats putting three different teams on the line. Are you sure they’ll be interested in taking the job?” Rus said with some amount of concern in his voice.
“The Dreamwalkers were the ones who provided this intel in the first place. Not only are they generally willing to help, they often want to follow up on their own leads personally. I don’t think we’ll have an issue,” Admiral Praetoria Greene said with the faintest hint of a smugness and she drew her arms across her chest. “Besides, if for some reason they decide they don't want to pursue any of these, we can just divert Commander LIV to those destinations. She can’t be in three places at once, but she can almost move as quickly as the Dreamwalkers can.”
Admiral Shriver nodded in agreement. “Ok, let's get moving on requisitioning a transport. Things are still locked down pretty tight, but I think we can scrounge something up for you.” ~
Admiral Praetoria Greene nodded and picked up one of the files “Let's start here. We recently received a distress signal from a technohaven ship that went down between Telhamra Harbor and Fort Aetherloon. Unfortunately given the rough state of our internal systems we weren’t able to respond in time.”
Your vision begins to blur as you see the shore line of a small island. Unformed dreaming seems to roil up and down the coast almost like waves lapping up along the edges of reality.
“We still don’t know exactly what happened out there, but we were able to track back to a general area in the unformed dreaming based on the debris.”
As the unformed dreaming pulls out from the coast chunks of metal are left embedded into the shoreline. As your vision pulls in closer you can make out the symbol of the Technohaven Company still visible on a few pieces of debris.
“It’s not much to go on, but if we’re able to find out what happened here, maybe we can prevent this from happening again in the future.”
Your vision returns to the table with the two Admirals reviewing documents.
Admiral Shriver nods gravely.
“It’s a shame that we weren’t able to respond in time to help, but we can at least ask the Dreamwalkers to route themselves over to the salvage efforts. See what they can learn. It’ll then free us up to put our resources elsewhere. What’s next?”
Admiral Greene slides a file across the table.
“Prophetic pens” she stated matter of factly.
Rus looked up skeptically, but returned to the document as Greene continued.
“Mobile Encampment Bitterroot is in possession of an item that allegedly has prophetic powers.”
Your vision quickly turns to see a massive structure carving its way across the unformed dreaming.
“The encampment is too heavily fortified for a full frontal assault, but with a small strike team we should be able to recover the item without incident.”
Your vision swoops in over the mobile fortress to show a number of bunkers, watch towers, and other buildings scattered along its surface.
“Unfortunately with communications being what they are we couldn’t effectively monitor any teams sent in. The dreamwalkers on the other hand could portal in fairly accurately and get out before anyone notices.”
The sound of a file folder closing pulls you back to Technohaven operations.
“Well hopefully they’ll be able to pull it off,” said Shriver, moving the file off to the side. “Anything else for them?”
“There’s one more that I think they’ll be interested in,” Praetoria said, pulling a file from the bottom of a stack “The so-called God of Machines.”
Your vision shifts to a small town in the dead of night. On the outskirts you see a man in a white shirt with a black vest and a black and gold crown set upon his head.
“The main intel we have is that he gave himself the name and the nightmares are interested in him.”
You see the man raise his hands as mechanical bodies form to his left and right.
“He has powers of conjuration… and that's about it.”
With a flick of his wrists the robots sprint off into the town below, your vision returns to the meeting.
“A few dreamwalkers have expressed interest in looking into it, and I’m inclined to let them.” Admiral Greene leaned back slightly in her chair waiting for Shriver’s response.
He looked over the files in front of himself again.
“Given how stretched thin we are, I think it’s a good idea to leverage their resources. Besides, with that portal they can get wherever they need to. Sending a single team three places sure beats putting three different teams on the line. Are you sure they’ll be interested in taking the job?” Rus said with some amount of concern in his voice.
“The Dreamwalkers were the ones who provided this intel in the first place. Not only are they generally willing to help, they often want to follow up on their own leads personally. I don’t think we’ll have an issue,” Admiral Praetoria Greene said with the faintest hint of a smugness and she drew her arms across her chest. “Besides, if for some reason they decide they don't want to pursue any of these, we can just divert Commander LIV to those destinations. She can’t be in three places at once, but she can almost move as quickly as the Dreamwalkers can.”
Admiral Shriver nodded in agreement. “Ok, let's get moving on requisitioning a transport. Things are still locked down pretty tight, but I think we can scrounge something up for you.” ~
