A White Bone Mask / Pain and Screams
The dream dives deeply this evening, reaching for a scrap of a far-away past, in a land where no living mortals were made to tread. We see the Boneyard, the domain of the death goddess Pharasma, backlit by the terrible moon that hangs overhead -- the prison of the dread god Groetus. But in this vision, we ignore the splendor of the spires, and the twinkling lights that guide the River of Souls to Judgement. Instead, we deviate to the endless graves that surround the city, to a clearing bordered by a garden of fruit trees, where three men stand at odds.
The first, a Halfling, is covered in filthy, raggedy bandages, with flecks of golden hair peeking out around his head. Two bright, golden eyes mark the only visible feature of his face, as even his nose and mouth have been covered. In complete contrast, his black-and-gold robes are immaculate, cut in a style unknown to this age.
Beside him stands a ghost -- a regal-looking creature, his essence a swirl of stormy blues and luscious purples, adorned in the armor of an ancient soldier. In one hand he bears a glittering sword, held at his side like an afterthought, and in the other, the outline of a shield, filled with a mass of swirling, ethereal winds. The Centurion.
At last, directly opposite the pair, we arrive at the third man. His black mane falls around a beautiful, feminine face, with sparking green eyes and skin as pale as the moon. His robes are made of pure shadow, falling simply around his noble frame, made for function over fashion. On his belt, a lantern holds a small, pulsing flame, which flickers between four colors - a cold blue, a verdant green, a warm red, and rich yellow. In his hand...
A wicked thing, made of a shard of something long forgotten. To call it black would be an injustice. To call it sharp would belittle its craft. It was pain and suffering incarnate. It took the shape of a dagger, but it was much, much more.
The Eclipse Malkin.
As we arrive, the man's knuckles pop around the hilt of the dagger. The wind around him stills. A bystander might have confused him for a statue, until they saw his eyes. They burned with the fury of life. Anger mixed with disbelief, grief courted with horror. The Halfling meets those eyes, his sorrow seen even through the bandages.
???: “You did this to me."
The dark-haired man's voice is eerily calm, like the surface of a frozen lake. But as his anger grows, the trees around him began to decay, as if summer had become autumn, and then winter. The leaves that fall are withered and sickly, curling upon themselves as they reach the ground. The Halfling's reply is forced, as if the man were on the edge of a deep sob.
???: “Max, I never meant to-”
Max: “Don’t lie. Not. To. Me.”
The Haze screams. The Halfling emits a strong sense of dread, as if the world were about to fall down around him. He kneels under the pressure of it all, his stomach turning inside out and back again. The Centurion looks calmly ahead, waiting for what is to come. The Halfling opens his mouth to speak, but no sound emerges.
Max: “No more, Rufus. I’m not going to let you go back.”
Rufus: “I- I have to, Max. I can fix it! Please, let me fix it. You can see Katrina again! And Shishu. And Arin. You can help me.”
The Haze dulls our senses, saving us from the fury that Max releases from the deepest depths of his soul. His fists begin to shake with it, the leaves around him catching fire as his wild aura scatters. The embers cast a harsh light on his face, reflecting the tears falling to his chin. Instead of a reply, Max offers only a pained growl, and reaches up towards the bleeding moon. Rufus gasps, lifting up from his knees to take a step forward, his eyes wide and horrified.
Rufus: "Max, no!"
An ivory mask forms from the surrounding moonlight, and descends towards Max's hand.
Centurion: "He has made his choice! Draw!"
The ghost lifts his blade, setting his skeletal jaw with determination, and wades forth. Rufus holds back a mortified scream. Time slows.
Rufus calls a staff into his hands -- a black wood surrounded by four, silver bands.
Max grasps the mask from the air, lowering it to his face.
The Centurion lashes out, his sword digging into the edge of Max's chin as he rolls.
An blast of eldritch energy howls from Rufus' staff, missing Max by a few centimeters.
Max puts on the mask.
The dread moon of Groetus shatters, as does the dream.
The first, a Halfling, is covered in filthy, raggedy bandages, with flecks of golden hair peeking out around his head. Two bright, golden eyes mark the only visible feature of his face, as even his nose and mouth have been covered. In complete contrast, his black-and-gold robes are immaculate, cut in a style unknown to this age.
Beside him stands a ghost -- a regal-looking creature, his essence a swirl of stormy blues and luscious purples, adorned in the armor of an ancient soldier. In one hand he bears a glittering sword, held at his side like an afterthought, and in the other, the outline of a shield, filled with a mass of swirling, ethereal winds. The Centurion.
At last, directly opposite the pair, we arrive at the third man. His black mane falls around a beautiful, feminine face, with sparking green eyes and skin as pale as the moon. His robes are made of pure shadow, falling simply around his noble frame, made for function over fashion. On his belt, a lantern holds a small, pulsing flame, which flickers between four colors - a cold blue, a verdant green, a warm red, and rich yellow. In his hand...
A wicked thing, made of a shard of something long forgotten. To call it black would be an injustice. To call it sharp would belittle its craft. It was pain and suffering incarnate. It took the shape of a dagger, but it was much, much more.
The Eclipse Malkin.
As we arrive, the man's knuckles pop around the hilt of the dagger. The wind around him stills. A bystander might have confused him for a statue, until they saw his eyes. They burned with the fury of life. Anger mixed with disbelief, grief courted with horror. The Halfling meets those eyes, his sorrow seen even through the bandages.
???: “You did this to me."
The dark-haired man's voice is eerily calm, like the surface of a frozen lake. But as his anger grows, the trees around him began to decay, as if summer had become autumn, and then winter. The leaves that fall are withered and sickly, curling upon themselves as they reach the ground. The Halfling's reply is forced, as if the man were on the edge of a deep sob.
???: “Max, I never meant to-”
Max: “Don’t lie. Not. To. Me.”
The Haze screams. The Halfling emits a strong sense of dread, as if the world were about to fall down around him. He kneels under the pressure of it all, his stomach turning inside out and back again. The Centurion looks calmly ahead, waiting for what is to come. The Halfling opens his mouth to speak, but no sound emerges.
Max: “No more, Rufus. I’m not going to let you go back.”
Rufus: “I- I have to, Max. I can fix it! Please, let me fix it. You can see Katrina again! And Shishu. And Arin. You can help me.”
The Haze dulls our senses, saving us from the fury that Max releases from the deepest depths of his soul. His fists begin to shake with it, the leaves around him catching fire as his wild aura scatters. The embers cast a harsh light on his face, reflecting the tears falling to his chin. Instead of a reply, Max offers only a pained growl, and reaches up towards the bleeding moon. Rufus gasps, lifting up from his knees to take a step forward, his eyes wide and horrified.
Rufus: "Max, no!"
An ivory mask forms from the surrounding moonlight, and descends towards Max's hand.
Centurion: "He has made his choice! Draw!"
The ghost lifts his blade, setting his skeletal jaw with determination, and wades forth. Rufus holds back a mortified scream. Time slows.
Rufus calls a staff into his hands -- a black wood surrounded by four, silver bands.
Max grasps the mask from the air, lowering it to his face.
The Centurion lashes out, his sword digging into the edge of Max's chin as he rolls.
An blast of eldritch energy howls from Rufus' staff, missing Max by a few centimeters.
Max puts on the mask.
The dread moon of Groetus shatters, as does the dream.
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