You did enjoy yourself, a little, you think. Before Richard got all weird.
There's really not that much to look at: the street is uniformly shadowy. You wonder where it came from. You wonder where your nagging sense of déjà vu comes from. You wonder if "expelling poison build-up" just means to puke. (Not so far.)
A glint of gold. It's gone. You're drunk, Lottie. You're imagining things. It's the setting sun off metal, is all.
No, there it is, closer. It's moving. It's— you can see it properly now. It's a gold mask.
It's a person in a gold mask. Inside your head. You try to focus. "Richard, there's someone—"
Richard's not a couple feet away. He's gone. ?I know,? he says in your ear. ?I told you so.?
"That's great," you hiss. "What do I do?"
?You brought a knife in your pocket.?
"A fett... a clay knife."
?Pull it out, Charlie. You're not sober enough for it to be a clay knife.?
"Oh, and you are—" Anything else dies in your throat. You've pulled the fettling knife from your pocket. Only it's not.
It's a longsword, orange in the dusk.
?I told you so, again. I know you have a thing for swords.?
You do have a thing for swords. You've always wanted a sword. That being said, you have never actually owned a sword, or swung a sword, so it seems to you like you've just produced a very sharp paperweight from your pocket.
The gold-masked person is rapidly closing the distance.
?Just hold onto that, Charlie. We will see. Now, look, you have some options…?
>[1] Stand your ground. You don't know what he or she wants from you yet.
>[2] Don't know what he or she wants?! They're invading! Rush in and immediately go on the attack.
>[3] You're exposed right here. Find- or create- cover, just in case.
>[4] Bail out. Leave the person in your head. Bad news: he or she might trash it. Good news: he or she can't thrash you.
>[5] Write-in.
You make a couple of test swings. The sword is surprisingly wieldy— you'd kind of always expected it to be much heavier. And you really, really like the swooshing sound it makes. You're giggling again.
?Focus. Please.?
Reluctantly, you drop the sword to your side and shield your eyes against the setting sun. The person is close enough for you to make out his or her body: they're shrouded in ash-grey gauze from head to toe. Freak.
"Hey!" you call out, a little slurred. "I've got a… sword. A sword." You show the person your sword. "Sho you should… you should not, uh, mess with me."
The person doesn't respond. They keep walking towards you.
"Who're you, anyways? How'd you get in my… in here, you know. You should really not, uh— you should go away? Yes."
?You're terrible at this.?
"Sure," says the person in the mask, in a muted, androgynous voice. They have stopped ten yards in front of you.
You didn't expect a response, much less one in the affirmative. "Really?"
"Really. I'll go away, Charlotte Fawkins. I just need something from you first."
There's the catch. "I don't really think that will—"
"That crown."
The Crown? You'd forgotten about it, almost, between everything. You haven't even seen it since the cave. "Oh. Why?"
"Why?" The person was evidently not expecting conversation. "Gods, you're really just— are you even doing anything with it?"
"I own it."
"I got that." The person has crossed their arms, you think, beneath their gauze. "But are you going to, like, raise someone from the dead with it? Or, hell, unflood the world? End all suffering? Anything along those lines?"
That possibility had not occurred to you. "Eh…"
"Alrighty, then. It's for a good cause, okay? Now, look, it's a lot of hassle to beat you up. It'd be a lotta fun, but I'd rather not. Can you just tell me where it is?"
?Don't you dare, you bitch.?
Even if you wanted to, you don't know. You finger the grip of the sword. "Sorry, I, uh, I can't—"
"Fair enough." The person extracts two black-gloved hands and holds them, rigid, at their side. "I can't kill you here, you know. But I'm pretty sure I can make it hurt."
The sun sinks a little lower, and the light shifts. You blink. There is no more person— their ash-grey mantle is the color and consistency of the shadows. Only their mask remains, and it's changed too: it's not reflecting the light, but producing it, and it's such a brilliant gold you can't see anything else.
It hangs in place. It's the shadows that move. They're rushing towards you, down the street.
>[1] This is— this is fine. You have the *light of righteousness* burning in your soul. Stand your ground and wait for the person to show back up.
>[2] Ditto, but rush into it, towards the mask. Swing your sword lots.
>[3] Summon some light to get rid of the shadow. (You can do that, right? Probably.)
>[4] Retreat backwards, staying out of the shadow. Try to reach some kind of defensible position.
Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.
>[5] Write-in.
>105, 61, 118 vs. DC 80 - Success.
You've never done this; you don't know what to do— what happens if you lose? What if they're lying, and it does kill you? What then? How awful that would be, how awful and horrible and pointless... ow!
A shiver down your spine. Your eye twitches.
Ahem. Ha! (Positive thinking. Positive thinking.) A little darkness means nothing to you! It's all in your head, anyways, all you have to do is imagine it away. You're doing that right now (you're staring it down), you're imagining— it's broad daylight—
?That won't work.?
Of course it will work! You are in control. You are the queen of this petty fiefdom, and by God you're going to, uh, bring the hammer of justice, uh…
?Charlie, this is all good, but it won't work. You've been usurped. You need to move.?
The shadows are twenty feet away. You're petulant. You don't want to move. You want to banish the darkness with your light of righteousness.
?For your information, I hate every second of being with you. Fine. Fine. Keep it and it might be okay. And move while you do it.?
…Yes. Small scale. You won't banish the darkness, you'll only, you know, pierce through it. With your sword… Yes, that's a good one! Glowing sword. That's classic. You just need to do it; infuse it with inner light, or whatnot, or…
?Just take the light from the mask. Start walking. Hurry.?
The shadows are ten feet away. That's also an option! You point the sword straight at the mask and begin to pace backwards, unsteadily— your balance is shot. Glowing sword, you think. Glowing sword.
?You need more conviction. You're the one making this true.?
Glowing sword.
?You're useless. Look, just let me—? Your vision goes grey at the edges. You wince.
?—Here. Okay. And let's just—?
>[-1 ID: 7/11]
It's a cold glass of water to the face. Your muscles tense, your heart throbs. You're more stable on your feet.
?Now do it.?
You squint at the mask, now little more than a dot in the distance. (The shadows are five feet away. You can't see most of the street.) It's vaguely mocking. You twist your sword arm 90 degrees, and pull…
The mask winks out. The darkness, like a low tide, retreats. Your sword is glowing.
You say the only rational thing you can. "Awesome!"
Is it done? The mask is gone, the street is empty. You release the tension you didn't know you were keeping. God, you're—
?
The extra burst of radio feedback jolts you back into action. You spin, sword in hand— its light is already flickering, being drawn to— the person, mask on face— they're behind you, over you, both hands on the hilt of a massive matte black axe. They're swinging.
>[A1] Dodge! Roll out of the way. [Roll.]
>[A2] Parry! It sure will surprise them. [Roll.]
>[A3] Blind them! Hold the sword up— make it brighter, if you can. They can't hit you if they can't see!
>[A4] Write-in.
If you succeed:
>[B1] Well, God, stab them! In the chest! Isn't it obvious? Give them the ol, you know, stabby stab.
>[B2] Try to knock or grab the mask off their face. It's probably important.
>[B3] Book it! You need to make some space between you and a giant axe.
>[B4] Use OPEN. So it can open doors— but can it do anything else? [What do you use it on, specifically?] [1/1 use remaining]
>[B5] Write-in.
>Dodge! 38, 9, 6 vs. DC 40 - Failure!
Your feet are rooted to the cobblestone. You may as well have grown here. You watch numbly as the blade whistles down— down— down—
Your left arm explodes.
>[-4 ID: 3/11]
In pain, in gore. The axe bites down, through your coat, through your skin, your flesh, your bone. Your body offers no resistance.
You scream, and time speeds up.
You are bleeding all over your white coat. And your left arm— not your sword arm, that's the right arm, but you're quivering so badly it's also useless— your left arm is attached to your body. So that's good. It's dangling by a horrible, useless shred of skin. So that's bad.
You can still flex the fingers on it. One, two, three, four times. You giggle shrilly.
?Charlie. It's not real. It's not real. Listen. It's not real. You still have an arm. You have to focus. Charlie.?
You don't have an arm. God, how it bleeds. It's proper velvet red blood, too, none of the silver nonsense.
?You do have an arm. This isn't real, Charlie. Listen. Listen. If you believe you've really lost an arm, than you will have, and then where are we, Charlie—?
The person in the mask seems, you think, surprised. The axe is by their side. "Okay, nice hit. Is that good enough? Would you like to tell me where the crown is? I'll go for the other arm, else."
>[1] God-damnit. Just tell them something. Anything. It doesn't have to be true.
>[2] Surprise attack with one arm. (One arm!) Go for the chest.
>[3] Surprise attack with one arm. (One arm!) Go for the mask.
>[4] Can you— can you— just shove it back on? It's still attached, that's probably good, right? You don't like having one arm.
>[5] Write-in.
You don't say anything. The person in the mask doesn't say anything. Blood pools under you.
The person in the mask is beginning to rustle uncomfortably. "Look, bud, I don't like this very much either," they start. "I know it's not quite fair and square. If you'd just work with me—"
You can't work with them. They cut off your arm.
?But not for real. I need you to acknowledge that. This is important.?
—But you can put it back on. You can put it back on, surely. Right? Absolutely. It's a clean cut… and anyways, it's still on you, it's just loose. You can fix this! You just need to put it back on.
?…?
Your sword clatters to the ground. Delicately, you grip the limp left arm by its wrist. Less delicately, you shove it into your shoulder. It produces the worst squelch you've ever heard.
You release it. It stays in place. You move one, two, three, four fingers on your left arm.
"Awesome," you say.
You reach down to pick up your sword. It's gone.
You look up. The person in the mask grips their axe in their right hand, and your sword in their left. It's dim and silent; their mask is brimming with new stolen sunlight.
They toss your sword in front of you. Then they vanish, almost— their body is lost in the shadows, but the mask still hangs in place, raw and radiant, three feet in front of you. You can't stop looking at it. You want to touch it, to take it, to put it on.
You are surrounded by near-darkness. There's no sound.
>[1] Second verse, same as the first: take the light into your sword. Will it work again? Only one way to find out.
>[2] The mask is right there. Attack it.
>[3] Stay here, and stay vigilant. (Make sure your arm stays on you.) You'll be ready for if the person reappears.
>[4] You have to get out of this. You have to create an OPENing. [1/1]
>[5] Put on the mask.
>[5] Write-in.
ALSO:
BATHIC'S RECOMMENDATION CORNER #7
Head Canon, but he actually has a NEW STORY coming out right now-- I read part of it in beta, and now it's releasing in full! It features a lovable(??) literal-psychopath MC and EVEN MORE detailed ruminations on the state of modern society than normal. CHECK IT OUT.