The Mask of Mori
A secret Sect threads the events of the Runiverse.
An ancient power stirs in the shadows.
A mystic tehcnology emerges: The Mask of Mori
art by Ozzz
Origins, Part I: Arrival
lore by Deltamouse
A westerly wind blows through the peaks of the Salt Side Range, flowing around exposed conifers and shaping them into gnarled sentinels of the night. Reaching the end of the channeled mountain passes, the wind fans out over the eastern hills and valley, slowing to a gentle breeze and disappearing into the night. A nearby stream weaves its way around rounded stones and roots of sturdy oak trees, their leaves dancing lightly in the starlight. It babbles peacefully past a small glade, home to a herd of cervids bedding for the night. The lead stag is the last to lay, its mossy, flowered antlers swaying like tree limbs as it scans the nearby forest for any predators, its ears twitching rapidly. It looks to the sky, an unknown intelligence in its eyes. They number in the millions. Bright points of light filling the sky above an untouched world, the dark fabric of the cosmos appearing worn by time.
Still and good.
Beginning to curl its head down for the night, it stops. A singular point of light moves across the smallest stretch of sky. The creature blinks and its gone.
Age.
It stands, circles around twice, and lays down taking one last glance, its gaze solely focused on the stars above. The point of light moves again, slowly. The flowers on its antlers close and retract. As the seconds turn to minutes, it light grows brighter—the angle of its movement hiding its speed. The stag huffs.
Wrong.
It shuffles to its feet, waking its nearby mate. The light grows brighter shedding its outer layers repeatedly as it approaches. There should be sound, but there is only silence as the light bears down on them. Slight shadows begin to dance in the grass. The stag beys loudly and wakes the rest of the heard.
Hunter! Skyfire! Run!
The herd scampers to its feet in panic, no obvious direction to run as the predator swoops in from above. The shadows contrast sharply against the brightened glade, trees and grass lit as if under a midday sun. A sharp whining pitch threatens to tear the sky in two. It deafens and disorients. Little ones are trampled in the chaos. The stag bounds over the stream and into the forest as trees explode ahead and behind. The air grows hot as the ground surges past the creature, a roaring blast of all it once knew. Fire and earth fill its vision. Chaos! Horror! End!
Darkness.
The forest is torn asunder, smoking and in ruin. Fires burn across the rolling hills that rise against the eastern slopes of the mountains, radiating from a monstrous crater. As if the gods themselves reached down and gouged the earth. The stag lies at the craters edge, its antlers broken and hide severely burned. It shifts slightly and gives a mournful groan. It attempts to move, but the pain is too great. It rests its head in exhaustion, draping over the crater rim. And at the bottom—in its very center—it spies a large, glistening stone. Shining like iridescent silver, bands of colored energy radiating from its surface.
Beginning.
Entered by: 0x8717…A7A8
The Mask of Mori
Origins, Part II: The Lady of the Veil
lore by Deltamouse
“Time heals all wounds,” Duke Joren ceremoniously stated to the gathered court of lords and ladies, heads bowed in mourning, reverence, and respect. Their tunics and mantles were dark and dreary but trimmed in gold-threaded filigree befitting their station.
“The loss of our esteemed Captain of the Guard, Lady Sammara, pains us all.”
A woman in the front row could barely contain her sobs, the small pearls of her black veil and coif no doubt hiding puffy eyes and a runny nose.
“But I know were she still breathing, even our armies could not hold her back from apprehending the perpetrator of this heinous act! She will not have died in vain! And as she would wont to do, I have instructed our guards to double their shifts, instituted safeguards against further espionage, and limited movement throughout the city. As Duke of our beloved Agostine, I vow to find this murderer and bring them to a swift and just end. Cydonia Infinium.”
“Cydonia Infinium,” repeats the crowd.
Minstrels at the rear of the assembly took up a melancholy hymn as Duke Joren stepped down from the dais and began visiting with the members of his court. One by one he took their hands in his own, exchanged various sentiments and pleasantries, and bowed lightly before each. Many of the sobs had run their course, most being stifled in presence of the Duke, except for the veiled lady. The Duke moved a bit more quickly to make his way to her, not wanting to further stir the crowd on what was already a hard day. He does his duty, and does it well. Shame, really.
“Excuse me,” Duke Joren said softly and held out his hands.
The lady bowed her head further and reached out to him, her hands wrinkled, shaking, and frail. He took both of hers and clasped them together, his hands strong, warm, and decorated with but a few prominent rings. Hidden by her veil, the lady’s eyes scanned over them.
It’s not here. Damnit, where is it?!
“I know it is a difficult time, but I wanted to offer my personal condolences. You must have known Lady Sammara well, I presume?”
The lady nodded, not wanting to lift her head to meet the Duke’s gaze.
“I see,” he remarked patiently. “How did she come to be in your service, may I ask?” said the Duke so politely that any refusal to answer would be an insult.
Shit.
The lady stifled a sob. She weakly removed a hand from Duke’s grasp, slipped kerchief from a fold in her bodice, and dabbed away her tears from underneath her veil with all the poise of a lifetime lady of the court could muster.
“Madame?”
A lie is easy when the truth is used. She sniffled and cleared her throat just enough to speak.
“I ran into her a-at the city g-gate, f-fleeing from thieves along the m-Marrow Pass. Sh-she….s-saved m-me, and—” The lady let out a huge cry as her knees buckled, still holding onto the Duke’s hand. A few audible gasps could be heard as those nearest tended to her.
“Madame! Are you alright!?” Duke Joren asked.
The veil hid the lady’s searching gaze. And there it was, clasped to a golden necklace dangling nought but a foot away from her face around the neck of Duke Joren, himself.
Confirmed.
He promptly looked to his esquire. “Fetch me a chair and a damp cloth.” The esquire snapped his fingers, and two servants promptly carried out his command. Within seconds, a wooden chair and cushion was propped next to her. She leaned heavily on the Duke as he raised her up into the chair, feigning exhaustion in old age. He held up the cloth.
“May I?”
And before she could refuse, he lifted the pearl-studded black veil from her face. Her eyes were, indeed, puffy. She must have been crying for hours. Her face, worn and wrinkled, featured high cheekbones and a celestial nose which still left room for the regal beauty she once had in her younger days. Streaks of tears stained her reddened and slightly sunken cheeks. He began to dab her forehead with the damp cloth.
“We have all been through a lot in the last few days,” he said. She nodded. “But it’s nothing we cannot handle, and Lady Sammara would leave us no room to trudge, would she?”
The lady smirked briefly, her eyes still sad and glossy. The Duke softly dabbed away the tears about to fall from her cheeks with the cloth. He then pulled back the bombard of his royal mantle and lifted his hand to check her temperature. The lady swiftly grabbed his wrist with a speed that caught the Duke by surprise. Two guards nearby took a step forward and clasped a hand on the hilts of their swords. The Duke raised a relaxed hand in protest without turning from the lady.
“I mean you no harm; I simply wish to check your vitality,” he said slowly with a slightly raised brow.
“O-of course, y-your Majesty,” she responded meekly and let go of his arm.
He touched her forehead with the back of his palm. She was cold as ice.
“Madame, you are quite unwell,” he said concerned. Puzzled, he checked again around her cheeks, but where he expected a slight shift in her skin, none was to be found. The wrinkles did not move, still cold to the touch. The lady gave a devilish smile.
“What in the Runiver—” WHAM.
Leaning back in the chair, she quickly raised her feet and slammed them into the Duke’s chest, shoving him through the air and into a few other lords and ladies. The power of her kick knocked the chair back, rolling her backward into a crouched three-point landing. The two guards drew the swords and began to charge but stopped suddenly.
As the lady slowly stood upright, her frail figure took on a stronger, taller silhouette. Her black gown and doublet shifted as if in the wind and morphed into a purple tech coat fringed in orange-gold. Gasps and screams filled the court as the wrinkles of her face dissolved into dust, revealing a hardened…pallid…mask.
“Time heals nothing. It is but a tool.”
Entered by: 0x8717…A7A8
