Prologue: Uninviting Song
From the hot sand, the five figures finally rise fully, stretching out their desiccated limbs in the rippling hot excuse for air, which they have never before felt like this. The wind still wails and howls as each of the five inspect one another.
The first is the remnant of a man in old armor - a dusty old metal breastplate with an attached scabbard, the shape of it making him appear larger and wider as the sheet hangs over it, despite being stick-thin and skeletal much like the others. He does not need the scabbard, for his sword is his mind, and with it on hand he can duel like a true knight of the wastes while the other wields a mighty firearm of the old world. Felled by foul treachery, he now seeks to know the name and the face of the rat who dared defile him so, and inform them that Starn Gundar does not take kindly to such tricks.
The second is the dry corpse of a man wearing an eyepatch, though his visible eye is a sunken, black pit of shriveled nothing as well - his sight, much like that of his companions in resurrection, is mysterious in its workings. But his sideburns, which have remained despite all, remain untouched. Immaculate and perfect in their rugged messiness, they bring a spark of barely remembered life to the group. He is First Mate Salty Pete, and if he claims a thing will float, his word will reorder the heavens for the claim to manifest as truth. He feels the call of the impossible ocean, of the remnant treasures. It beckons him to walk forth into the wastes, to claim their riches with the pistol in his hand and scallywaggery on his mind.
The third is the husk of a man of the wastes, and of the mountains and hills, and the forests that are no more. The world has changed after his passing, and he finds the change encouraging. The ultimate challenge stretches out before him, and in his strange khaki outfit, pith helmet and white cloak he is ready to face it with crossbow in hand, much like he has faced death and, after such a long time, come out alive somehow. He is Squirrel Grills, and his word is that of a god of the wilderness, his facts unassailable even when his logic may be flawed.
The fourth is a once-electrified blue shell of hard plastics and ceramic, clanging loosely around the frame of its occupant, which has long since shriveled to a much smaller size than the suit. The occupant of this mysterious invention is known only as CLONE, and though it seems like its suit is far too large, it is in fact just right - for CLONE is not merely one, but three. It begins to dig for its ancient weapon, and laboriously pulls it out of the sand, finding it almost too heavy to even lift for more than a few seconds, and contenting itself with dragging it out and letting its bulk rest in the sand. It seeks more than the average traveler - a goal, a purpose, and revenge. It will, in all likelihood, find none.
The fifth, in comparison, is... expected. Regular, insofar as a mummified corpse can be such a thing. And also rather blank - he has a name, Thomas, and also an outfit - black, in sharp contrast with the sheet wrapped around him. And also a collection of gunshot marks like no other, though his flesh has long since gone beyond the point where such a thing would render him in any way more ugly. But though he is unassuming in his looks, he seeks the most difficult prize of all - his life. And he will find it, for from the screaming agony of death delivered by his hand he can divine secrets - a little something each time, a piece of the greater puzzle.
As the sand is slowly blown off their bodies by the merciless wind, the five figures still hear the faint echoes of the flute coming from the north, the figure in white, though now invisible, still playing as poor a tune as ever from the sound of it, and rapidly fading away in the distance.
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Topic: Ephemeral Games: Game 2, the Fearsome Dominion of Radix (Read 25602 times)