Thechosenone

Depending on the willpower duel is that damage flip modified based on the duel results? It says i can cheat the flip so even if i have negative modifiers to the flip (assuming its modified based on the result of the duel) do i get to cheat it? Run me through how that works and specifically how damage flips work when not part of an attack duel? Same, different ect ect? Thanks folks.

Another intro piece for some of my crew. Hop you enjoy it and as always please leave me some comments. Fredrick Folly shivers. He has every right to. It’s a cold night in the Iron Twist district. But he’s dealt with cold nights in Malifaux before. It’s dark and the wind screams through the twists and turns of Nox Coil Street all the way to the factory ruins along Rake Way. But Folly’s familiar with the sounds of Malifaux by night. The moon rarely shines through the choking obscura of the sky but it does tonight and it curses the city with bone glow. But Mr. Folly pays the moon no mind. He’s seen it before and he’s bad bad business whether the moon came out to see it or not. Fredrick Folly shivers because he’s slicked in the blood of Bessie Meacham and that blood has long since gone from a comforting warmth to dead chill. But he’s not responsible for the blood. Not really. Bessie worked for him as a fence, sure, but she was far from an unwitting or unwilling member of his little criminal cadre. Just like Oliver Lyle, Christian Redding and Jeffery Mulligan, Bessie was a black heart. Just like Bessie they’re all dead. And he’s got a little bit of all their blood on him right now and not at all in the figurative sense. He pounds on the door of the merchant vendor hoping for sanctuary. His mind races with the thoughts of Bessie. Hooks from a namesless dark slithered out and snared her while one of the creatures dealt her cards. They made her play. She screamed and fought but when one hook reeled her ear into the mist she knew there was no choice. They made her play and they played so well. They were masterful cheats just like Folly’s people. She played and she lost. The hooks all yanked away and storm of agony and blood fell. A light flickers inside the merchant shop and Folly pounds harder. “Please! Let me in! Please!” “Coming, coming!” The voice calls. Folly scans the night making sure he wasn’t followed. The sound of the locks turning and the door opening is welcome. “Thank you. There’s things out there and…” Folly turns to thank his savior only to find something else entirely staring there. Illuminated by an old rusted lantern is nightmare that walks the waking world. Its body is like a burlap sack. Moist red spots leak through and pile up forming features like heavy guts and fat limbs. The face, the face is the worst part. The lantern light crawls over a dark moist brown face. Its mouth and eyes are rips in the cloth; hollow and depthless. “Things out there you say…” It laughs, its voice jolly and deep like some drunken mirthful union worker full of cheap ale and freshly signed guild script. One hook holds the lantern while the other hoists up the severed head of the shop owner. From its mouth spills maggots while cloth lips slurp up coils of intestines. “There’s plenty of things in here too? But feel free, take your chances” It boldly gestures for him to enter. Folly backs away; his hand scrambles to his hip where it finds his revolver. He fires a panicked salvo that rips through the sack skin of the thing. Worms wriggle free of the creature while it laughs hysterically. “Oh… oh you got me. Oh the inhumanity of it all!” It slumps up against the door leaving a bloody smear as it slides down to the ground still laughing. Folly’s eyes catch the glitter of metal as it flies through the air. He ducks around several tiny hooks and their trails of sewing thread, all of them meant for his skin. The other stitched beast stands beneath a street lamp, its hook hands recoiling back into its pudgy wrists. This one is identical to the other except for a smeared handprint of white paint across the middle of its face. It draws back its head and spits on the ground. The wad of insects and putrid flesh steams in the cold night. “How man bullets you have left Mr. Folly?” The thing asks, snickering as it watches him back away. “How many have you fired tonight hmm? That gun have any rounds left to even shoot? You could stand there and fire or you can run? Either way the bet is yours sir.” Folly pulls the trigger and manages two more rounds before the gun is empty. Both fly true and both break through the creature loosing its graveyard ichor on the street. It too delights in the wounds dealt. “Oh, damn you Mr. Folly. Bullets… my only weakness. How did you know!” Fredrick bolts, gun in hand, north on Nox Coil. His hope was to put distance between him and the wounded things. Maybe, he prayed, morning hours would force them to rest. He managed to take only a step or so. His cheek catches and tears like a trout on the line. A hook yanks him off his feet and to the ground. He lands hard, his head spinning and more warm blood trickling down his skin. The first sewn sack stands over him now. “You’re a cheat Mr. Folly. A big old cheat who steals what he wants and hurts lots of innocent lives. How do you sleep with yourself hmm?” The other sack wanders up now. “Probably the same way we do. With a fat smile on our faces and with bellies full of tender flesh.” “Maybe not with a belly full of tender flesh, but he certainly has a belly made of tender flesh.” The Stitched Sack licks its lips with a tongue made of rotted hook ripped skin. “Malifaux’ not big enough for all us deplorable souls sir.” The one with paint on its face reaches into the tears of his body and pulls out a deck of cards. “Care to play Mr. Folly?” “I’ll give you anything! Anything you want!” Fredrick begs. He tries to crawl they move along with him. “Oh… anything we want hmm? Anything at all?” The painted one ponders. “Supposes all we want is to tug at that skin with these little hooks and gobble up your soul over biscuits and tea? So, if we let you live… you’ll let us kill you?” The other analyzes. “Humans… such bad hagglers.” “No… I mean… I can give you money. All the Guild Script you want?” The painted one shakes his head “Nah, we don’t believe in supporting the capitalist machine.” “Soul stones? I can get you stone!” The other stitched monster rubs his chin. Blood drips when he squeezes hard. “Well, I do like stone. But I do like killing too. I may have a problem, friend. You are certainly not worth as much as Soul Stone and yet here I am choosing to kill anyway.” “I can get you others. I can get you so many others to kill. That’s gotta be worth more than just me?” Folly is weeping now; weeping and bleeding out the ruin of his cheek. His words are barely intelligible. “We have very specific tastes when it comes to killing Mr. Folly. We don’t just kill anybody. We like to kill sinners like yourself.” One says. The other with the painted face laughs harshly. “What?” The painted one crosses its arms “What about the merchant you killed? Was he a sinner?” “Well no; but he was selling cheaply made tools at outrageous prices.” “Not a sin.” “Sin like? Sin esq? Sin ish?” Folly manages to crawl past them while they discuss the nature of sin as it relates to fair market value. He climbs to his feet and begins down Nox Coil again only to have his heart sink as another store front door opens and the duo emerge. Both of them covered in blood. The painted one raises its hook “Oh Mr. Folly hold on. It’s time to play. Five card, aces wild.” He bounds down the steps and deals out the cards onto the lid of a trashcan that separates human from nightmare. The other creature rubs its hooks together. “Hoping you taste good Mr. Folly. Hoping you taste real good.” “He probably tastes like Butter Chicken.” The painted one says as it looks over its own hand of cards. “I love Butter Chicken!” Folly looks at his own hand. It’s a good draw, a very good draw. Three Jacks stand out. The Stitched sack scrutinizes him for any sign of what his hand holds but Franklin Folly is an expert card shark, even with face torn to shreds he holds his composure. The two draw cards, Franklin takes two and the Stitched Thing takes three. “Ready to gamble your life Mr. Folly?” It asks and then throws down its hand; two pair. Folly lays his hand down. Full House. “Damn it.” The painted sack groans. Its gut bloats even further; sparks of light and color radiate inside its body and both culminate with a deafening burst of illumination. The Stitched topples backward, laughing insanely as its content spills. Folly runs at breakneck speed and lets the darkness of the night swallow him. The other Stitched looks down at his losing companion and frowns. “Now we’ll never know if he tastes like Butter Chicken.” “Wanna bet?”

thanks so much ozz. much appreciated

Thanks gentlemen, glad you enjoyed that bit. That particular daydream is the blunt and dopey one.

Great new piece. Thanks Cambrius. Also, love the word Rapidity.

Thanks sir, all comments are totally welcome. I'm just happy to have people like some of my stuff. I think The Dreamer stuff and the Guild stuff are two very different tones for a story. Both are horror but my Guild stories have a dystopian and insidious tone to them. They're about people finding out how pointless they are in the grand schemes of greater entities. I guess they're about despair which isn't always fun. The Dreamer stories have a somewhat lighter edge. They're more about discovery, tensions and horror but in a friendlier way. Cartoonish maybe? Not sure really? I just know that for me the Dreamer stuff is more irreverent where there is a very heavy weight to the Guild ones.

I appreciate that sir and i really do like having "flagship" phrases that describe the tone and point of a story. That would be one of those Flagship phrases. Thanks madhatter, i always appreciate the comments on my stuff. Feels good to have feedback. and for those of you that enjoy the style i've got lots of stuff in the writing sections. Specifically if you want more of my take on this Dreamer crew here's the two I have done: http://wyrd-games.net/forum/showthread.php?t=26290 and http://wyrd-games.net/forum/showthread.php?t=26545 Thanks for comments gentlemen and thanks to all who read.

This will probably help you. http://wyrd-games.net/forum/showthread.php?t=20313

for those that are interested, i have a narrative battle rep for my first game with the dreamer crew. Can be found here: http://wyrd-games.net/forum/showthread.php?p=337566#post337566 Enjoy and please comment if you like it.

Red Chapel Gang :seamus Seamus Bete Noir Copycat Killer 2 Crooked Men Madame Cybille 2 Rotten Belles 3Night Terrors Strategy- Deliver a Message Scheme- Grudge Bad Dreams :dreamer Dreamer/Lord Chompy 2 Stitched Together 3 Daydreams 2 Teddies Coppelius Strategy- Plant Evidence Scheme- Kidnap “Ha! This is fun!” The boy screams as he flies through the night shrouded streets of the Crowcoil district. The stirring chill air feels fresh on his face, the crumbling edifice of Crowcoil’s massive clock tower ticks rhythmically and in its churning gears he hears beautiful music. “This place used to be a grand sacrificial alter where fear and blood flowed in equal parts. I greedily we fed.” A whisper creeps from nothingness to storm around the boy. “That’s gross Lord Chomy-bits.” The boy says with a smile. It’s gross but he likes gross things even though his parents told him not to. “They must be made to remember. The City must be made to remember.” The sighs “Ok. Fine.” He points toward one of the tall textile merchant shops and flies closer. “This one good?” He lays his hand upon it and the brick warps under his will. The interior of the textile shop fills with fire while its face heaves and shudders till it becomes a toothy grinning visage filled with flames. “Done?” “More. We must do more.” Turn One The Whispers urge the Boy down Encarmine Avenue and to the largest building in the district. The Boy doesn’t know what it is but its smokestacks reach high into the angry black air. He flies through it setting changes in motion, infecting stone and mortar with his wildest imaginations. Runes not seen by living eyes for countless eons are birthed by the dying walls of the factory. The Boy grabs a lamp post and it starts to reshape into an iron work sculpture shaped like an impaled man spending his final moments writhing about and screaming into a an uncaring heaven. “Oh me boyo, what ye be doin’ ta me streets?” The Boy’s hand snaps away from the sculpture and it reverts back to its former state. He turns to see a man in a funny hat carrying a black medical bag. He’s surrounded by beautiful women and loyal burly men. “Reminding the vermin of what came before them” The boy says “Well, that’s what Chompy says anyway.” The man in the hat nods “mmhmm, very interestin’ dat is.” Seamus says while loading his pistol. “Chompy, they don’t believe me. You tell them.” “With pleasure Chosen One.” The shadows around the boy run like wet paint. Reality buckles as shapes press against it from some unknown ether beyond the sight of men. Seamus watches with piqued curiosity as two living sacks of blood and bone emerge. They giggle and laugh and with hooked hands they hold dice and playing cards. “I’d wager they’re all dead by dawn.” One of them says as maggots tumble out its mouth. “You willing to gamble a life on that?” The other says, its face painted with a white hand print across its mouth and eyes. The first stitched monstrosity opens its gaping mouth and inside its girth are dozens of still screaming rotted faces that are barred from death. They forever die. “I’d say I have lives to spare.” The duo giggle and sprint toward the enemy. A fat juggernaut of a Teddy Bear bounds from the crumbling barrier between worlds howling with feral rage. It’s followed by a lanky tall gaunt scarecrow clutching a harvest scythe. Where the teddy is rage this is silent terror. Musical notes flitter across the night and carry in the Dreamer’s Daydream, a bulbous chubby little green demon with a duntz cap on its rubbery head. “ooooh night time is a scary time.” Mr. Squish warns anyone that will listen. The boy fades into the empty wound that hangs in space. The rotted cadre of Seamus’ crew all look up. The embers of awe and fear stir in their festering hearts. A creature breeches the material universe from the nameless nowhere beyond and bellows into the night. It reminds the city that it has returned home and the city obeys. It carries his rage through every street and district. The Teddy rips into Seamus’ flock of spectral bats felling one immediately. “Girlllssss.” Madame Cybelle moans, her head lopping from side to side as she addresses her women. “Time toooo aahhh…” Her words slow and rattle about her stretched mouth “put those loooooks to good use.” “Madame, you have beautiful eyes” Cybelle turns in time to see a creature of tentacle and fine tailoring. Its long fingers reach for her face and it’s touch sends a paralyzing chill through her ripped skin. Turn Two “Ey jist… wanted te tell ye…” Seamus gurgles “We know ye here. Ye secrets is out there and we’re lookin fer em’” The wall of the factory quivers after every impact. Its brick wall dents and masonry crumbles but Lord Chompy-bits continues to hammer the broken boned corpse of Seamus against the wall till he finally drops it into a pile of shattered limbs and blood, satisfied that the twisted little man will stay dead for now. “You are what vermin fear!” The creature snarls. Its voice is as much spoken by an alien mouth as it is spoken by the very city itself. “I am what gods fear!” Turn Three The bats flitter and flock around the Teddy’s head biting and clawing. He throws up his arms and pouts like a child running back into the factory where the bats follow. One of Seamus’ crooked necked miners grips the wall of the building sending tremors through the structure till part of the wall caves in on the bats and the Teddy. One bat leaves the ruin, nothing else does. Turn Four and Five “Oh… ladies please. I must insist that you get a hold of yourselves” Corrpelius begs as he is battered by umbrellas and riding crops. He eventually slithers back into the nameless place rather their relentless barrage. “Lovvvvleeey work” Cybelle congratulates her belle companion. The rotted whore explodes under the impact of Chompy-bit’s claws. Madame Cybelle looks to her left, the sound of a rattling draws the attention of her pus filled ears. One of the Stitched body bags wobbles down the street, dice clutched in its moist grip. “Wanna play a game?” It asks. A spotlight spills breeches the night air, radiating from that nameless place and strikes the ground where the Stitched thing’s dice fall. Another set of dice tumbles from nowhere beside Cybelle’s feet and where they rest another stream of light strikes. She rolls less. “Uh-oh. House wins.” Where Cybelle stands instead there is thunder, cataclysm and searing brightness. When the flash of theatrics fades Cybelle is gone and only a crater in the street remains. The Stitched laughs as his strings unravel and his mess spills across the street. Turn Six (Called Game) The Daydreams creep and crawl around the Dreamer while he directs the grim scenery of Encarmine Avenue into more appalling effigies. “Good time. I like those guys.” Mr. Shatter, the deep voiced pink dream says. “I’m pretty scared of them. Did you see, I think they were all in a carriage accident.” Mr. Squish offers nervously. “Look Lord Chompy-Bits. I’m decorating it the way you like.” The Whispers are quiet. The words of Seamus run through its alien consciousness over and over. Its arrival is known, the message was clear. Its presence here is not a secret and there are others out there who know of him as well. “Don’t be so grumpy.” The Boy says. “Smile. Maybe that fellow was lying? I bet we can still play surprise games with people.” “Perhaps, my Chosen One, perhaps.” The Whispers recede into the nameless place while the Boy does his work. Results All Schemes and Strategies accomplish. Tied Game. :no::ahhhhh::five:

just reread this one. I do think this is my favorite malifaux thing i've written. Thought i'd share. All you writers should take a minute and think about your best stuff

thanks madhatter. glad you like it.

(An intro piece for one of my Neverborn crew members. Enjoy and as always your comments are appreciated.) Once Upon a Time… There’s a knock at the door that Tallymaster Wilhelm Koch cannot ignore. The rapping is constant and heavy, the hour is late and he prays the purpose behind this interruption is dire otherwise there will be a price to pay. He has friends in the Guild Corps, cruel friends who value Script rather than kindness. He smiles at the thought of Guardsmen Gallows as he skulked through the front door of Neville Pilsner the night after the book binder publicly decried the Tallyman’s unfair tax collections. Neville had unkind things to say about Guild Taxation outside the Runaway Tavern. Tallymaster Koch paid to have unkind things done to Mr. Pilsner. Koch wears that smile as he slowly and painfully rises from his chair by the fireplace and makes his way slowly across his old wooden floor and to the door. Koch takes up a peacekeeper from the mantle in the foyer as he approaches the front door. He’s an old man, sixty-one when crossed the breech for the first time, who’s had many wicked years to accumulate many wicked enemies. He draws back the curtain just a few threads to see into the night enshrouded poach of his brown stone. Nothing. Koch’s grip flexes. The possibilities run rampant. His mind plays games on itself, wagering one paranoid fear over another. Street gangs, loose ends he thought neatly tied up, the hired hands of another rival Tallymaster. He turns from the door ready to return to the warmth of his fire and a brandy but the knocking returns. Cautiously, so carefully, he again pulls back the curtain beside the door. Moonlight and creeping fog. Empty night. “Damn it.” He hisses quietly and to no one in particular. Wilheim Koch hasn’t lived with anyone for a long time. He detests his servants as they detest him. He has no children for he hates the noise. He has no Guild Guards for he hates their unnatural silence. He has no wife because there is no one in life he loves more than himself. He leaves the door again, a silent chant echoes in his head. Please no more knocking. Please no more knocking. Please no…. Three heavy raps strike his door. He snaps, grabbing at the handle and throwing it open, his peacekeeper thrust forward and his finger a twitch away from pulling the trigger. Mist and distant streetlamps. His gun shakes. He moves to close the door again but he notices something; something that evades his attention earlier. Resting beside the door is a doll, a tiny stuffed toy bear. Its white fur is dirty with street grim and its tiny button eyes loose and gazing oddly up at him. Looks down at it, his gun hanging weakly in his grip as if some part of his calculating mind is wagering whether to execute the bear or not. He grabs it up and steps back inside. “Just a toy…” He throws the bear on the floor near his fireplace and pours a glass of brandy. His mind settles on an answer that satisfies his hollow soul. It was stray children begging for scraps and script. One of them left his toy by accident as they scurried away into night, realizing that they tread on the doorstep of a Guild Tallyman. He leans back in his chair and takes in the drink. It warms his throat and relaxes his nerves. He returns the work he was doing before, accounting for the local businesses and their tax debts. So many dues to collect, so many men scoffing at their duty to the Guild. Another smiles comes to his face. The Oubliettes of the Twilight Pinnacle. He’s sent many men there. And he’s amassed a personal fortune from those that bribed their way out of Guild tortures. His concentration is broken by tap tapping noise and very near to him. He drops his quill and scans the room. Everything is in order, the windows locked and the door still closed. Then his eyes scan down. Horror seeps into heart like ice water. The bear is gone; there are only scratch marks on the floor. A scamper, a skittering scamper from a toy. He can hear it reverberate around his empty home. “Oh… no no no.” He rises, peacekeeper back in his hand along with the fearful shake. He collects up his ledger and immediately looks to the door but it might as well be an iron wall. He cannot leave, not yet. His money is here, his detailed records. His years of sin all meticulously kept neat and clean on their book shelves and they cannot fall into the wrong hands, any hands but his. This puppet must die. “Where are you! Come out little devil! Don’t hide!” He hollers into his home. But there is no answer. Why would there be? Koch leaves his study and the fire again. “Don’t hide! I won’t hurt you little thing!” He turns out of the study preparing for the search. Instead his face vanishes under a spray of red and searing pain. He drops to the ground clutching at a ruined flesh and warm blood. The bear leaps off the wall it was clutching like a crawling spider, its tiny hand caked in Koch’s meat. Its tiny head turns and its innocent mouth twists into a grin. It sticks its blood coated paw into its mouth as sweetly as a baby cub eating honey. “Why….! What are you?” The bear’s lips peel back to reveal tiny teeth and a hungry tongue. “Tag…” The bear breathes heavy. Its words barely understandable through the snarling tone. “Tag is boring…” A voice flitters through the quiet house, spoken by the walls, by the curtains, by the dark. “Play another game. Play hide and seek!” The button eyes of the bear sink into growing pits of hellfire. “Better hide…” The voice warns. “You only have till the count of ten.” The toy bear licks and licks at the blood. “One… two….” The bear stands, wobbling and unsure. “Three… four….” Koch tries to stand but slips on the blood under his feet and falls back to the wall. The bear doubles over, its body quivering. “Five… six…” Its fur darkening and growing. It consumes the little form in a ball of fur and tiny roars. But it grows and grows. “Seven… eight” The fur ball grows, it sprouts arms that end in killing talons black as pitch and long as the Tallymaster’s fingers. Stout thick legs push the creature high off the floor and a fat belly widens the beast. A deep cold purple heart design pushes up from the fur ball. The head, the horrible head… Koch’s sanity is swallowed by that horrible head and its shark smile. “Nine… ten…. Found you!” The last thing Tallymaster Koch ever sees are eyes of fire and then a toothy abyss.

Another enjoyable chapter sir. thanks for the good read

Glad you enjoyed it Chucklemonkey. I liked writing it. It was different from my Guild stories and lighter in a strange way.

Enjoyable read. I'd like to see some of your alt Earth data, especially the magic, translated into something Aries sees and deals with. Would like to know from his perspective how the world works, who the good guys and bad guys are and things like that. Unless i missed some of that somewhere. Possible.

Major props for the use of Doge. well done sir.

Gross! actually a lot of that line looks like good nightmare fuel so its got promise

Anyone have any suggestions for Insidious Madness models from outside Wyrd's range. Just looking for some other options especially if i have two of them.

So twenty three days into the pledge and I think as writers and readers we've done a very good job of staying on top of each others' stuff. Very good. I've enjoyed everyone's writing and hopefully they've enjoyed mine. New stuff is coming out frequently and i'm thinking the authors are pleased with the increase in comments. I think i have a new pledge i'd like to create soon. Got to consider it for a bit.

Let he who has not bathed in a basin of blood beneath a gruesome stone effigy cast the first stone.

by the way, if any of you guys do narrative write ups you should make a mention so we can check them out.

(Decided to do a new crew. Here's the intro piece. Expect more and narrative battle reports too. I took a unique view of the Guild and now i take another unique take here too. They'll be my "hero" crew." As always enjoy and please leave comments too.) Storm winds besiege the city of Malifaux. Dust carried from the barren wastes outside cloak the metropolitan scar in umber haze. The clouds hang low and rumble with thunder. Their insides flash constantly like the silent pulsing glow of deep sea abominations. A child’s hand points. It picks out the largest structure in Malifaux and even from this distance on Mount Cairn the object is clear to see. The Pinnacle Tower of the Guild impales Malifaux through the heart like an ebony spear tip sent from the hand of a cruel god to punish the lives of man. “What is it?” The child asks. A boy who’s lived only a brief life compared to that of those around him. Nine years, nine short mortal years. Not even trite clichés like “blink of an eye” can accurately put to words how insignificant a time that is. Nine years lived. Nine years at the mercy of frail flesh and callous reality. That was but a dream. “A tower.” A whispered answer comes from the shadow wracked darkness behind the child. The boy frowns. It’s not enough to be considered an answer. His friend is often annoying like that. A sound resonates beside him, like piping flute music in the form of a lullaby. A rosy red wisp of light births from the sound and sparks with its own joyful lightening as it dances around the boy. He laughs and swats at the color before it settles beside him. The light darkens and stretches; it takes a shape and solidifies into a thing of bubblegum matter. Octopus like with a grinning Jack ‘o Lantern face and eyes. It pulls a purple hat from nothingness and sets it upon a bulbous pink head. “All hail the Chosen One!” The tentacled creature greets the boy, its voice deep and powerful. It’s the voice of a man the boy remembers from a long time ago. The Butcher from his home spoke like that, with a voice deep like a thunderstorm. He always wished his voice sounded that way. “Mr. Shatter, stop being such a pain! I’m trying to learn!” The boy chastises through his laughter. The creature nods. “Of course, of course. What are you trying to learn?” “About that!” The boy points to the tower again. “What do you know about it?” The blob like shape of the living dream quivers noticeably. Its form buckles and bobbles. From its mouth a smog of rosy vapor flees. “That, anointed one, is the Twilight Pinnacle of the Guild. Or so they call it now. That is where the evil wizard known as Governor General lives with his equally evil partner The Secretary General. Did I mention they are evil? Because if that was skipped master then let me say it now. They are evil.” “Governor General is a strange name for an evil wizard? And what’s his friend the Secretary like?” The whisper in the dark returns “They are as one. They are body and they are soul. The Governor’s greatest servant is the part of himself that understands humanity enough to manipulate it. One is the wood from which the fire burns, the other is the fire. Do you see?” “I’m hungry.” “As… am… I.” The darkness answers back both agitated and eager. “Tootsie roll?” The boy produces a tiny wrapped candy from the folds of his tiny yellow blanket and offers it up to the dark. “Look at the tower, Chosen One, and tell me what do you see?” The whisper’s tone is particularly icy. The boy tilts his head curiously. He wonders why his friend needs him to explain what’s in plain sight. “The tower isn’t a tower really. It’s just pretending. It’s like a… a… em?” He searches his vocabulary for the right words. “It’s like when animals pretend to look like something… or like when ghosts haunt your house. Or, or oh oh oh it’s like when you’re really sick. The thing on the outside isn’t what the thing is? The stuff hidden inside is what matters. The tower isn’t a tower, it’s a monster and its heart and soul play dress up all the time.” “Yessssss” The whisper carries on the wind. It’s a delight to hear such truths spoken from a mouth lacking the right terms. But even though the words are simply they are still entirely accurate. “Ha ha! From the mouth of babes!” The new voice, spoken like a school teacher the boy once had, is deliberate, accented and each word sharply spoken. Even its laugh seems calculated and controlled. The voice is nothing like the form that speaks it. Dressed in a long red top coat is a gaunt slippery skinned nightmare. Its shape is human like aside from the exaggerated limbs but the resemblance to a mortal ends at the neck. Long greasy lengths of gray hair hang over a tentacled face. The facial limbs loop and coil as it speaks with perfect human words. “You are very bright. And you have beautiful eyes you know that?” “Yes I do Mr. Coppelius sir.” “Beautiful stubborn little eyes that just refuse to leave their roost no matter how hard I try.” The boy giggles “You are such a silly man. Of course my eyes don’t come out? Eyeballs are meant to stay in the eyeball hole.” Coppelius raises a stiff blackish finger and waves the digit “Common misconception my delectable deity, eyeballs love nothing more than to get out every once and a while for a stroll. Let me just see if I can show you…” The creature reaches for the boy’s face. Mr. Shatter shakes his egg shaped head. The whisper in the dark sighs heavily. “Again with this…” Mr. Shatter groans. “We have an entire world to save you know?” But Copplius waves off the urgent pleadings of Shatter with a sickeningly large hand. Coppellius’ long fingers pluck at the socket of the boy’s head but only briefly. His hand bursts into colored sand and beautiful shiny streamers billow where blood would be. The display is fun. The pain is real. Coppelius recoils into the dark screaming about his limb. Mr. Shatter laughs, even his expressions of happiness are infinitely baritone. “Too funny.” “Silly guy.” The boy laughs. He turns back to the Pinnacle again. Its ugly veneer casts a shadow across the entire city. The storm light that flashes from the clouds seems to avoid the tower as well. Like the clouds knows the futility of trying to strike it… or the price to pay for doing so. The boy can feel the place as well. He can feel the oppression, the rules, the structure, the awful confusing order it imposes. It’s rather itchy too. The boy looks away from the tower and across the wastes below Mount Cairn. His eyes see more than just the wastes though. They see a land that suffers under the veil of Pinnacle. Its darkness blankets the sky, infects the land and pollutes the soul. He can see across the wastes to the great forests, the deep oceans and the secret places. He can feel everything. Not like the nightmare place he was before. There he could feel nothing but the hurt in his body and the absences in his heart. There all he had was his invisible friends and they showed him to a place where there is no pain and where he is loved infinitely. This world loves him. It calls to him to be rescued. Here he is a savior. “We should break it.” The boy says with all the seriousness of a legendary hero. The whisper hisses. “A grand idea yes, bring it down. Drag out the heart and soul kicking and screaming. Consume their panic and build a throne of terror that will endure as long as the universe knows fear!” “And a slide Lord Chompy Bits. There will be a slide too.” Still very serious. The whisper seethes in the darkness unseen. The mountain trembles with the aetheric resonance of its rage but the voice maintains civility. “Yessss, of course. Why wouldn’t there be a slide at the epicenter of our everlasting nightmare?” Mr. Shatter nods. “I like slides.” With the boy’s attention away from Coppelius the streamers and colored dust have reverted to real ichor that spews from his wound. He squirms on the ground clutching the stump. Pain seasons his otherwise studious accent “Brilliant idea. The slide to eternal suffering ratio should be balanced. I’ll make a graph, or pass out from pain. Both sound lovely.” The boy smiles, his serious face vanishing and his innocence returned now. “Magic trick! Everyone look!” He bounces over to Coppelius and drapes his blanket over the stump. “Abrakadabra!” When he pulls it away the missing hand is returned. Coppelius stretches out on the rocky ground relieved. He’d smile if he had lips. “You delightful, delicious delicacy you. One day I will eat you up kicking and screaming. I loathe you. Truly.” “Silly man.” The boy then points to Malifaux. “Let’s go there. I wanna play a game with them.” The whisper in the dark stirs. Its hunger echoes through the mountain and into the night. The city beyond is filled with fears to feed upon. An old god returns home after so long. “Let the games begin!”

Honestly Angor your the one that inspired the hats, i seen it somewhere but didnt remember where till you posted. Youre the man when it comes to daydreams