A chilling breeze swept through the cobbled streets of Thornville, an eerie silence momentarily interrupted by the strange sight of a man in a white robe. His shaggy white hair partially obscured a face where flesh seemed to wither away into decay, a stark disgust against the pristine fabric of his attire. Hidden beneath the shadow of his hood, his eyes remained unseen, adding to the mysterious aura surrounding him.
In his arms, he clutched four stuffed dolls, each uniquely grotesque yet vividly colorful. The first, a green monstrosity with oversized, bulbous features and sprawling faux fur that seemed alive, its large mute button eyes staring vacantly ahead. Beside it, a purple figure with another matching head perched atop its misshapen head, its body ludicrously disproportionate, as if mocked by its very creation. The third, a vividly red doll, had a wide, disturbingly genial smile stitched permanently across its face. Lastly, amidst these unnerving companions, a bright yellow doll, its body rotund and topped with squiggly-like horns, completed the ensemble with eyes sewn shut, an unsettling grin presenting a silent scream.
Thornville itself stood as a monument to Victorian Gothic architecture, its looming structures casting long shadows, creating sharp contrasts of light and dark that flickered with the movement of bustling city life. Spires reached towards a sullen sky, while gargoyles perched menacingly on rooftops, their stone eyes observing the day's dreariness.
As the man in the white robe continued his solemn march, the mundane hustle of the city unfolded around him. Human constables, their faces set in grim determination, patrolled in groups of eight, their eyes watching for any disruptions. Alongside them, automatons, marvels of engineering and alchemy, assisted the populace with varying tasks â€" from lifting heavy objects for the market vendors to giving directions to lost children, their mechanical precision a stark contrast to the organic flow of human movement.
Above the murmur of the everyday, a town crier's voice rang out, piercing the air with news both local and from afar. "Hear ye, citizens of Thornville! News from Crestfall speaks of unseasonal storms wreaking havoc, while Brightgate reports a festival of lights to vanquish the lingering darkness!" he bellowed, pausing to catch the breath and the attention of more onlookers. "Here in Thornville, be advised! Constables are tightening up security, bigger groups, more eyes peeled, ever vigilant in wake of the terror spread by the returned Gunn, the spectral plague doctor from our darkest tales, back from the dead!"
The nearby citizens said:
"Back from the dead."
"Impossible-
"It is possible he's alive isn't he? We were at the memorial! We saw it all!"
"That man is fucking crazy!"
"Why are you wussies acting scared? The Empire will deal with him easily."
"Oh yeah? How? They didn't stop him at the memorial? He got away!"
A few constables nearby overheard him disrespect the Empire, saying, "Watch your mouth!"
They immediately pulled out their batons and beat on him, beating him down to the ground.
The bystanders nearby said:
"That's what he gets!"
"He deserved this. You can't disrespect the ones who protect us day and night, sacrificing their lives for us!"
"He's had enough!"
"Let him go!"
The crier continued, his voice a mix of dread and sensationalism, "Chief Constable Bramwell urges all to keep calm, report the abnormal, and respect the curfew! Safety in obedience, citizens!"
Continuing his eerie procession, the man in the white robe reached a large monument at the heart of the city, a towering statue of Chief Constable Bramwell, depicted in mid-speech, one hand raised as if frozen in time, commanding eternal vigilance over Thornville. Here, the man stopped, his movements deliberate as he placed each bizarre doll upon the grand statue's pedestal, at the feet of the bronzed Bramwell. Each doll seemed to gaze up adoration or accusation, their vibrant colors mocking the gray solemnity of the statue. There were other gifts around the statue monument, small trinkets and such.
As the dolls were set, a palpable unease settled over the nearby onlookers, the sights and smells of daily commerce tainted with a sudden sense of foreboding. The faint aroma of damp earth mingled with the sharper scents of metal and oil from the automaton workers, creating an olfactory canvas that perfectly captured the essence of Thornville, a city perpetually caught between the peaks of progress and the valleys of dark, haunted pasts.
Those who observed the man and his dolls whispered fervently amongst themselves, the bizarre tableau igniting a myriad of superstitions and rumors. Was this an omen, a curse, or merely the act of a madman touched by the city's pervasive shadows?
The man in the white robe smiled at the dolls, saying, "My honored ones. I've done it. You will bloom. The more they embrace the essence, you will finally grow. As you've ordered me."
Citizens on the side gossiped and watched:
"Is he crazy?"
"He's talking to stuffed dolls."
"He escaped the psych ward. He had to. Look at him."
"Where did he really come from?"
"Yeah, his skin is rotten. His white hair seems dull."
"What's he hiding?"
"Probably for that reason. Rotten face."
"Don't they have a herb specialist? That even the Empire members go to? Named Marshy?"
"Yeah, I heard she was the best around. There are other herbalists in this city, but none can whip up something crazy like she can."
As the man in the white robe continued to stand there and talk, a few constables came towards him.
"That's enough, buddy."
"Don't linger around Bramwell's monument. You'll taint it with your rot."
The man in the white robe turned around slowly, his eyes finally revealed to be a dark red color, and he asked, "Where… is the King of Rot?"
The constables discussed:
"The King of Rot?"
"He's talking about—."
"Gunn! They call Gunn the King Of Rot! The Plague Doctor!"
The man in the white robe replied, "Ah. That's…his name. Where is he..?"
"What's your business with him?"
"Where is he?"
"What's your business with him?!"
"Where is he?"
"Dammit, answer the question! What is your business with the criminal!"
"Where is he?"
"You fucking—!"
SPLAT!
The constables bodies were flattened by an unseen force, their bodies squishing by gravity, blood splattered everywhere as the road was caved in by gravity itself.
The nearby bystanders screamed, running away fast.
The man in the white robe walked to a dead constable, slightly kicking him, saying, "Where is he? Where is he? Where is he? Where is he?"
A voice behind him then said, "Ehhhh? Fighting near my loves monument? I don't like that. Not at all. Hehe…you're interesting, aren't you?"
The man in white robe turned around, and it was the maid Catherine. She was holding a large spiked wrecking ball with a chain on it.
Catherine said with a straight face, "You killed them. Why do you search for the King Of Rot?"
Her personality flips from psycho to serious in a matter of seconds all the time, and it caught the man In the white robe off guard.
"Where is the King Of Rot?" He asked Catherine.
"Why?"
"…Are you the King of Rot?"
"Nope!" Catherine smiled with a passion.
"Then die."
KATHOOM!
Catherine's body was squashed down into the ground due to gravity, her body crushing flat as blood sprayed out. She kept a straight face still, and she began to stand up slowly, the gravity still trying to weigh her down.
The man in the white robe was shocked, saying, "Tough…one."
Catherine was on one knee, trying to stand up with all she could, blood leaking from her body and head, dripping from her teeth, past her lips, down to the ground.
"What are you?" Catherine asked.
"Where is the King of Rot? Point me in his direction."
"He's…he's…he's up…he's up your rotten ass cheeks."
"They aren't exposed—."
THOOM!
Catherine blasted forward with her wrecking ball, leaping into the air as she was spinning the wrecking ball above her head. She had a huge smile on her face. But suddenly, gravity hit the wall to the left as it caved the wall in and bounced off, the gravity hitting her on the side, caving her hip in, making her blast through the building on the right of her.
The man in the white robe turned around, walking away, saying to himself, "Where are you? King of Rot?"
Catherine was standing up slowly, and she wiped blood from her face, saying, "Forgive me, Bramwell. Forgive me…for fighting near your perfect monument. I will clean up around it pronto."
…
(Next door of the Empire base)
(Exam site)
The early morning light filtered through the dense clouds, casting a dim, silver glow over the sprawling grounds of the Empire's examination site. Located on the outskirts of the massive Empire base, a complex of daunting granite and iron that stood as a monument to order and power, the site buzzed with the muted tension of anticipation.
Among the throng of young aspirants, a girl named Lars shuffled her feet nervously, her white hair meticulously styled but seeming almost out of place with the edginess that vibrated through her. Her light brown eyes, framed by a scatter of freckles, darted around, taking in the sea of similar uniforms. Each candidate, including her, wore a simple yet functional garment suited for rigorous physical tests; the back prominently featured a stern portrait of Chief Constable Bramwell and the emblematic crest of the Empireâ€"a symbol that inspired both awe and fear.
Lars clutched a stack of books tightly against her chest, the titles boldly lettered: "The Rise of the Empire," "Constabulary Commandments," and "Bramwell: The Iron Hand of Justice." These books were her lifeline, crammed with margin notes and dog-eared pages, evidence of countless hours spent in preparation yet doing little to mitigate her escalating nerves.
'Deep breaths, Lars. Deep breaths. Don't get too nervous. Don't trip like you always do. Don't be clumsy. Forget your little brother even said you were too much of a clumsy female to take the exams. Oh crap, my anxiety is rising. Why is everyone staring at me? All these eyes! Should I turn around and run away? No, I have to stay!'
Around her, small groups of candidates chatted, their voices a blend of bravado and anxiety. Some discussed the legendary figure of Bramwell, whispering about the rumors of his relentless discipline. Others tried bolstering each other's confidence, talking about the training simulations they had mastered, or the strategies they planned to employ during the physical examinations.
"I heard Bramwell personally reviews the top performers' files," mentioned a tall, broad-shouldered young man to his companions, his voice tinged with a mix of excitement and dread.
"Yeah, and if you mess up, he's the kind to remember your face forever," replied a wiry girl with a nervous laugh, pulling a stray lock of hair behind her ear.
Amidst these exchanges, Lars felt increasingly isolated, her thoughts racing irrationally. Every whisper of Bramwell's name tightened the knot in her stomach, her palms sweaty against the smooth covers of her books.
'Chief Constable Bramwell, the man everyone fears. Some worship him as if he's a god or something, and he's after a guy around my age. The Plague Doctor, Gunn. Everyone's been talking about it, in headlines everywhere. Is he going to make us hunt him?! I don't kill.'
As the crowd began to move towards the registration desks manned by constables and automatons, Lars followed, her steps hesitant. The automatons, sleek designs of polished steel and whirring gears, were tasked with verifying the identities of the candidates. They scanned each person efficiently, their mechanical voices offering brief instructions, which somehow reassured Lars with their emotionless precision.
Lars looked at a tall one, almost stumbling over and dropping her books, she said, "O-Oh shit, an automaton up close!"
'It's even better than I expected. I have to take little brother here if they allow it. T-That's if I pass!'
The constables, on the other hand, were more daunting with their direct gazes and clipped questions. Each wore a uniform crisp and dark, a stark contrast to the grey morning, their badges gleaming subtly as they moved.
Lars looked at them, thinking, 'Ew, such vulgar faces.'
One of them asked her, "What are you looking at?"
Lars looked away fast, adjusting the books in her hand, "N-Nothing at all!"
Finally reaching the front of the line, Lars fumbled with her identification papers, dropping them in a flutter of thin, crisp sheets. Bending down awkwardly, she scrambled to collect them, her face flushed with embarrassment.
'Shit! Shit! Shit! This is embarrassing!'
The exam recruits watched her saying:
"Isn't she that girl…"
"That one who works for the newspaper outlets?"
"She's gorgeous, but clumsy. She'll get you killed real quick."
"She shouldn't be here. All looks but no power."
"Yeah, keep your distance."
Lars continued to pick up her papers, saying to herself silently, "Keep your distance huh? No need to be rude, but at least I'm still gorgeous."
'In their eyes, I'm a setback. I'll hold them back. I can't turn back, I left my passion to pursue joining the Empire. Why? I want to prove to everyone…that Gunn is definitely not what the Empire makes him out to be. He's my age, so I'll relate to him better than these old people, right? I want to share it with the newspaper outlet, to show everyone Bramwell is an actual crazy man! I'll have to gather enough evidence though. And also, I want to make the world a seemingly better place I guess. For those I care about, if I can help rearrange the Empire to actually help people instead of scaring them, I'll do my father right.'
"Need some help there?" a melodious voice inquired, and Lars looked up to find an exquisitely handsome young man extending his hand, a warm smile playing across his features. His hair was a cascade of soft ebony locks, perfectly styled, and his uniform seemed immaculately tailored to his athletic frame.
"Oh, um, yes, thank you. Thank you so much." Lars stammered, accepting his help. As they straightened, she noticed his eyes, a vibrant blue that seemed almost luminescent against his tanned skin.
"I'm Alistair," he introduced himself, giving a slight bow which seemed both charming and old-fashioned. "Nervous about the exam?"
"Completely terrified," Lars admitted, managing a jittery smile. "I've read almost every book on Empire history but feel like I've forgotten everything now."
Alistair chuckled, his demeanor relaxed. "I think that's normal. It's not just about what we know. They're testing our ability to handle stress, make decisions. Just stay focused."
The conversation was cut short as a constable motioned for Alistair to step forward, leaving Lars with a lingering sense of reassurance.
She progressed to the desk, her details swiftly verified by a constable whose expression remained unreadable. But as she moved passed, she tripped slightly, a misstep that sent a ripple of suppressed laughter through some nearby candidates.
Flushing, Lars hurried towards the assembly area, her books clutched even tighter. As she found a spot, she saw Alistair glancing back at her, a reassuring smile on his face.
'Stop tripping, Lars! They're laughing at you!'
The clamor slowly settled as a high-ranking officer stepped forward to brief them. "Welcome, candidates," his voice boomed across the field, instilling a solemn air. "Today, you take the first step in serving the Empire..."
Many thoughts ran through Lars head:
'Oh great, what if my books fly open and the pages scatter mid-exam? That would be a spectacle, "Paper Chase, starring Lars"... can I charge admission?'
'Did I study the right version of the Empire's history or was it the one meant for preschoolers? Because I feel like I might only be equipped to answer questions about the Empire's favorite colors.'
'Imagine if I just spontaneously forgot how to read right when the written exam is handed out. "Sorry, can you read this out loud? I seem to have left my literacy at the entrance."'
'What if Chief Constable Bramwell walks by and I'm just standing there like a tree? Do I salute or do a interpretative dance expressing my dedication to the Empire?'
'I better keep a count of how many times I trip today. Maybe I can set a new world record Lars, the girl who turned falling into an art form.'
'Can you sweat nervously in a cute way? Is that a skill they teach here? "Nervous Sweating 101: Making Perspiration Adorable."'
'What's the protocol if you accidentally call an officer "mom"? Asking for a friend, obviously. That friend is me. I'm the friend.'
'What if I accidentally address the Chief Constable as "sir" instead of "Chief"? Maybe I'll just avoid all possible titles and refer to him as "Hey you with the impressive title and stern face."'
'I hope they don't have a clumsiness elimination round. Or maybe I should hope they do and I'm the reigning champion by default?'
'Maybe I can bluff my way through the tactical simulation. "Yes, I deliberately chose to do nothing. It's a sophisticated strategy known as the Ostrich Approach. Very avant-garde."'
Lars took a deep breath, trying to calm her pounding heart. Today would be challenging, but perhaps, with new allies like Alistair and the countless hours of studying behind her, she could make it through. After all, this was more than a trial of physical endurance. This was a testament to one's fortitude, intellect, and drive to contribute to the formidable structure of the Empire.
The officer's speech continued, outlining the schedule, which would include rigorous physical challenges designed to test their stamina and agility. They would then proceed to tactical simulations and problem-solving exercises, ensuring that those who advanced were well-rounded representatives of the Empire's values.
Listening, Lars fumbled with the corner of a page in one of her books, her nervous habit failing to provide the usual comfort. Every so often, her glance strayed to Alistair, who seemed composed, almost serene amid the tense atmosphere. It was reassuring, and she wondered about the kind of confidence it took to maintain such composure.
As the group was directed toward their first activity, Lars found herself zoning out, her mind replaying every historical detail she had memorized about the Empire and its illustrious leaders, especially the tyrannical efficiency of its current leadership under Chief Constable Bramwell. The thought sent a shiver down her spine.
Under the looming arches of the Imperial Testing Grounds, Lars nervously shifted from one foot to the other, her fingers wrapping tightly around her stack of textbooks. The murmurs and shuffles of the other candidates filled the air with a buzzing undercurrent of anxiety. It was the kind of morning where the biting chill seemed to foreshadow more than just the weather, and then, as if summoned by their collective trepidation, Chief Constable Bramwell appeared.
He didn't just enter; he made a spectacle of arrival. Flanked by Vonthal, Maston, Laurette, and the daunting shadow of Executioner Mortimor, Bramwell strode forward in an exotic, sharply cut uniform that whispered of countless battles and whispered tales of blood and honor. The air seemed to thin, and a palpable wave of excitement mixed with a raw edge of fear rippled through the crowd as Bramwell approached the podium. His presence was a force, magnetic and terrifying, drawing every eye towards him like moths to a blazing fire.
Lars clenched her jaw, feeling her heart pound as she watched him. '*Bramwell... he led the siege of High Tower... survived the Night of Fallen Stars... oh stars, he's right there!*', she thought, a mix of admiration and stark fear coursing through her.
Next to her, Alistair, a fellow examinee tall and confident, leaned slightly towards her, his voice a low whisper that only she could hear. "You're one of the smartest here, Lars. Whatever happens, just stick with me during the exams."
Flushed from the unexpected compliment, Lars only managed a murmured, "Thanks, Alistair," her eyes still pinned on the dramatic figure of Bramwell.
Then, with a commanding boom that seemed to shake the very foundation of the grounds, Bramwell's stern voice cut through the murmurs, "Kneel!"
As if a switch had been flipped, the mass of candidates dropped to their knees in unison, the clatter of armor and shuffle of fabric marking the obedience. Bramwell scanned the crowd, a slight smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. "It's good you all follow orders fast. For you would have been shown that death is a little faster," he intoned, chillingly serene, setting everyone's nerves on edge.
A heavy silence followed, weighty with the unspoken understanding that each of them hung precariously by the thread of Bramwell's whims. Then, slowly, like the beginning strands of a well-woven tapestry, he began his speech, his voice swelling with a gravitas that demanded undivided attention.
"Leadership," he began, his eyes piercing the crowd, "is not merely about holding power. It is about wielding it with honor, with a trust forged in the fires of sacrifice." His gaze swept across the sea of bowed heads, every word etching itself into the air.
"Today, you are here not just to become enforcers of law or protectors of peace. You are here to be warriors against the shadows that creep at the edges of our Empire," Bramwell continued, his voice deepening, absorbing every ounce of attention. "Evil festers and breeds in hidden corners, and we must root it out, safeguard our families, and secure our future."
The intensity of his speech drew a collective breath from his audience, each word laden with the grim promise of their burden and duty.
"But most importantly," Bramwell's voice turned razor-sharp, "we must eradicate the plague that spreads not only disease but discordâ€"Gunn, the Plague Doctor. His demise shall be a beacon of our unwavering resolve."
Applause erupted, fierce and spirited, echoing off the stone walls as Bramwell raised his hand in solemn farewell and turned, his entourage moving like dark wraiths against the early morning light. Executioner Mortimor's silent, grim presence lingered as a stark reminder of the weight of failure.
Branwrll asked Mortimor amongst the applause, "Where is Catherine?"
"I have not the slightest idea, Chief Bramwell."
"For the 100th fucking time.."
"Sir.."
"I demanded you to call me Bramwell, not Chief Bramwell. You are my right hand man. You are second to me, no one else. Understand?"
"Yes, Bramwell."
"Good boy." Bramwell patted Mortimor's shoulder. "Let the exams begin."