Mask

You made... There was a wish. You. Who? You made a wish. Yourself. A stranger from so long ago, a self you remember nothing of. It was important, wasn't it? It must have been. It felt... it felt like it meant everything. What was it? It meant something. It had to. Why else? Now there was only water. Water? No, something different, that shut out air every bit as well. A whispering, near-forgotten thing, with that telltale taste of memories, sometimes sweet, sometimes bitter. Sinking? Floating? Hard to tell, and it hardly seems to matter.

"Ah! I see you've come to. Splendid." A jovial from above, somehow not muffled by this strange liquid. "Do stand up, before you... yes, yes, you're about to drown. I would suggest moving your mouth away from the pool." No reason not to follow. Fresh air. Strange, almost chalky in a sense. The pool is shallow, it turns out. You must have been lying face-down in it. Strange, wasn't it deep enough to sink in earlier? A loud clap breaks up this line of thought. A little to the left. The same voice again.

"Right, back to breathing. That's the spirit! Welcome, honoured guest, to the Hollow Lands."

It didn't look hollow. Polished white stone, sometimes jet black, stretching out as far as the eye can see, with trees of limestone clawing their way out of the rock. What was that, growing along the sides of the rock? Too far away to make out. And the voice? ...Someone. Definitely someone. So strangely hard to look at, difficult to focus on but demanding attention at the same time; a porcelain mask comes into focus ever so briefly, as your eyes adjust, and it offers a genial smile. What a strange apparition this was.

"Who am I?" A great, deep laugh, as though they had heard some extraordinary joke, and a few slaps of the knee. "Why, I've quite forgotten,  my dear guest. Dreadfully sorry. Call me... Oh, I've been partial to 'majesty' now and then, but that won't do among friends, no, no. Mr. Mask? Miss Mask? Oh, it hardly matters! What does it change in any case? I came running, you see," he - or she? - explains, gesturing excitedly to no particular end, "when I thought you might want to start your day with a... familiar face." There, something to focus on, finally.

A face of... was it family? Comforting, so far from home. And someone... they were important, weren't they? Snatches of memory in the sun's dying rays. A hundred faces, snatched from an old life, barely remembered. And was this one yours? It was so terribly hard to remember, so exhausting to think. A look down shows nothing, with the water not reflecting a single image. "A familiar face," they repeat. "Would you like one? Well, maybe some day."

The liquid clings to your shoes, refusing to be left behind, yet somehow its presence is all too easy to forget, time and again, doubly so once you break through. Such a strange substance. "That pool? Oh, I wouldn't worry about it. Don't bother drying yourself off, it always comes back; we'd best burn those clothes later. It's history, you know. I came by for a little... oh, call it a harvest." Mask presents a small black grain, no different from sand at a glance, before stowing it away in a coat pocket. Was there a coat? There must have been, in this cold. It was gone, at any rate.

"The oldest trick in the book," they announce proudly. "quite genuine, found right here and now. Curious? Well, maybe I'll show you, some day. That's not important. The other reason, of course, was to show you around. Why? Why, I ask you, would I ever miss out on a story like this? Ah, but I suppose you scarcely remember by now. Well, I'm afraid I couldn't just give you something as precious as a memory, much less an entire life story. We'll find it eventually, yes?" Cheery confidence at every turn, Mask extends something to help you up. Almost certainly a hand; no smoke had such a grip.

"Really, you're lucky I found you before anyone else, out here in the marble townships! It's not the safest of places, you know. Only so many ways to greet a newcomer. Better yours truly than Poor Old Splinters, hmm?" Suddenly, a mortified look steals across Mask's latest face, leaving a trail of contrition behind itself; when the shock passes, a black glove slaps against their forehead - strange, where was the arm? - and the stranger lets out an embarrassed chuckle.

"Oh! How careless of me. You can't talk, can you? Well now, a voice generally runs a pretty penny: one of those ghoulish marble creatures
tried to steal mine only yesterday. Me! Imagine that!" After a theatrical pause, the curious apparition continues on. "I'm sure I can spare one for an old friend like you. Have we met before? Oh, I do forget so, on days like this. Please," Mask offers with a flourish generally reserved for one selling a dubious watch, a bag of gold teeth or a ring that still contains a finger, "take your choice! What will it be? I've the voice of a drowned mermaid, a little damp, but a good singing voice. Would you prefer the gruff, world-weary voice of a crook's noose? I even brought a whisper from Iron herself! Or would you prefer the soft, suffocating words of heavy, dust-addled velvet? The choice is yours!"