Lorepost 5

The now customary knotted oak conference table was laden with fine liquors, wine, and delectable meats, cheeses, and other hors d'oeuvres. Unnatural light reflected off the surface of silver and gold platters. Tendrils of dark at the edges of the table were held well at bay.
The members of the Group were gathered and, for once, the mood in the void was festive. The Priestess, now seated at the head of the table, sipped haughtily from a wineglass. The expressions of right and left hands of the table were tepid.
For the rest of those seated, however, the conversation was animated. Discussions both of business and pleasure bounced across the table.
But at one corner the Warden sat quietly. He stared into the reflection of the amber liquid within the tumbler, thinking back on recent events with conflicting emotions.
He was deep enough in thought that he did not notice movement beyond the edge of darkness and the footsteps that accompanied it. A strange, hooded figure stood by his side before he knew it.
"Lamenting, are you?" came the distorted voice, nearly at his ear.
The Warden shot from his seat like an arrow and knocked over the heavy chair beneath him. The room was silenced as everyone's attention gathered on the pair. The figure took a confident step to the end of the table, facing the Priestess.
Each member of the Group was on edge as a wrapped hand revealed itself from the tattered cloak draped over the figure, revealing a brass goblet.
"A toast!" came a harsh cry from the black pit within the hood. The hand drew itself to the cowl of the hood before pausing. None at the table moved.
Rather than drink, however, the figure lightly cast the goblet forwards over the table. An ominous pale liquid spilled over the food and drink, spoiling and corrupting it in a matter of seconds. The hand then withdrew back into the folds of the cloak.
"Leave this place," spoke the Priestess. "You are not welcome here."
"In time," responded the figure. "In due time. But first, allow me a question."
Without waiting for response the intruder continued: "Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown. Why is that so?"
The oppressive silence of the void hung thick. Undaunted, the thing continued: "The head is fragile. Prized. Oft taken as a trophy. Or placed upon a pike."
The Priestess drew himself tall, tendrils of the void inching in from the darkness. The others about the table unconsciously drew a step away.
"But where does the guillotine fall when tyrants, despots, and their ilk are culled?" The interloper paused, reveling in the dramatic effect. With a scornful chuckle, it answered it's own question.
"Why, the neck!"
Like a flash of lightning the wrapped hand burst from the cloak, this time clutching an enormous revolver. Not one at the table could react quickly enough as the weapon's sights trained themselves not on the Priestess but upon the Apprentice.
A shot exploded, drowning out shouts of everyone gathered. But the Apprentice, face ghostly white and frozen in shock, did not falter. The tattered cloak at the far end of the table shuddered and crumpled instead.  A gasping and sweat soaked Investigator stood behind the mound of rags, pistol clutched tightly in both hands still aimed at the figure.
Like animals the assembled members rushed to protect the Priestess and Apprentice, and apprehend the intruder. But as they drew near, more scornful laughter filled the room.
The Investigator approached quickly and viciously kicked the figure over, revealing something unexpected: not the face of a man, but a blank, glossy white approximation of one. Cracks ran through its surface like webs.
"Watch your back, Mr. PI," spat the featureless thing. "And beware the Machine that seeks your heads."
The Investigtor shot the pale face. The figure was still. It then slowly began to disintegrate before the members' eyes. Like ashes, the tattered cloak fell to pieces before being swallowed by the void.

--

A man jolted upwards from a cold steel table drenched in sweat. Around him were the grinding of gears and whirring of rotors, drowning out his thoughts. He stripped off numerous devices attached to his head and body in a hurry. The experience of being shot not once, but twice, was not something he would forget for as long as he lived.
"This is the last time I repay debts with favors..." he muttered. He stood quickly, leaving him slightly woozy. In the darkness he searched for the door through which he entered, but could not find it. He tried to calm the racing of his heart with a few deep breaths.
The stench of burned metal and oil invaded his nostrils as the clamor of the Machine grew louder, as if in fury. He spun about, eyes adjusting to the near pitch-blackness. The walls, churning with the ferocity of engines yet precision of clockwork, were steadily inching closer.
"No, no, no--"

--

The wind carried the scent of the midday sea over the balcony. It fluttered the pages of the book in the man's hands. The red tassel of his bookmark danced over his knuckles.
He repositioned himself slightly in the seat of his wheelchair before lightly turning a page. A moment passed and his eyes flicked to the adjacent page.
Another light breeze brought the salty odor once more, but with it came a strange sound. The man's hand paused midway through turning the next page as he crooked his ear to the sound.
Through the ever present and low din of his creation in the building below, he could have sworn he heard a scream, or perhaps a wail. Another moment passed with eyes shut and ears trained on the sounds carried by the breeze.
Nothing. Perhaps it was his imagination. He resumed reading.