your heart: a haunted house.

PHYSICAL PRESENCE AND GESTURE.

1. How do they move and carry themselves? Pace, rhythm, gestures, energy?

2. How much physical space do they use, active and at rest?

3. How do they position themselves in a group? Do they like to be the center of attention, or do they hang back at the edges of a crowd?

4. What is their size and build? How does it influence how they use their body, if it does?

5. How do they dress? What styles, colors, accessories, and other possessions do they favor? Why?

6. What are they like in motion–in different environments, and in different activities? What causes the differences between these?

7. How do they physically engage with other people, inanimate objects, and their environment? What causes the differences between these?

8. Where and when do they seem most and least at ease? Why? How can you tell?

9. How do they manifest energy, exhaustion, tension, or other strong emotions?

10. What energizes and drains them most?

11. How are they vocally expressive? What kind of voice, accent, tones, inflections, volume, phrases and slang, and manner of speaking do they use?

12. How are they bodily expressive? How do they use nonverbal cues such as their posture, stance, eyes, eyebrows, mouths, and hands?

DISPOSITION AND TEMPERAMENT.

13. How do they greet the world — what is their typical attitude towards life? How does it differ in different circumstances, or towards different subjects? Why do they take these attitudes, and why do they change? How do these tend to be expressed?

14. What do they care deeply about? What kind of loyalties, commitments, moral codes, life philosophies, passions, callings, or spirituality and faith do they have? How do these tend to be expressed?

15. What kind of inner life do they have — rich and imaginative? Calculating and practical? Full of doubts and fears? Does it find any sort of outlet in their lives?

16. Do they dream? What are those dreams like?

17. Are they more shaped by nature or nurture — who they are, or what has happened to them? How have these shaped who they’ve become as a person?

18. What kind of person could they become in the future? What are some developmental paths that they could take, (best, worst, most likely?) what would cause them to come to pass, and what consequences might they have? What paths would you especially like to see, and why?

CONNECTIONS WITH OTHERS.

19. How do they behave within a group? What role(s) do they take? Does this differ if they know and trust the group, versus finding themselves in a group of strangers? Why?

20. What kind of individual relationships do they have with others, and how do they behave in them? How are they different between intimate relationships like friends, family, and lovers versus more impersonal relationships?

21. What kind of relationships do they tend to intentionally seek out versus actually cultivate? What kind of social contact do they prefer, and why?

22. How do people respond to them, and why might these responses differ?

23. How do they respond to difficult social moments? What makes them consider a social situation difficult?

24. How do they present themselves socially? What distinguishes their “persona” from their “true self”, and what causes that difference?

25. What do they need and want out of relationships, and how do they go about getting it?

26. How do they view and feel about relationships, and how might this manifest in how they handle them, if it does?

ACTIVITIES AND PREFERENCES.

27. What do they strongly like and dislike, in any category? Why?

28. What are they likely to do if they have the opportunity, resources, and time to accomplish it? Why?

29. What kind of activities, interests, and hobbies do they have? What significance and impact do these have in their lives, both positive and negative?

30. What is their preferred level of activity and stimulation? How do they cope if they get either too little or too much?

31. Is there anything that counts as a “dealbreaker” for them, positively or negatively? What makes things go smoothly, and what spoils an activity or ruins their day? Why?

32. Do they have any “props” that are a significant part of their life, identity, activities, or self-presentation somehow? What are they, how are they used, and why are they so significant? How would these props’ absence impact them, how would they compensate, and why?

THINKING AND LEARNING.

33. How do they learn about the world–what is their preferred learning style? Hands-on learning with trial and error? Research, reading, and note-taking? Observation or rote memorization? Inductive or deductive reasoning? Seeking patterns and organization? Taking things apart and putting them back together? Creative processing via discussing, writing about, or dramatizing things?

34. How do they understand the world–what kind of worldview and thought processes do they have? Why?

35. How and why do they internalize knowledge? What effect has that had on them?

36. How much do they rely on their minds and intellect, versus other approaches like relying on instinct, intuition, faith and spirituality, or emotions? What is their opinion on this?

37. Have they had any special education or training that colors their means of learning about or understanding the world? Conversely, do they lack some kind of education considered essential in their world? What kind of impact has this addition or lack had on them?

38. Is there anything they wish they could change about their worldview or thought processes? What, and why?

39. What sort of questions or thoughts recur in their lives, either specifically or as a theme? Why are these never answered, or answered permanently to their satisfaction?

40. What do they wonder about? What sparks their curiosity and imagination, and why? How is this expressed, if it is?

FREE FOR ALL.

41. What associations do they bring to mind? Words or phrases, images, metaphors or motifs? Why?

had he still the voices of elven history in his mind, perhaps he would have noticed a hand in his pocket sooner. iloren is an attentive man yet the city distracts him. he hasn't often wandered here with all the noise and sights busying his head.

today he has, and he's received thievery for his troubles.

the inquisitor turns to look at who's successfully fished a few things out of his pocket. they were most likely looking for the apparatus he was given when he arrived. he's gathered that's what you use to pay for most anything. he hasn't used it yet, bartered his way through whatever short trips he's done, but he'd also not like to part with it.

it's a surprisingly handsome man. iloren's eyebrow raise with the appreciation that quickly gets rid of any irritation he may have been feeling. but he keeps that neatly tucked away, watching him with an unimpressed expression.

"No, but I won't say no if you offer one." He laughs a bit, waving the phone in front of him for a moment before he holds it out to him. "Shame this place makes it hard to really flex my pickpocket skills, since all the money's fake."

Rixian's eyes, edged with bold red lines, squint in amusement as he hands the device back to its owner. His gaze trails the delicate lines of ink on Iloren's face, head tilted to one side.

"Elven?" He gestures at his own pointed ears. "Where're you from?"

He's never seen those tattoos before. His brain supplies him old lessons, maps he's seen from a bird's eye view, and he thinks his best guess might be Neverwinter and the High Forest.

It may be out of line for her to suggest something to a total stranger, but Vivi couldn't help but worry at the pallor of their skin.

She could be worrying for nothing, though.

He smiles when she seems to be worrying. In the summer sun over the city, he's sure he cuts a strange figure with his sickly pallor. It had improved a little since they left the Dread Realms, but it seemed stuck to him a little like a curse.

Considering the cause of it - it probably was, actually.

He gives a little bow in greeting back to Octavo and Lute (how charming) before he stands upright to introduce himself with a little flick of his wrist. He gave the charm of an adventurer, resplendent in leather gear with space for a blade at his side.

"Rixian Zylros, sometimes bard, always rogue, at your humble services."

His face breaks into a broad grin as he leans back to watch Octavo's fingers pluck at Lute's strings, arms folded across his chest until he points to the side, gesturing at Lute.

the wind that stirs their shallow graves carries their song.

heed our words, hear our cry.

oh, fair damsel of the garden!

surely your work is far too vital to be interrupted by one like me.

i was a fool to pluck that flower.

you are not a man known for your honor.

you allowed me to live once, and so now i do the same for you.

i am humbled by your words.

but some things cannot be repent.

there is something in here with us.

death is certain, either way.

you have been my rock and my shield.

strike true, do not waver. and let not your prey suffer.

as the sapling bends, so must you.

you are lost, and soon you will fade.

go forth and claim the empty throne of heaven.

you have brought doom upon the world.

magic exists to serve man, and never to rule over him.

they shall find no rest in this world or beyond.

there is but one truth.

all things in this world are finite.

each night in dreams you may always remember me.

the light shall lead you safely.

i am but your faithful servant.

if blood must be shed and used, so be it.

step away from this folly, before it consumes us all.

i long to dance with you beneath the moonlight.

do not despair. for it is not you, it is of me.

my most heartfelt apologies for the ripped bodice.

such depravity i have never been forced to suffer!

let them hunt, and dread finding me.

truth will hold you for that is what truth does.

i shouldn't have doubted your resolve.

please accept my humble apologies.

in truth, it is i who has been most vulnerable.

the seals are already weakening.

it must be protected at all costs.

of unknown metal and magic keen, a finer blade there's never been.

any army is only as good as its equipment.

blessed by the vine in spring, i shall not fear the winter's sting.

only fools ignore the history of the ground they walk and the people they meet.

i could use an extra pair of eyes to keep watch at night.

i hope they found peace.

blessed are they who stand before the corrupt and the wicked and do not falter.

in blood, my will is written.

we are forever in your graces.

the oath you have taken is all but broken.

can you be forgiven when the cold grave has come?

once we raised up our chalice in victory.

why change the past when you can own this day?

the wolves are our allies.

always keep an eye out for the noble owl.

nothing burns like the first cup.

gallows master, hold they hand. hold it back awhile.

look away, look into the sun.

you know we all are dying.

alas, i cannot stay.

we'll beat down the bastard, and then we'll get plastered!

what of the old secrets the burn in our hearts?

now we pray for a dawn that will never arrive.

but it is our blood he seeks.

you will realize the smiles are false, and behind them lies revenge.

for all your fancy intrigue, you have spent your life creating nothing of worth.

it moves on without you, uncaring.

who could bear the weight of a people destroyed by his hand?

what was your vision of our purpose?

so buy the lads a round.

i'm ashore for the night and seeking company.

i'd still rather die.

why be what i am when i can be more?

have you threatened to cut out anyone's tongue today?

for have i not grown in skill and measure?

binding a demon of higher power is dangerous...

let it be my choice to have served and died.

i'm not staying to watch you die like a fool.

the undead you have been fighting are people i killed with my own hands.

here is my soul, trapped in a cage of bone.

turn around, face the shadows. don't blink.

just going to lie here for a while.

chopping off their heads should do the trick.

i am empty, filled with nothing.

arrogance becomes our end.

i'm here to die. but i won't go quietly.

i don't want to die like this.

cry for the past; only there does glory dwell.

so the forest grows, a reflection of our might.

mourn the past and all that was left there.

mastery of the self is mastery of the world.

suffering is choice and we can refuse it.

"Thank you kindly." He smiles as he tucks the coin into his pocket. "I am a bard, though I can't travel quite as far as I used to. Why don't I play you something from back home?"

The coin sits heavy in Octavo's palm, shaped a little strangely and heavy enough to be almost entirely gold, printed on one side with a man he didn't know and a dragon on the opposite.

Octavo offers to play him a song from home and he leans back to listen. He's expecting something solemn maybe - there's a weight to the sound that pulls on some invisible string that Rixian used to be able to see.

Daud shrugs, "For me, it's just the blade of a whaler."

He's asked for a story, and huffs a quiet laugh. The blade had many, and had been at his side since he was a young man. It was as much the Knife of Dunwall as he was.

"It's story, is that it's an old assassin's blade," he muses, "For thirty years, it's tasted the blood of the highborn, culled the ranks of clergymen, corrupt law officials and the officials that could not be corrupted."

Daud pointed to the spine, indicating the 'T' shape that created valleys on both sides of the blade.

"The cross-section here gives it extra rigidity. The point allows it to pierce through most armored fish. It's reinforcement breaks away the hard scales down to the heel of the blade."

The story is told over the sound of metal against whetstone, Rixian's head swaying back and forth as he listens. The explanation that it's an assassin's blade explains a lot - the way Daud moves, the knicks in the blade, the way the handle is worn smooth to a hand much larger than his own.

"Armor-piercing. It's definitely impressive - it's heavier than the curved knives I'm used to. I don't know if I'd be able to use it as well as you can."

Daud must be a very, very good assassin. His thoughts are filled with Antipode's voice, telling him that any assassin that lives long enough to go gray is one that must be treated with utmost respect, because there is almost no situation they would not be able to get out of.

"You've had an exciting life, then! I like hearing about the people who come to a place like this. We don't always get people looking to arm themselves, but those are the most interesting people in my opinion."

He tests the edge with his thumb for a moment - almost perfect. It gets set aside for him as he stands up to go find the second blade requested. He could put the finishing touches on them both at the same time.

This is the Museum of Forgotten Things. Quiet, out-of-the-way--itself largely forgotten, even by the residents of Tuirse. Ikki's not expecting someone to strike up a conversation. Not here.

Ikki takes in the appearance of the speaker as fast as he can, heart still racing. Dark hair, dusky (but with an unhealthy pallor) skin, shocks of white hair that spoke more of trauma than a dye job, obvious scars. Not to mention the leathers and furs and blades he's wearing. He looks like he belongs here, in the Black Fens, like he could've been born here, and grown into a professional monster hunter. But then again...he has that subtle quality to his scent that Ikki's picked up in his time in Spirale. A faint trace of energy, barely detectable, and what kind of energy it is, is hard to tell. But only people who were not born in Spirale carry that scent. Only people who've been kidnapped from other worlds--like himself.

Visibly, Ikki starts to relax. He recovers well, as a rule. Pivots well. Adapts well. (He's had to, his whole short life. He could do nothing else, as a person whose memories were constantly being rewritten, reality constantly upended on him like a bucket of ice-cold sports drink.) He's already pretty calm by the time he turns with Rixian, allowing the stranger to walk in step with him as they make their way together through the museum.

"Sure," he replies, mildly despite his earlier scare. "Don't see why not."

Secretly, he's grateful. Secretly, he wonders at how this person knows. Knows what's churning inside Ikki's head right now. Marveling at the forgotten things...wondering if he'll see anything belonging to anyone he knows. Or to himself. But then again...that's the whole point of this place, isn't it? The location defines the context.

"It makes me wonder how they get these items. Can't be good for us if it's plucking them outta here." He taps his thumb against the side of his forehead, just beneath one of those pale stripes in his hair, before he walks ahead a little to look at a different display.

A quick glance shows a stuffed animal, a raggedy looking wolf, with a seam down the belly to show it could be flipped inside out. It's a replica of one Rixian left on a fireplace mantle back in the village as a little joke between himself and his mentor.

"Huh. Way too specific stuff. So, did you come here for a reason? Or were you drawn here? Kinda feels like it wants people to come here and poke around in the halls to find something they shouldn't see."

He pushes his hands into his pockets, shifting his weight back as he considers trying to test the alarms on the glass case.