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A giant steam locomotive slowly approaches the Backlund train station. The iron beast lets out its built-up steam and roars as people stream out from sliding doors across its body. Walking among them—seemingly unnoticeable and seamlessly blends in—is a man of both old and youthful features, with hair a mix of dark and white, and two thick black turfs of fur on his cheeks.
He looks at the sea of people buzzing back and forth, feels the hard stone floor underneath, which shakes ever-so-lightly as trains go and depart, and smells the acrid air of sweat, dust, and burning coal.
Antigonus frowns. He rubs his wolf ears and gently massages his temples. Train whistle—or whatever they call this piercing sound—is as painful as the Original’s will exerting upon his psyche.
He deliberates over going back the way he came, away from all these unpleasant sensations and horrible smells and loud noises. His legs move slightly toward the opposite direction of the station’s exit. His fingers twitch. Turning all the present humans into marionettes would easily solve the problem. But then he would face a much more troublesome, terrifying problem: “Her.”
He takes out a piece of paper and reads the address written on it. His eyes darken and become unfocused.
Less than one minute later, Antigonus picks up his suitcase and heads toward the North Borough.
“That stupid priest!” Emlyn White curses. “He did it on purpose, definitely! Argh! Reports, reports, reports. Be damned with them reports!”
“Oof— Hey! Watch where you are going.”
“Sorry! But also, screw you!”
Emlyn continues to roam his way across the streets of Backlund, bumping into many others in the process and being absolutely unapologetic about it. What can possibly cause this extinguished Sanguine of the mysterious world to behave in such an impolite manner?
For one, he is running late.
“Oh no. Oh no no no no,” said Emlyn, still on the run. “It’s past eleven already. The doll shop opens at nine and it’s past eleven already. It’s all that stupid priest’s fault. If I can’t get my hands on Lady Despair the limited edition Gothic doll-puppet hybrid with removable strings I will… Oh, I’ll think of something!”
And for two, he’s just in a bad mood, in general.
The black wooden sign on which wrote the name “Barbenheimer” in bright pink color enters his vision. The door is wide open, quite unusual given the lack of patronage in this establishment on normal days. But alas, today marks the day that Lady Despair—the limited edition Gothic doll-puppet hybrid with removable strings—is released; an opened door and a line that reaches the other side of the street are to be expected.
When Emlyn arrives, the line has long gone. Though a few people linger inside, browsing, the main activity has since passed. As he steps in, the shop owner, Mister Geppetto, is holding the last Lady Despair of the day (and perhaps the last Lady Despair to ever be produced).
“Ah, Mr. White. Welcome!” says Geppetto, and immediately changes to a regretful tone, “Oh, Mr. White… I’m so sorry.”
“…No.” Emlyn came here for Lady Despair, but it seems he has become Mr. Despair himself.
“First come first serve, sir.” Says Geppetto, handing the last Lady Despair—the limited edition Gothic doll-puppet hybrid with removable strings—to the customer before him.
Emlyn takes a good look at the bastard who robs him of his Lady Despair—the limited edition Gothic doll-puppet hybrid with removable strings. He has never seen this person before. Yes, he rarely sees anyone besides the Ancestor’s believers and members of the Sanguine clan, but doll-collecting is a serious business with a tightly knitted community. Emlyn White has more or less seen all the present patrons at some point when they fought to buy a new doll or a tailored dress for their dolls.
This is a complete newcomer. An utter idiot.
The stranger takes Lady Despair… and flips her upside down! (By this time, every customer has turned to witness this atrocity.) He throws her back and forth between his hands, raises and stretches her arms and neck joints beyond the recommended limit.
This is an act of crime! Emlyn thinks. He knows nothing about dolls!
“Hmm… Not exactly what I expected,” the stranger says indifferently. Although in Emlyn’s ears the voice comes with an in-built audacity.
The stranger grabs at the controlling bar—made of the finest, lightest wood from the linden trees growing along the Tussock] river bank—and performs a series of complicated movements.
It is quite an impressive puppetry skill, Emlyn must admit. But this is a doll we are talking about!
“Passable,” the stranger concludes.
Passable? Passable?! May the Ancestor have mercy on you, for we are all children of life. But I WILL NOT!
How could anyone in their right mind say Lady Despair—the limited edition Gothic doll-puppet hybrid with removable strings— merely passable? Take a good look at her. Her hair is as black as ink, pulled behind the ears to reveal her delicate beautiful face. Her pure white rob flutters along her every move, giving a glimpse of the layered black dress she wears underneath. It is said that her outfit holds the symbolic meaning of wickedness disguised as innocence. She is a work of art. No. She redefines art!
Lady Despair stops moving, though dangling by her strings still.
The stranger looked at her in silence, going hmm and hmmm and it was driving Emlyn nuts.
“Tsk!” Finally, unable to refrain himself, Emlyn says, “If you can't decide whether you want her or not, you should give her to others who truly want her.”
The stranger turns toward Emlyn; the latter feels goosebumps crawling along his skin. Something is telling him this guy is bad news. Maybe it’s the strange-colored hair. Or the pitch-black eyes. Or the overall lack of interest in the man’s face. Something of him rubs Emlyn in the wrong way. As if he isn’t human. Or worse, as if he is a man-eating monster in a human skin.
A thought pops up in his head: Did I… fuck up?
The stranger starts walking toward Emlyn.
Yes. I fucked up.
The stranger halts. He goes back to Mister Geppetto’s counter, leaving behind a confused Emlyn. He opens the big leather suitcase he’s been carrying. The contents are cash (the Loenese pounds and other nations’ currencies, a whole lot of them), gold coins, and gemstones. Taking out a thick stack of Loenese pounds, he gives it to Geppetto. And then he turns around and does the strangest thing ever: Giving Emlyn the last copy of Lady Despair—the limited edition Gothic doll-puppet hybrid with removable strings—and leaves.
“Hey! Hey! Wait up!” Emlyn shouts as he storms out of “Barbenheimer.” “Hey, you, with the weird hair!”
You-with-the-weird-hair turns, looks at Emlyn, and continues his way.
“I said wait!” says Emlyn. He is now standing proud and strong before the stranger. “What’s the meaning of this?” he asked, raising Lady Despair—the limited edition Gothic—oh, for Writer’s love, forget it—up high.
“Of what?” the stranger asks back.
“This!” Emlyn points to the doll. “Why did you give me this?”
“You seem to want it.”
“Well, uh, I… I do want her, but— Do you not want her?”
“Hmm… No,” says the stranger, “I don’t need it. Its name sounds familiar, I may have owned something like that in the past.”
“W—Wait!” Emlyn calls, as the stranger turns to walk away. “Let me, uh, let me treat you a meal, as a thank you.”
Antigonus has not a clue what’s going on. In truth, he hasn’t had any idea for quite a while it feels as though the spirit worms in his brain have become real worms and at any time a sly old crowd with a white circle on its right eye could swoop in and eat a few of his already decreasing brain worms. He has followed “Her” advice (read: threat) to walk the ground, on legs, and interact with the people of the new era. What use will that bring him, he doesn’t know. Perhaps “She” wants to reinforce his waning humanity through fleeting interpersonal relationships, now that his home is no longer.
“She” has always been like that. Mysterious and quiet. “Her” thoughts an unending abyss that swallows the light. Antigonus once liked “Her” for that. And now he despises “Her” for that.
After leaving the train station, he divined the direction and location for his most beneficial human interaction, which led to him being in a doll shop, with a doll in his possession. He did just give it away but anything he once owned never left. As the old saying goes: A Seer’s possession cannot be created or destroyed, it is converted from one form to another. But he digressed. The young Sanguine before him is a strange one. He was angry at Antigonus for buying a doll, for not wanting the doll, for giving him the doll, and now he wants a friendly meal with him, all because of a doll.
The Sanguine isn’t strong, unlike the force behind him. Antigonus senses the presence of the Sefirah Castle, very faint, like a wisp of fire and a drop of dew. He smiles for the first time since waking up. Fate is truly fascinating and works in a strange way. He and his clan used to kill a small town worth of these Sanguines, now they are heading to a place to eat. And this will be his most beneficial interaction.
They settle in a restaurant nearby. It carries a deep smell, buttery and somewhat bitter. As though he was strolling in a deep dark place with thick warm air. It is different from the Hornacis Mountain Peak, where snow is as bright as the sun and the air as thin as the thread of destiny.
The young Sanguine says his order, hands the menu back to the human waiter, and looks back at him questioningly.
“Are you not ordering something?” he asked.
Antigonus shook his head. “No need.”
“My treat,” the Sanguine insists. “I’m Emlyn White, a noble San—ehem, I mean, a noble man with exquisite taste in dolls. Speaking of which, you said you may have owned something like her before.” He raised the doll. “Elaborate.”
Antigonus’s memories aren’t clear, or even coherent. When the battle ended and he had time to collect himself and gather his bearings, he soon noticed many new marionettes under his command, many of which were of the Fool pathway. He must have acquired them during his time of madness. The most recent one is a female of the Demoness pathway. Beautiful appearance, and is quite a powerhouse. Probing its surface memory reveals that it was once a believer of the Primordial Demoness, and went by the name Lady Despair.
“I have something similar,” he tells the young Sanguine.
The Sanguine nodded approvingly.
Approvingly? What is there to approve? Antigonus thinks.
“You have good taste,” says the Sanguine. “Is it a mass-produced version?” then he mumbles, “which explains your blasphemous comment earlier.”
“Mass-produced?”
“The cheap, low-quality versions that are widely produced and distributed. To be fair, some of them aren’t half bad, but they miss something. They feel so dull and lack personality. I wouldn’t want that on my shelves.”
Antigonus thinks about his many marionettes.
“They’re all unique to me,” he says.
“Of course they seem to be unique if you only own one of each! But if we compare the quality between the limited edition and the mass-produced, the quality just doesn’t cut it.”
Antigonus thinks again about his many marionettes. Indeed, some are of higher quality than others… but that's because they are high-sequence Beyonders. There aren’t many high-sequence Beyonders, so they are… “limited edition?”
It seems doll- and marionette-collecting aren’t too different, Antigonus thinks. This young one surely has quite a knowledge. What’s his name again? Ah, Emlyn White. Hm… If I make him my marionette, I should have that knowledge too.
“…When it comes to upkeep and maintenance,” Emlyn goes on, “rare and high-quality dolls require significantly more effort. Seriously, I don’t even dare to take them off the shelves. And you need to bring them to specialists for proper check-ups and maintenance once every two months.”
That sounds… troublesome. Speaking of shelving puppets…
“I just hang mine up, let them air dry,” Antigonus says.
There’s a loud silence as what he said sinks into the Sanguine’s mind; a delicious-smelling drink being ruined by the Sanguine spitting it out and muffled coughs followed right after.
“You WHAT?” Emlyn almost yells.
Other diners glare at them.
“It’s convenient,” says Antigonus “I let them down when I need them. There’s so much unused space up the ceiling, it’s wasteful. This is more efficient.”
Antigonus never knows Sanguine can get paler than they already are, but the young one in front of him proves his assumption wrong. And he’s changing the color of his face, too. From pale white to sickly green to angry red and finally back to dead white. He’s like a Faceless. Fascinating ability.
Emlyn sighs a long and hollow sigh.
Another long silence comes and goes.
Letting out another sigh (and rubbing his eyes and massaging his temples too) Emlyn says, “Please at least tell me you take care of their clothes and such…”
“No.” Antigonus’s ear twitched. He seemed to hear something snap and break, must be an auditory illusion.
He thinks for a bit, then adds, “They did look a bit run down the last time I saw them.”
In his defense, Antigonus has had these marionettes for years, centuries even. Some of them he collected when the Nation of Evernight was in its formation, before the great war, before all that madness. They were, and still are, his favorite toys. He used to take them out and make them act their past daily lives, and he would dream of a life where he and Sister were no longer on the run or in hiding. Those were the days…
“Look, you have got to start taking care of your dolls,” says Emlyn. “How large is the damage?”
Antigonus thinks of a few prominent ones. “Not much,” says he, “many of them have their clothes ripped or ruined. As for body damage, I can fix that.”
This time, a look of surprise dawns on Emlyn. “You can fix them? Are you a doll maker? Or you learn doll-making by yourself. If it’s the latter, you have my respect.”
Doll-making. Antigonus mulls over the words and realizes it’s not too different from what he often does.
“Yes, it’s something like that. Although they often come to me fully ready, I just add… a finishing touch.”
“Wow. You say it as if you’re a craftsman,” says Emlyn. His eyes are twinkling with admiration. “What kind of doll do you like? I myself am very proud of my collection of dolls of young beautiful girls.”
“Hmm… all types.”
“What do you mean, all?”
“Young, old, males, females, rare, or ordinary, I don’t discriminate.”
Sometimes I also didn’t get to choose, he added mentally. Sister’s believers gave me whoever passed away. It’s not like I actively hunted them.
Emlyn stares at him blankly, with a hand under his chin. “You have quite an appetite,” he says.
Antigonus isn’t quite sure what dolls and marionettes have to do with appetite. He has never consumed any of his marionettes unless they are prey. Many of them were destroyed over the years, but that was all due to external factors, like wars.
“Well, if you don’t discriminate, then your collection must be… huge.”
Antigonus does a quick calculation.
“Around five thousand,” he confided. That’s what it took for the ascending ritual.
“Five- Five THOUSAND?”
The intensity at which other humans glare at them quadruples. From a far corner to the left, a young waiter quietly makes his way toward their table, bearing a frown and an irritating press of lips. The thought of making everyone here, including the Sanguine in front of him, marionettes crosses Antigonus’s mind. But alas, “She” would know about it, and he still wants to live a day longer.
The waiter reminds them to not disturb other patrons. Emlyn gets flustered for a quick second before apologizing. And Antigonus nods to the waiter indifferently.
Once the waiter leaves, Emlyn leans closer and says, with a lower volume this time, “Where do you even keep five thousand dolls?”
“I have a castle.” A small one, but a castle nonetheless. And there is lots of space on the ceiling.
Emlyn is stunned, speechless. His jaw almost drops to the ground. Oh? What is it that he’s hearing? The sound of something dense and heavy colliding into each other. Many of them. It’s the sound of gold coins raining from an imaginary sky.
“Wha- What do you even do with five thousand dolls?” His voice is shaking.
“I often take them out to play town,” says Antigonus.
“What game is that?”
“It’s a thing where you make every… doll a resident of a town. Many of them are family members, while others live alone.”
“Oh, you even think of their backgrounds,” Antigonus hears Emlyn mutter. Then, as if thinking of something, he pales. “How often do you play… town with your dolls?”
“Everyday,” answers Antigonus, matter-of-factly,
“And how often do you… maintain them?”
Antigonus stares back at him blankly. He finds it quite funny that this Sanguine can get paler every time he thinks he cannot. He entertains briefly the thought of making him a marionette again but decides against it.
Emlyn takes a deep breath. “Let’s start by taking them to a specialist for a touch-up every month, well, every week if you have the funds to spare. And fix up their clothes. I don’t care much about others, but I’ll have nightmares knowing the ladies don’t have silky and exquisite dresses tailored for themselves. Hmm, well, there’s a problem with how we can move five thousand dolls to the specialist’s place. Maybe you should bring a few of them at a time.”
Or I can make a specialist my marionette, Antigonus thinks. Let my marionette take care of my other marionettes… Hm. I like that idea.
Antigonus nods through Emlyn’s other recommendations which he has no intention of following through. In his mind there is now a small army of doll-makers, all converted into marionettes, working tirelessly to fix his other marionettes. Uhm. He has always been a self-sufficient master like that.
“The next problem is… You are taking them out way too often.”
“Is it a bad thing?”
“Of course it’s a bad thing! Most dolls are created to be on display, not moving around. From now on, let’s limit taking them out to once per week. No more than that! Otherwise, they will rot and break down.”
Antigonus continues to nod. That he can do. He doubts he would have the chance to play with them even once a week. He might not even return to Hornacis Mountain Peak for a long time. And now that the Fool is born, he will no longer hear the echo of the puppets which reflects his painful and chaotic state. It was madness. But it was madness within the embrace of his home.
But all of that is all right. Because “She” promised that if he behaves nicely, “She” will let him spend a little time with Sister.
“You have good knowledge,” Antigonus compliments as Emlyn finally finishes his long speech on how to polish a doll’s to the right shininess.
“Oh, uh, thank you? Ahem, these are all common knowledge all doll collectors need to know before going into this sophisticated hobby. I’m just helping a fellow collector.”
When they finish their drink and snack, it’s already past midday. Antigonus glances at the sky and the clock hung near the counter, then he moves from his seat and picks up his suitcase.
“It was a pleasure talking with you,” says Antigonus, “I have somewhere I need to be.”
“Oh, I have fun too. Goodbye,” says Emlyn.
Antigonus stops briefly at the restaurant’s entrance. He looks back at Emlyn, smiles, and says, “Not goodbye. We will meet again.”
And leaves.
When Emlyn walks into the joint meeting of the Church of the Evernight Goddess and the Church of Earth Mother, he sees The Star—not too long ago he learned of his real name: Leonard Mitchell, a high-ranking deacon of the Evernight Goddess—sitting with his legs on the table, his face a look of ponder and contemplation. The chair he’s sitting on is balancing on its hind legs, rocking back and forth.
He looks like a slacker, Emlyn thinks.
Leonard glances at him before returning to his pose of the thinker. They are the only people in the meeting room. Others have not yet shown up.
Emlyn chooses a seat on the side of his church and sits down.
“What are you thinking?” he asks, unable to bear the silence.
“Nothing special,” Leonard replies, still in a state of wonder. “Someone important is coming.”
“From your side? Is it one of the Thirteen Archbishops? Lady Arianna?”
Leonard nods, then shakes his head.
“How do you know they’re important?” Emlyn asks again.
“It’s a direct message from the Pope,” explains Leonard. “Apparently, the Goddess has recruited the help of someone strong and important, and “He” will be helping us in cleaning up the Southern Continent from now on.
“But…” he hesitates.
“But what?” Emlyn presses.
“The Pope said to pay “Him” the due respect, but “His” authority will not exceed that of a normal team member, and that this is more of a… monitoring than an ally-ship.”
Now Emlyn, too, is wearing a look of ponder and contemplation.
“An Angel is coming,” he says, having deduced it from the way Leonard speaks of the individual.
“Correct,” Leonard answered.
“And they expect us to monitor the Angel.”
“That is also correct.”
“…Can I say no?”
"No, you can’t.”
“So you’ve been thinking about…?”
“About what kind of dangerous individual the Goddess has recruited, and what faction we are dealing with.”
“Hmm.”
And they both sit in silence, pondering and wondering.
More people come in and settle down on their respective sides of the table.
Finally, it is Crestet Cesimir—the last person to enter as well as the spokesperson of this meeting—who does the introduction.
“There will be a new member joining our operation from now on. “He” is, uh, an old acquaintance… of the Goddess.”
And there comes a man with both old and youthful features, hair a mix of black and white, and thick black turf of fur on the sides of his face. Atop his head stand two pointed wolf ears. His eyes were black and indifferent. In his arm was a copy of Lady Despair—the limited edition Gothic doll-puppet hybrid with removable strings—which he most certainly, definitely, affirmatively, gave to Emlyn.
“Greetings.” The man swept his gaze across the room, lingering just a second longer at the pale-faced Emlyn. “I go by the last name Antigonus.”