Dekar's Story

Hestoria shivered, feeling an odd presence. She stood up and turned to see who was there.

The Liarror was there, a mirror against the wall. They usually didn't speak until spoken to. They were considering on making an exception as the silence in the air grew thicker than pea soup.

Hestoria looked at the mirror curiously. She could sense something... odd... coming from it. She approached with caution and paused when she was about 6 feet away from the mirror.

Hestoria 's voice was quiet and a bit timid.

The Liarror had a market split diagonal across their face. One side of the giant crack reflected reality as it was. The other was a dark tint, a bit of a warp, and an offness that couldn't be seen-but felt.

"Hello," said the strange mirror, in a frank voice that came from nowhere at all.

Hestoria took a step back in confusion.

Hestoria looked at the mirror and tilted her head to the other side.

Cracks, through time, through space, through... and more literally, this mirror. A rupture, a rapture? For reasons unfathomable, monochromatic cracks scarred the breach in space and time, and from the rupture emerged a long, lanky arm extending from a plane that should not be. Additional fractures manifested, birthing another arm that reached out and descended, fingertips grazing the floor, yanking its unseen master from the temporal abyss. A series of ominous hollow thumps followed, and breaking free of the spatial divide, a head surfaced—hair jet black, features hidden behind a vague beaked mask. The obscenely tall figure extracted itself from the silvery abyss, draped in gray rags, feet swathed in bandages, and adorned with crude shoes. Temporarily on hands and knees, the figure explored the floor, seizing the shards of the shattered mirror in one hand and sifting through black sand without consequence in the other. Standing upright, the figure stretched and twisted its neck, emitting a series of ethereal pops.

"Ah, what a perplexing peculiarity, the air is... hm," uttered the figure, touching the mask where a mouth should be. It then took measured steps in a circle around the room, each stride strangely ethereal and muted. "Is this, perhaps, the... other side? The realm of endless misery, chaotic disarray, the sickly depraved, the oppressed, and the displaced. A realm of war, endless suffering, mourning, death, and destruction."

The figure bowed its head, rubbing the chin of its mask in somber contemplation.

"Perhaps it is time for all of that to simply," the figure continued, scooping up a handful of black sand, then pouring it from one hand into the other, freezing it in mid-air. "Stop."

OttO, the Mask Maker, the Herald of Untime, He Who is Not, the looney who talks a lot about nothing, embarked on a purposeful stride toward the door, opting for a more civilized exit. As he grasped the handle, a moment of reflection enveloped him, prompting the consideration of extending personal thanks to those inadvertently responsible for facilitating his arrival. Even if the act of cracking the looking glass and outright breaking causality was, in his peculiar estimation, probably fairly common, it certainly hadn't occurred to this staggering magnitude. Temporal fractures splintered the fabric of time itself, cracks spreading like chaotic webs in every conceivable direction. The very essence of time seemed to be unraveling, an intricate tapestry fraying at the seams as the fractures expanded relentlessly, it is... beautiful.

With a brief, courteous bow to any lingering spectators, he opened the door and left.