The Abyss, filled with thick black fluid, so deep, so infinitely deep. Structures in the horizon flicker with ghostly light, of some lingering phantasm of a former glory, now forever partially submerged and unreachable. The Un gather at the shores, shuffling back and forth without direction, eyes blank of various colors within the carved eyeholes of their masks. Directionless humanoid forms, some vaguer than others.
By the shore, gray withered and twisted white plants grow from the black rocks. A purple fruit sprouts from one of the white plants, one of the few sources of color in this monochromatic world, and the Un react almost immediately, and they all lunge towards it, each kicking, biting, and clawing at the other to grab hold of it. The Echo Fruit, as it is called, is said to grow full off memories that flow off the dark waters, refined through the strange plant. As they fight, the fruit is knocked away from the crowd and rolls to the bandaged feet of another figure, dressed in prisoner garb and laden with manacles and broken chains, standing there observing the fight. His mask is more ornate than the others, a fissure in it from some kind of impact, cracks near the mouth forming a crooked grin. They turn to look, as to their horror the figure leans over, and, with his manacle clad hands grips the fruit as best he can and lifts it up.
"Gosh, all this fuss over one berry? Didn't your mommies tell you to share?" a jovial young man's voice emits. He grunts and writhes for a moment, a weird clicking and distortion surrounds him and his right green eye flickers out, and the other, a red one, glows in his left.
"Pathetic, I need not steal memories to make me whole," the figure interrupts himself, now with a colder tone. "Witness what your struggles amount to."
The figure attempts to squeeze the fruit, the Un fall onto the ground in a pile, crawling over one another, whimpering and pleading incoherently, hands out.
"Be not so cruel to them, Engrinn, they know not what they do," a man's voice calls out from a short distance.
The figure, apparently named Engrinn drops the fruit and it rolls to the savage Un, and they return to their struggle over it. Engrinn quickly turns away from them, to another figure seated on a large black stone, tall and lanky, carving a mask with a strange black knife. Many come to know this enigmatic being as OttO, Oh-toe, the mask maker, the seer. His mask, long and birdlike, or mantid, decorated with its large eyes that stare off into different directions, forever fixed gazing off absently.
"You said my name, my name! You know me? Who I am? Tell me, tell me!" the young voice excitedly exclaims, hopping about with hands out like a child wanting a gift.
"I know you by your mask, I carved it, I believe," OttO answers, continuing his carving. "You know how memories are here, fleeting and easily—confused." He chortles as his mask tilts to the side.
"I'm not playing your games, mask maker, you know something and I'll break your hands if your next answer is something cryptic," the cold voice of Engrinn says.
"My my, quite a schism you have, perhaps it is that..." OttO starts saying, putting down the mask he is carving, and suddenly, abruptly, there is a distortion and he's gone, and his long fingers reached around to Engrinn's mask and traces the crack in his mask. "...crack, right here."
Engrinn reacts by shoving against OttO and stumbling away to make distance. His eyes, both, flicker in confusion. He shakes his head as his head shakes violently. He holds his head as best he can, clearly in distress as distorted fragments flutter about his body.
"W̶̻̃ḧ̷̨ ̸̲̍a̵̪̿t̶̝́d̸̳͛ǐ̷͙d̶̢̾ ̵͈͌d̷͕̈́ī̸̙d̴̡̾ ̶̛̣..!" Engrinn shouts in a panicked distorted voice.
"Ah, it seems my prognosis is correct, I can fix it, of course," OttO says.
Engrinn begins to calm, bent over and holding his chest, his shaking eyes fixate on OttO, a confused emotion within them both. "Y̸o̷u̷ ̵c̸a̵n̷?̵"
"I need some materials for such an intricate piece," OttO says, pointing out at the building sunken in the black waters. "Old material... too bad none of us can swim in or or fly over it, hah hah hah! Oh, but I remember something... a Nix lord had a weapon carved from it—perhaps."
"It would... fix me? Make me whole..?" Engrinn says, his voice becoming clear once more and hopeful.
"It would, but getting to it would require getting in, and as you know, you are not Nix... you are Un," OttO says, rapping his long spindly fingers on his head in thought. "Oh, but unlike these poor fellows, perhaps you could lie, befriend one of them and claim to be Nix yourself."
"Lie, but that would be—so easy," Engrinn says, his voice changing mid-sentence. H begins to turn away from OttO, towards the sands of Oblivion. He looks back once more at the mask maker."I retrieve this blade, and you will fix me? No tricks?"
OttO was no longer there, having disappeared without any trace.
"Right," Engrinn utters as he leaves on a trek towards Nix territory.