Venwàkrökenɸ
Strange Lilted Guards
“Who knows what they saw. What code they divined and poem they read, who knows of it but no one. All who go to figure dawn that silver mask. A thousand keycards around their neck. What did they see, why did they go. Meld with those things?”
Venwàkrökenɸ serve their kindred by watching over
Retaining Walls.
Also known as slumbering tragedies. This job is seen as a permanent one,
once one dawns the mask and starts to protect the walls. Never again if
ever seen outside, are they what they once were. With a perpetual resource
shortage on Sertha, old ruins out in the wilds and buildings still living are
targets for scavengers and contractors alike. Retaining Walls are no different.
While much more dangerous, the resources they hold are far more valuable.
If they are allowed to be ravaged for parts and materials,
what fate to come no one knows. They wish not to perceive
whatever looming death leers after the slaying of an artificial god.
A million minds willing and unwilling crammed into one. The ghosts
in those wires- sing as voices in The Song. Thousands of the
slumbering, drive minds to break. Secrets hidden within the walls
offer any answer, and sometimes the fated words printed from some
foley part can send a shiver like no other down a spine. Short
circuit them, and leave them for scrap. Nothing but a sack of
flesh and bones.
But those few, the Venwàkrökenɸ. They can hear it, and they know its
whispers. They dawn masks and climb throughout the massive machine.
Killing infiltrators and humming to The Sound. But never do they speak,
never. They hide faces with masks, access cards adorn them. They wield
weapons tipped with electricity, catered to kill bodies of their kind. To
warm metal bones and send spiking shivers of death through nerves laced
with lithium. No one knows what drives someone to drop all individuality,
to leave the world as is in favor of the walls.
All who go in search of the answer, wether it be scouring through ancient archives. Studying psychology and philosophy, or marching out to a wall itself. All of them turn to Venwàkrökenɸ should they find the answer they came looking for. They wander the halls until they find a crafted mask, whenever the mask touches their face. Fates strands are woven, and the deed is done. While fledgling Venwàkrökenɸ still talk and will occasionally take off the white mask beholding of no features. They soon fall silent, never again lifting the marker of their kind from their face. They cut their horns from their bodies, lose any and all jewelry and sentimental items. It’s said that they grow into their mask, sacrificing every semblance of them to the wall. In their new environment, their coats if bright and colorful will dull. Greying, their patterns may fade or endure. But their color will not.