The scratching of a pen. A disoriented feeling of travel, like a rug being pulled from beneath your feet. A presence,
glorious and imperial, looming before you, like some great mountain.
And then, consciousness, and the feeling of cold stone noses pressing up against your side.
These are the feelings you wake up to, laying on a field of stone faces, their expressions placid and neutral. The only
light illuminating the dark is a lantern, its casing filled with strange swirls and whorls. The only hint as to how you
arrived is the ink staining your face. Any memories that could grant you insight into how you arrived here are either
gone or never existed in the first place. Quickly, you notice other lights illuminating other figures, their faces equally
as ink-stained. And yet, such illumination seems minuscule, compared to the all-encompassing veil of darkness that
stretches onward, as far as the eye can see.
Welcome to the Plain of Faces. A place of survivors, monsters......and death.
Big thanks to Pitiful Children for the help with these upgraded posts!
