The Face Of A Friend
The Ilife Smithy, evening.
Gramarye is the lone entity in the Smithy today, working at another music box-like piece of artifice. Her elegantly-shaped hands carefully bend a thin piece of metal with a pair of tweezers, setting it into the shape of a beak on a swan.
After a moment, she sets it down on the workshop counter. "Artificer, query--"
Her eyes 'blink' with light, and then they go silent. "Error 404: entity not found," she remarks, and turns back to her work.
Whirrrr. Thud. Whirrr. Thud.
The heavy tread is indicative of a war golem, but it's clear that something is not right. The pace is uneven, as if the golem is limping. Clearly, someone is going to be in need of the Ilife smithy's services--
Then the golem appears in the doorway, and for a second it might be unrecognizable as Khepri. It's clearly in a sorry state -- the chestplate is cracked on one side, the golem favors its right leg over its left, and part of the armor around its shoulder and neck has been torn away.
Perhaps most disturbing, the plague-doctor mask of its face has been torn half-asunder, the beak truncated, and something pale gleams from where the thin plating has been peeled away. Khepri's voice grates, a rasping sound. "Gramarye. I require your services."
Gramarye doesn't immediately concern herself with the noises--not in the same visual manner that a human might. But as the golem steps into the doorway, the living doll puts her metallic swan away again and turns stiffly to the poor thing that requires her services.
Blink. Blink. That's a new record for Gramarye.
"Entity acknowledged: Khepri," Gramarye states. "Initial damage assessment: severe. Further diagnostics will be required. Please enter the Smithy and prepare for maintenance."
Khepri makes a sound that might be acknowledgement, or just a component grinding in its much-abused frame. "Where should I go?" Its shoulders are slumped slightly, as if from fatigue. "I am experiencing what living creatures probably call: pain. It is unpleasant."
It reaches up to paw at its tattered faceplate again. "My vision is also partly distorted. I may require assistance with difficult terrain or fine control of objects."
"Please remain standing for the assessment," Gramarye intones as she begins to retrieve a variety of tools from around the smithy, preparing for all manner of things. "Once diagnostics are completed, I will have you move onto the table and you will assume the 'lying down' position that mortals take for sleeping on their backside."
She stops. Just for a moment. "Some mortals," she corrects. "Father preferred to sleep on his side."
Then she resumes her preparations and strides over to Khepri. "I am likely able to repair your vision receptors," she states. "I have experience with that matter. May I proceed with diagnostics?"
"Understood," Khepri replies. The golem locks its knees as best it can, to remain upright. "There was some magical healing performed, but it could not repair all of the damage. However, the edicts are clear. The servitors of the dark gods are not to be tolerated upon the surface of Ea."
Khepri attempts to tilt its head quizzically at Gramarye, but its neck makes a grinding sound and it stops. Instead, it simply says, "Proceed."
Gramarye does, indeed, proceed. She takes measurements with the tools that she has gathered, assessing broken bits of metal and damage to any layers below the armored one. There are several eye-blinks in the process.
The mannequin leaves Khepri's 'face' for last, reaching out and touching what remains with more of the assessment tools. Another eye-blink. "You will require extensive repair. Fortunately, I am able to rebuild you. You will have the same functionality as before. However, it will be an extended process--likely an overnight stay. Do you wish to continue?"
The injuries are substantial, but not irreparable. The interesting damage is the beaked mask. The delicate rivets holding it in place are half torn away, and there's -something- beneath. This is also what's impeding Khepri's vision -- part of the mask is covering one of the magicite lenses that were beneath his plague doctor faceplate's exterior coverings.
"Continue. The Church will reimburse you for all expenses. They do not have the specialists to properly repair my damage." Khepri turns its head to try and look at Gramarye, the yellow eye peering out from the ruined face. "Has this happened to you before?"
"I will send the Temple of Vardama an invoice for the materials at cost to replenish," Gramarye informs Khepri. "I do not charge for services to repair war golems. It was not in Father's directive, and therefore, it is not mine."
She pauses for a moment and then places her measurement tool off to the side on a workbench. She reaches out with her hand and... pats Khepri, on the 'face', where a cheek would be on a human. "There there," Gramarye says sweetly, in a way that's an obvious copy of a woman saying the phrase in another time and another place.
Then the hand falls away. "Consolation complete," she intones normally, and she returns to the workbench, gathering more tools for the repair phase. "Please assume the position on the table," she informs Khepri. "To answer your inquiry: I am uncertain. There is a high probability of an affirmative answer, however. My Father was given me as a 'pile of scrap', but he recognized what he had in his hands. He rebuilt me from my mainframe. And I helped him rebuild others."
Khepri stares blankly back at Gramarye and her gesture of kindness. Clearly it's lost on the gangling Executor. However, it does speak, "That is generous of you. Thank you."
Carefully, Khepri removes its weapon belt, laying the heavy, elaborate khopesh and its sheath on a side bench. Then it carefully sits down on the edge of the table, before levering its legs over clumsily to lie supine on its surface.
"I have not suffered this level of damage before," Khepri admits. "It is in the nature of living creatures to be injured or ill, and then recover, but less so for war golems."
Gramarye has all the tools that she needs now. She brings them over to the table and assembles them all onto a smaller table next to where Khepri patiently waits. "War golems, however, benefit from the fact that their physical frames may be overhauled," she states. "This is my second frame I have worn since I was awakened. Father spent a decade to craft the one that I wear now. However, organic lifeforms cannot wear a new frame once they die without resorting to magics from the school of necromancy."
She departs into the back for a moment and returns with sheets of metal, placing them off to the side. "I will shape new parts to replace the ones that I cannot repair manually," she states. "You will look the same as you did before, and I will restore your existing parts to ensure a matching aesthetic throughout."
Khepri nods slowly. "That is an excellent counter-argument. Though... there has been much discussion among the Mourners and Chords about the nature of war golems and our ultimate fate when we stand before the Harpist." It shrugs. "What happens then is not known to me."
The golem turns its head to watch as Gramarye collects materials to begin crafting replacements, but its position is awkward and the torn mask is clearly still impeding its vision. It begins to paw at the ragged edge where part of the faceplate was shorn away, tugging to try and get it to seat properly.
"I wish to join Father in the Halls, if I am to perish," Gramarye replies. "That is my only opinion on that topic. If I never meet with him again, however, I am content to continue his work for the uncertain duration that I am operable."
She turns her head to look at Khepri trying to... well, trying to look at her. "Allow me to remove that," she states as she lifts up an appropriate tool.
She pries away the mask and sets it down on the instrument table that she's assembled. "Does that make you feel more comfortable?" It's an odd question where war golems are concerned, but... war golems are odd in general.
The remaining rivets give way under Gramarye's ministrations, and the twisted wreck of the mask is set aside. What's interesting is that underneath is... another faceplate. One very different from the plague doctor facade fitted over it.
It's an elaborate humanoid face -- human or half-elf, judging from the features -- wrought in what looks to be white jade, polished and sculpted to an achingly accurate degree. There is perhaps a touch of stylization to the features, something more masculine than feminine, but regardless a thing of startling beauty, an objet d'art hidden behind the beaked countenance.
The yellow eyes finally focus on Gramarye, and Khepri's voice issues from the ivory lips. "Yes. I... find I do not like having my vision impeded." It looks at the torn mask curiously. "The blow the devil gave me was most severe, it seems."
Gramarye pauses as she inspects the faceplate that's been revealed. Two--no, /three/ eyeblinks pass in her eyes.
"Whoever created your inner faceplate did so with the same care that Father put into mine," she states after a moment. "The reason for putting a second faceplate on top of your inner one is sound. It would take considerable effort and skill to recreate it if it was damaged."
She spends another moment looking at Khepri, perhaps committing this new face to memory in the event that she has to repair it, before she turns away and continues her preparations. It isn't long before she has new parts ready to replace the old and broken ones.
Khepri's eyes flicker in confusion. "I'm sorry. They did -what-?" It starts to sit up, then actually flinches before lying back down again. "...Perhaps I will wait and meditate on this. Do you have a mirror, or other reflective surface?"
Regardless, Khepri waits patiently, looking up at the ceiling. If it's bored, it doesn't show it. Perhaps it's praying silently while Gramarye begins her work to repair the damage to its battered frame.
Another eyeblink. "Were you unaware of your inner faceplate, Khepri?" Gramarye asks, and she fetches a mirror as requested, although it's a dainty thing that appears that it is better suited for a young noblewoman's hands--perhaps a commission that was made and never paid for. She offers it to Khepri, holding it out in front of its face.
"You may hold onto that while I begin my work," she states. "It may prove suitable distraction."
And so she begins her work. It's a slow and methodical process of removing broken pieces, although she doesn't approach the face at first. Khepri is, after all, currently puzzling over it.
Khepri takes the mirror, and if its blank face could express confusion, it surely would. "I was not. Remember, the ... exterior plate was riveted to my hull. It was not expected to be removed." Slowly, it turns the mirror to look into it.
It tilts its head from one side, to the other... turning back and forth. There is deep confusion in its voice, as it finally says, "I do not understand. This countenance is... not known to me, but it is clearly of some work. Even I can see how much effort was put into it. Is this a representation of someone, or a fiction? And why hide it?"
The Executor moves the mirror aside. "It is an enigma, a mystery. Most curious."
Gramarye pauses in her work for a moment, setting aside a bolt that she's pulled out of his mainframe on the 'operating table'. "It is not a fiction if it is meant to represent you," she states in her typical Gramarye-fashion. "Father designed my mainframe after a young woman because I was his daughter, and daughters are always younger than their fathers."
She returns to her instrument table and finds the part that she's about to bolt onto him. "Your creator may have had similar ideas as Father did for me," she states. "The symbol of Ceinara hangs above the doorway of this smithy because the artificer I work with here worships her. The goddess of beauty influences many who work in artifice."
Khepri considers this angle, then slowly shakes its head. "That is not a rational decision. I was wrought to be an Executor, the hand of the Harpist, to speak the words and protect the living and the dead. This is not an occupation that lends itself to peaceful pursuits. Why craft such a face for someone who will be in the fray? And then hide it in such a way that it could only be found if I was seriously damaged?"
It continues to patiently endure Gramarye's ministrations, though it seems clearly disturbed by this chain of events. "Gramarye, I have a request. Repair my mask as best you can... but do not affix it to my face as it was before. I may need to remove it at times."
"Mortals do not always operate by rational logic," Gramarye states. "Emotions cloud their judgment. Their affections and hatreds color their thoughts and interfere with their processing. Their traumas can keep them in loops that they cannot break out of without recognition and aid. It is not beyond a mortal to create something beautiful for you because they wanted to."
The part is bolted on, and Gramarye looks up at Khepri's exposed face as it makes the request. "I can accommodate that request," she states. And then... her eyes blink.
"Perhaps you were not created specifically for this purpose. Perhaps you were made first and then retrofitted for a purpose. Again, mortals often make irrational decisions." Then she continues in her work.
Khepri tilts its head quizzically. "That is... unusual. I have only known this life. First being trained, and then set forth to the temple here." It pauses, thinking. "Perhaps that is where I should begin. At the beginning of my time here."
It lifts the mirror again, staring at the sculpted face, serene and as calm as a lake surface at sunrise. "I know who I am," it muses. "but who are you?"
Well, that does get Gramarye's attention again. For a moment, it seems like she might be about to chastise Khepri into silence, but instead, she looks into the mirror with Khepri at the still face. Two war golems staring back at the face that one of them wears but is a stranger to them both.
"It is the face of a friend," Gramarye declares. "For that is your face, and you are a friend."
This is followed by a bolt into a piece of metal onto Khepri's body. Gramarye's still working. Her attention has not been interrupted, only divided.
Khepri nods slowly. "Yes. This was clearly not meant as insult, or to demean -- but I admit it... is curious indeed." It slowly sets the mirror down, letting Gramarye work. "I am used to solving the mysteries of others, of unraveling the conundrums of living and dead. To be confronted with my own, personal mystery is... discomfiting."
It raises its undamaged arm, inspecting the blunt, gunmetal fingers of its hand. "I am glad to be your friend, Gramarye," Khepri intones. "I am not very good at such things, but I assure you I appreciate it."
"I am not experienced with friendships, either," Gramarye responds, her obsidian eyes trained on the new piece that she bolts onto Khepri's body to replace one she has just removed. "But I am not discomfited by it as you are by your mystery. It is merely another addition to my memory banks, and an experience that Father wished for me to engage in."
She then takes a part that appears nearly identical to Khepri's prior mask from the instrument table. "Father's directive was for me to keep creating beautiful things," she states, "and friendships are lauded by mortals as such. So a friendship I have created, and a friendship I will maintain, just as I do your mask."
"It seems you have found a fitting and appropriate place to work on such endeavors." Khepri looks around at the shop, before sitting still so that Gramarye can work. It continues to speak, though -- the benefit of a mouth that does not move while vocalizing. "The Harpist teaches that such connections are vital to the soul, so that it can appreciate them while a mortal lives. To cut oneself off from such is to court disaster, much as crops that lack water will wither and die."
Khepri continues, "Despite the pain of separation when a mortal travels to the Halls, it is those memories and relationships that give it the form and grace it will need to be judged by the Lady. We are defined by these connections, and define others in turn."
Gramarye fits the mask onto Khepri's head. She pauses for a moment, as though to realize the stark difference there is when the mask is back on, but then she proceeds with bolting it on--albeit in a different way than it did before, allowing for the mask to come up.
"And we owe something to the mortal creators before us," she states. "Without them, we would not look like how we do, nor act how we do. I have read some of the literature that you gifted me, and so I am familiar on some of these subjects."
She brings out the mirror to him again. "Is this suitable?" she asks.
Khepri lets Gramarye affix the mask, now fitted to its head in a way to pivot up and back or to be unhooked entirely. "Precisely," the Executor intones, its voice now hollow and more ominous, as it reverberates through its mask.
It takes the mirror, studying the more familiar countenance, tilting its head in that quizzical, birdlike way. "It is suitable. Thank you for your ministrations, Gramarye. You are always welcome at the temple."
Once the Executor has left, all that remains is the battered scrap and detritus left from parts and plating replaced, the half-rent mask sitting on the instrument table. One lens cracked, but having served its purpose -- and now a new conundrum waits to be unraveled.