Fuckers STOLE MY SKIN
Info
Page by PrismaticMoose.
Lite Object class created by DrAkimoto.
Original A.E.A. reboot, and Ms. June character concept also by DrAkimoto.
Thanks to Crabs the Tubular for their help with the header on offset one as well as creating the Venosha group.
Critique by KillerOreo52 and
Yesserning.
Moved out of submission by DrAkimoto
Offsets
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2008 C.E.
Chasoderma Arthur the Ninth, leader of Clan FinOliver, master of Obarserton, was waiting.
Not exactly waiting for anything in particular, just waiting.
Being the leader of a Venoshan clan seemed to contain a lot of sitting around in a big chair doing buggerall.
It more than made up for it, though, with all the feasting and camaraderie and strategy that the role entailed.
Unfortunately, that was interspersed with long periods of boredom.
If he wanted to, Arthur IX could retire to his quarters and do something more productive, but he had to be here in the great hall to make a good show for the guests.
It had always been a fine tradition of Clan FinOliver to let any non-Venoshan wanderer — regardless of other affiliation — into Obarseton for a hot meal and a bit of homely shelter.
Most of them spoke neither Venoshan nor Gaelic, but the Clan was still happy to help.
The Chasoderma watched the scattered wanderers sitting with bowls of stew at the long, varnished tables.
'Chasoderma,' a courtier whispered in his ear from their place behind the throne, 'The children await your tales.'
Suddenly, the lounging leader remembered that he was supposed to share some of his ancient stories from the old days of the clan to the youngsters, as part of their historical education.
Was it really 13:00 already? Time seemed so short yet so long when you had nothing to do.
'Send them in, I suppose,' he replied in perfect Gaelic.
Arthur the Ninth rarely spoke English these days.
While it was the common language in most places, he preferred the more traditional Venoshan and Scots Gaelic that he grew up with.
The youths of the clan strolled in, not really in any sort of order or common fashion.
It took a while for them all to sit down, but after a bit of corralling from their minders, they sat in a few neat rows in front of the raised throne.
The Chasoderma drummed a tinny rhythm on the armrest of their chair, thinking of what would be the best story to tell.
He had to be careful with it, he didn't want a repeat of the incident with the unedited version of "Melmo the Wanderer."
Only the parents had actually complained about the huge amount of murder in that one — the youths seemed more interested than disturbed — but apparently in "Modern Times," stories for children were supposed to be more circumspect.
An idea dropped into his searching mind. It was appropriate, certainly; definitely historical; and very educational.
Arthur the Ninth leaned forward and lightly clapped his hands, just once.
'Have any of you youngsters ever seen a seal?' he asked the staring children.
There was a short multilingual murmuring on the theme of "no."
'I would certainly be surprised if you did,' the Chasoderma said, 'While they were a common creature back in the seas of the world above, down here they only exist in a handful of levels.'
He got up from his chair and pulled down one of the many animal skins adorning its back.
The Chasoderma sat down on the steps of the throne and passed it to the nearest child.
'That is the skin of a seal,' he recounted, 'from Scene-08.2, or whatever they call it nowadays.'
He waited for a moment, letting the skin get passed through the whole group and back to him, where the Chasoderma put it back where it belonged.
'But I am not here to talk to you about seals,' he said, sitting down again, 'at least not this kind of seal.'
He sat back in his chair and the next words seemed to be dredged from the inky depths of memory.
'When I was a wee lad, the last Chasoderma — my grandfather — told me a story. This was a story passed down through the generations for centuries. It told of an explorer, whose name is not recorded, that fell into the Blue Channel, and was rescued and subsequently documented an elusive species of seal that lives in there. They picked them out of where they were stranded, swimming through air as if it were water, and took them to a flotilla of fishing boats that they live. It is said that even if you search the blue for a hundred years, you will never find a hint of this fleet of theirs. This is because they can navigate in eleven dimensions, not just the three we are limited to.'
Arthur the Ninth leaned back, and went back to their usual style of speech.
'This unknown explorer called the seals many names, like maighdeann-mhara or marmennlar, but generally used the word Selkie to describe the strange seals. They were said to be able to shed their seal skins and walk on the ground like a man. They would sometimes go among the populace of the Exteriority like regular people — hiding their skins to be returned to later — and living relatively ordinary lives. They would sometimes even have children with mortals, and take them with them when they inevitably return to the oceans. Sometimes they even return. There are many records of people claiming to be children of these mysterious seals, but — having lost their skins — there is little proof.'
One of the random wanderers in the hall for a meal was starting to worry the Chasoderma.
They were listening intently, as if they could understand Venoshan.
Occasionally, they would note a tally down on a notepad in front of them while the Chasoderma was talking, looking rather disappointed.
They also seemed to be carrying some kind of grey animal skin that couldn't be identified at this range in a nondescript rucksack.
'There are similar tales stretching back hundreds of years of similar Selkies inhabiting the Interiority, in areas of Scotland and Ireland,' he continued, 'They too shed their skins to pass among humans, form relationships with regular people, and eventually return to the ocean. There are minor differences between our tales and the ones of the Celts, yet they are still almost the same story.'
He paused, considering how to end the tale.
He leaned forward, and dropped his voice to a conspiratorial whisper
'The most intriguing thing is,' he continued, 'Most of the time, real-world folklore ends up replicated in this place, through some strange replication process. Despite that, our Selkies can be traced back thousands of years, while the Scotch legend seems to be far newer by decades…'
Maybe that was a bit complex for the children, but it would give them something to think about, certainly.
The worrying knowing visitor got up at that point, seeming pleased with the ending of the tale, and left the great hall.
A pity, thought the Chasoderma, I would like to have asked them about the skin.
There were more important things to attend to.
Some three hours later, the strange visitor stopped their swift perambulation through the infinite airport.
They had arrived.
A lurid hole in reality, a tear in the level where the Blue Channel leaked in, seeping through the metal chairs and egg-white plaster.
The traveller unslung their backpack and took the seal skin from inside.
They carefully undressed, and stuffed the clothing into the now-empty bag.
Leisurely, they opened up the folded skin and vaguely wrapped it around themselves.
As if by a zip, it started to slide together.
Eventually, the naked human was completely replaced by a similarly bare grey seal.
It hopped around, quickly wedging the rucksack between its fins.
It slid towards the gap in reality.
The Selkie did not look back as it flipped like a salmon into the Blue Channel.
As soon as it left, the hole began to repair itself.
Within ten minutes, there was no evidence that anything strange, queer, or bizarre had happened there, except for a light odour of fish.
Outside the level, things were not quite as nice.
Spectral winds buffeted the merman as he struggled through the blue channel.
A stray gust hit them, and they slammed across all 11 dimensions like a skipping stone.
They hit a level with a crash, cracking through layers of reality.
In a basement in Level 11, the Selkie fell out of a rapidly cauterising wound in the wall.
They had lost their skin — which was probably now in some other dim vault — and so they were now back to naturalism again.
A light at the top of a stairwell shone down on him, reflecting off the pooling blood on his skin.
'Hold on,' said the torch-bearer, 'is that someone down there?'
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