The Happy Mask of the ShadowNinja
A Merchant by the name of Herzel was well known as one of the craftiest salesmen ever to be born. He became rich by selling cheaply made goods at overcharged prices. He also excelled in collecting rare items by trade for auction. His riches were vast, but he lived in the illusion of poverty to fool tax collectors and other officials.
On his way home one day, Herzel chanced upon an old beggar selling his meager possessions on the side of a road. This man was wrapped in a ragged manteau and sat on a filthy blanket with a few things scattered around him. Scenes like this were laughable to other Merchants, but Herzel had often obtained his finest merchandise from such unlikely sources. Beggars were so grateful for whatever they were given that they would trade priceless jewelry for a few zen.
"How now, beggar," the crafty Merchant called as he examined the poor man's wares. "Have you anything worth my consideration?"
The beggar lifted his head, but half his face was covered by a worn hood that prevented his eyes from being seen. What few teeth he had left looked ready to fall from his mouth as his lips parted to speak. "I have nothing worth the consideration of any man anymore," he spoke in a tired and rasped voice. "Not even a life. I only wish to earn enough to afford a proper funeral."
Herzel was heartless towards the man's plight, wanting only what could add to his already vast fortune. "I may give a small donation to your cause," the Merchant said, "but only in exchange for something worthwhile. Now come on, old man. Some piece of junk amongst all this must have a rich story behind it. Something that would up its value from pittance to plenty?" Herzel stooped and rudely rooted through the beggar's things, tossing aside what seemed to him worthless. Then, as he raised a tattered rag, he found an item unlike anything else in the beggar's possession: It was a Mr. Smile mask, a cheap and common novelty amongst lesser Merchant shops. At casual glance it seemed used and worthless, but Herzel appraised it carefully and suspected there to be value.
"What is the tale behind this mask," he asked the beggar, who then took the mask from him and held it up to the light. The face of the mask was simple--two eyes and an ear-to-ear smile, carved and painted for emphasis. On the inside, however, the mask bore several marks of an unknown language.
"This mask is nothing I would wish on the living," the old beggar replied. "It is a forbidden artifact. One I have found and intend to take to my grave."
His words only served to entice Herzel more. "Tell me its story, old man," he requested.
"There is no story to be told," the beggar replied. "This mask I found on a man who had died. He held it tightly in his grip, but as I passed him it fell from his hand as though it were meant for me. I took it with me, and I have been haunted e'er since by sights and sounds that would shake the dead from their graves. I believe this mask was the cause of that man's death, and now the cause of mine. I wish only the cold embrace of the reaper now, and to take this mask with me into the earth."
Herzel's eyes lit up with intrigue at the old beggar's words. He wanted the mask that much more once the beggar was done speaking. "Don't be so melodramatic," he spoke with cheer. "That mask couldn't possibly be cursed! You are old, and aged men are known to see and hear things as they come closer to death's door." The Merchant's words were meant to persuade the beggar into giving up the treasure, but the old man seemed neither moved nor insulted. He merely sat there, defeated by life, yet unmotivated to relinquish that most valuable item he held.
"You desire misfortune if you desire this mask," the beggar replied. "It is cursed. Of this I have no doubt."
"If that is so, then I will take it to a Priest and have it cured," Herzel said, and that much was true. He had often taken cursed items to the High Priests of Prontera to have them purged of all their discord. Still, his statement only moved the beggar slightly. Herzel desired this mask so much that he took twelve-hundred zeny from his satchel and set it down on the beggar's rug. "You may never see this much zen in what remains of your life, old man," he said, "and it is forty times what such a mask is normally worth. Sell it to me and I will have it purged of whatever evil you feel it contains. The story alone is enough to make it worth a great deal to the right buyer, and I must have it to sell!"
The beggar looked down at the coins, but his grip did not loosen from the mask. "You so desire this cursed artifact that much," he asked the Merchant, but without waiting for a reply, went on to say, "Very well. I have said all that I can in the way of warning to you. Take the mask and do with it as you wish."
Herzel practically snatched the Mr. Smile mask from the beggar's grip as he reached for it. Then, with but a hearty laugh as his way of saying thanks, he returned to his cart and straddled the old Savage sow that pulled it for him. That sow he had raised from a Savage Babe and its well-fed girth was a great indicator of his wealth. Herzel rode his sow from the beggar's sale feeling triumphant, for he knew not the true price of what he had acquired.
He had no true intention of having the mask purged, for he did not believe it was cursed. Herzel took it with him to the city of Morroc, and there he did business as usual, selling potions and other supplies to the adventurers that passed through that area. He kept the Mr. Smile mask proudly displayed, however, knowing that curious patrons would inquire and be intrigued. The more attention that came to it, the more he could expect to claim for it at auction in the days to come.
One man who visited Herzel's shop seemed far more interested in the mask than anything that was for sale. He went unseen, but his presence could be felt like an ominous hand hovering about one's neck. It wasn't until the man spoke that Herzel realized he was there and even then he could not tell which direction the voice came from.
"You have something I want," the voice said over the Merchant's shoulder. Herzel was so startled he almost fell over his cart, but he caught himself and spun around. No one was there, and yet, he knew that someone was. He knew of the special professions of the Assassin and Rogue, and how they were masters of hiding in plain sight.
"If you've come to steal from me, you'll be denied," Herzel warned his visitor. "My cart is enchanted to prevent such things from happening."
"How do you steal what already belongs to you," the voice asked, then answered, "You have it stolen first. That mask which hangs proudly from the east of your cart is mine. Give it back to me, now."
"And how am I to tell your words are not just to trick me into giving you the mask for free," Herzel asked, not at all intimidated by the voice with no visible source. "I purchased it for a great amount from its last claimant, therefore the mask is rightfully mine."
The voice replied, "You know not who you speak to. That mask is mine. If you do not give it to me, you will regret it."
"GUARDS," Herzel cried out, "there is a thief in our midst!" Immediately, a pair of nearby sentinels worked their way through the bustling crowd of Morroc to see about him. Herzel smirked with confidence, for he knew that his visitor would not risk capture under any circumstance.
The disembodied voice spoke again. "Have it your way, Merchant. But know what happens next is on your head. You will give me that mask willingly one day, and it will be the last thing you do." The wingbeats of a raven took Herzel's attention and he watched as a large one flew into the face of the guards, then took to the sky. Herzel spent his next few moments being interrogated by the guards about his alarm, then he resumed selling his wares to those who would come to him.
The profit he received from Morroc was so plentiful that Herzel sent for a friend to help bring it all back to Alberta. Jeppuk was a fellow Merchant who had long-since set aside his cart to run a modest well within Morroc's city limits. Water was and always would be a valued commodity in that area, so Jeppuk knew he would never be unemployed. He took the night off and visited Herzel in his room at the local inn--Herzel greeted him warmly, and shared a bottle of fine spirits while they caught up on each other's lives.
"You'll never amount to anything being a well-digger," Herzel teased Jeppuk.
"Aye, but at least I am content," his friend replied. "Can you say the same? Always chasing the almighty zeny. It is a mistress that never gives itself fully to you, you know."
"But I enjoy the chase," Herzel laughed, then his eyes sparkled with glee. He had to show his friend the item that would later make him wealthier than ever before. "Come, Jeppuk! Let me show you the secret to my success!" He went to the satchel hanging from his bedpost and retrieved the Mr. Smile mask, then held it out to his friend. "I acquired that today from a dying beggar," he said, then laughed. "The old fool said it was cursed. Whether or not it is true, I certainly plan to sell it like it is."
Jeppuk examined the mask inside and out, stopping as soon as he noticed the symbols carved into it. "That beggar spoke truthfully," he said, then slid the mask across the table and away from himself. "Herzel, you must rid yourself of that artifact immediately. The marks that it bears are the secret language of the Assassin."
So it was an Assassin, Herzel thought to himself, but remained unbothered. An Assassin's mask was a rare artifact and it sealed his determination to have it put to auction. "Do you know what the symbols mean," he asked his friend, for that information was also of great value. Jeppuk was hesitant to answer him, however.
"Because of where I live, and my trade, it has become my duty to familiarize myself with the languages of all the people here." Jeppuk spoke in a foreboding tone with his eyes set on the cursed mask. "The Assassins have allowed me to learn their language, for it permits me to do business with them in the secrecy they desire. But to share the meaning of their scribes would mean death, no matter what my current value. I am merely a well-digger, after all. My kind come and go."
"But you will have little to fear here," Herzel said, making an effort to loosen his friend's lips. "I hired guards to keep watch over my room tonight. I would be fool not to, with all the zeny I made in the marketplace. Tomorrow you will come with me to Alberta. The Assassins will never know you spoke, for they would never come where guards wait to capture them. And besides, it isn't as though you're telling me the exact meaning of the symbols, thereby deciphering the language to an outsider. You are merely helping me solve a riddle, of which I will know no more than the answer, not the method by which the answer is obtained." To sweeten the deal, Herzel poured his friend another glass of fine spirits. "Now come on, man. Answer the riddle."
Jeppuk's nerves remained wary, even after he swallowed the entire glass of alcohol. "The symbols speak the owner's name," he replied, "which I am not inclined to repeat. It belongs to an Assassin who wishes his satisfaction to be the last thing his victim sees before succumbing to death. By the Assassin's code, he is unallowed to show his face. Therefore he wears the Mr. Smile mask, so that its smile informs the victim that he is satisfied."
Jeppuk was ill to his insides at the thought, but Herzel could not have been happier. The Merchant slapped his own knee and danced out of his chair. "This is truly the prize I've been waiting for," he declared, "and you, my friend, must share it with me! When we reach Alberta, I want you to stay with me. Not merely for a fortnight, but for the rest of your days. With what I will make from this mask, we will have fine spirits and women until we are ready for the ground!"
Jeppuk did not share his friend's celebratory state. "I could not. I have my well to tend to, among other things." He took another drink of fine spirits, which helped to lighten his mood. "And besides. I could not bear living with you for more than a day, let alone a fortnight. You are shifty, and I get enough of that from the desert sand."
Herzel laughed, then with his friend he finished off the bottle of spirits, and both fell fast asleep. Herzel had put much faith in the Morroccan guards and their ability to keep him safe, so he slept with ease that night. His morning, however, would reveal to him how he was horribly mistaken.
It was unthinkable to Herzel how he could have slept through such a grizzly scene, but he did, awaking to the horrible image of his friend's mutilated corpse. Jeppuk's body lay outstretched on the room's only bed, his blood soaking the sheets and dripping into pools along the wooden floor. The most grizzly part of the scene was not that his throat had been slashed, but that a raven perched casually on the man's chin, pecking away at his eyes and mouth. Herzel was so horrified he found no air to utter a scream. A sickness rose in him as he witnessed the raven pulling Jeppuk's tongue from his lips. Then the bird took flight, but did not leave the room. Instead, it went to a corner and landed on the shoulder of an Assassin.
The Assassin took the tongue from the beak of the bird and held it forward. "He will tell no more of the Assassins' secrets," he said, then threw the tongue at Herzel's feet. Poor Herzel stumbled backwards and fell onto his hands and buttocks, then struggled to call on the guards. Before he could say anything, however, the Assassin told him, "The guards cannot hear you. Their ears are full of their own blood."
Herzel was feeling fear as he had never felt it before, topped by grief over his friend's murder. The Assassin was at a distance but his very presence meant that Herzel's fate was sealed, or so he thought. In a flash of movement, the Assassin cleared the distance between them and crouched before the Merchant. The Assassin leaned his head into Herzel's--his face was covered by a Mr. Scream mask, whose horrifying expression only served to elevate the Merchant's fear. The raven perched on the Assassin's shoulder interrupted their silent stares with a sudden shriek, then the Assassin spoke in a dangerously calm tone.
"I have asked you kindly once. Now, I do so again. Will you return to me the mask that is rightfully mine?"
Herzel looked to the Assassin in disbelief, then to the table where the Mr. Smile mask remained. "Why have you not just taken it for yourself," he asked quickly, then braced himself for a killing blow.
The Assassin did not move, however. "You purchased that mask, therefore it is yours," he replied. "Were those not your words? I will not take it if you believe you own it rightfully. I will simply... take other things, until what is mine is returned to me." He held the tongue of the late Jeppuk close to Herzel's face. The Merchant had to cover his mouth to keep himself from vomiting.
"Your friend's tongue is one thing," the Assassin said. "Your guards' ears are another. What else will I take, you ask? You will see." Then he disappeared right before Herzel's eyes, leaving his raven to flutter wildly about the room before it left through an open window.
Herzel was quite shaken by this encounter and by no means glad to be alive. He gathered all his possessions--including the mask--and left Morroc that morning. He was sad to leave his friend in such a state, but that sadness did not prevent him from the use of Jeppuk's cart. He linked it to the back of his own and took flight, for his sow was capable of pulling two carts just as swiftly as one.
As night settled over the land, Herzel was still not clear of the Morroccan desert. He set up camp so that his sow could rest, but he himself could not slumber. He knew the Assassin could not have been far off, and he feared what might be taken next. He gripped the hilt of a sword unsteadily and watched over his camp for as long as his nerves would allow. Eventually he gave in to fatigue and slipped unknowingly into a deep slumber.
When he awoke again it was with a start, and night still covered the desert sands. The familiar sound of flapping wings brought his attention to his cart, and there perched the raven, holding something foul in its beak once again. Herzel's head then turned as he heard a strange roar and he caught sight of his Savage in her death throws. Her belly had been sliced in such a manner that she still lived, even as her very innards poured out of her.
"NO," Herzel cried, then scrambled over to his beloved companion. The pig cried as much as she could but then her lungs failed her, and she laid still. Herzel wept for his loss, but as the raven settled to begin feasting on the sow, the Merchant swung wildly with his sword to ward it off. "Get away you foul creature," he cursed as he chased the crow around. "You scavenger! You thief!"
While Herzel chased the raven about his campsite, the Assassin stepped out of the shadows and settled next to the dying embers of the campfire. "It seems the crow and you are kindred spirits in that regard," he said. "Perhaps he was meant for you and not I."
Herzel ceased his pursuit of the bird and watched as the Assassin turned the embers to liven their flame. While the Merchant slumped to the ground, the Assassin took a small pouch from his hip and threw it to him. Zeny jingled within the pouch as it hit the ground.
"I took some water from your cart while you slept," the Assassin noted. "I believe that will pay for it."
"Take the mask," Herzel said, his voice laden with sorrow. "Please, just... take it, if that is what you want."
"What I want, is for you to give it to me," the Assassin replied, then rose to his feet. The raven came to his shoulder with the Savage sow's liver, and he took it in hand. "I hope you learn something from all this, Merchant. But if you don't, that is all right as well. Try not to lose my mask." Then he retreated to the shadows, once again leaving the Merchant amongst a scene of vile murder.
In a desperate bid for sanity, Herzel rushed to his cart and retrieved the mask. Then he held it high and screamed, "Here! Take it! I'm giving it to you! Take it! Please! Take it! I don't want it anymore! Take it! Please...." He collapsed near the corpse of his sow, his plea falling on the deaf ears of the desert tundra. "Please, take it," he whispered, then wept softly to himself until he fell asleep.
Well into the next day, Herzel was still wandering the desert, alone, haggard, and with but the mask and an ever-decreasing supply of water to sustain him. He had left all his other possessions behind, unable to move the overloaded carts without the aid of his sow. He tramped on in no particular direction, feeling the heat of the desert more fiercely now than ever before. He even collapsed a few times, but rose again, guided by the illusionary sound of a raven cawing close by him.
Through the wavering heat of the mid-day, Herzel spied a distant campsite and his hopes were slightly lifted. He moved quickly towards it, but the better his vision of it, the slower his movements became. There, sitting on that same blanket he recalled from days past was the old beggar, with his shop situated in the middle of nowhere. There wasn't even a road or signs of wagon tracks before him but he sat there all the same, selling his same wares, minus the cursed mask. Herzel approached the blanket and stared down at the beggar until he was acknowledged. Without a word, the beggar held a flask of water for the Merchant, then made room on his blanket for the man to sit. This haggard pair sat together, and many moments passed before one uttered a word.
"You were right about the mask," Herzel said tiredly. "It was cursed. I should have listened to you."
The beggar rocked forward and back for no particular reason. "Did you not take it to a Priest to have it cured," he asked.
"The curse on this mask is not mystical," Herzel replied, then joined the beggar in his rocking motion. The motion was strangely soothing, and helped to take his mind off the desert heat. "This mask belongs to an Assassin," he went on to say. "You, must have found it in the hands of his last victim."
"So it does," the beggar replied. "And so I did." The beggar seemed to rise from where he sat, but as he did he folded like skin, then lay in a heap in front of who then sat in his place: the Assassin. The raven struggled its way out from beneath the beggar's hood, then took its rightful place at the Assassin's shoulder, and they looked to Herzel for the next move.
The Merchant felt the full force of irony in this situation and as it struck him, he started to laugh. His laughter carried across the endless sands for several moments before he calmed down--the Assassin waited patiently, and the crow did as well.
"When this raven came to me," the Assassin began, "his leg held a note, which told me a story of a Merchant who had wronged two travelers. This Merchant had sold the travelers a flask of red potion at a discount, which they believed to be more than generous. Then, as fate would have it, they were in need of the use of that potion. One traveler was injured gravely, but the potion would have sustained him until they could reach proper medical facilities. The potion failed, and it was later determined that it was not a potion at all, but spring water, guised with scarlet dyestuffs." He rose to his feet and stood over Herzel. "I carry no sympathy for such a case. Mine is merely to carry out the commission. But this particular case did interest me, for it was a case of murder. And if there is one thing Assassins cannot abide by, it is someone unproficient doing the murdering in their stead. The lesson you were meant to learn was not one of greed, but of deception. Only true killers are allowed to deceive before they deliver death. Now. Will you return my mask to me?"
With tears blurring his vision, Herzel took the mask from his satchel and thus began the ceremony. He knelt and held it out to the Assassin, who then took hold of the mask with one hand, and slit the Merchant's throat with a Jur attached to the other. While Herzel lay dying, the Assassin switched his mask so he once again wore a smile. Then he tied a new note to the raven's leg and sent it on a return flight to his current employer. When the note reached its destination, its reader would find the following words:
Contract completed. Payment due.
Signed, the ShadowNinja