"Ugh. That damn brute. It doesn't surprise me that you'd find such an affinity for him."

Raika grits her teeth, lips pulled back in something that might be construed as a smile. "Well, I've hardly received the kindest reception here, Gloriana."

"You shall address the Bishop by her proper title, or-"

She waves a hand at the skinless, then re-skinned, Witch, glaring at her through exposed musculature and weirdly accented lips. "I'm sorry, is the attendant speaking to a Bishop? Mother of the blessed child? Extra-specialist important up-and-comer in the slowest-moving eternity in the world? Because I could swear that such an act would be incredible rudeness and certainly impact one's social graces as the host of such a guest. Surely you're not shaming Glorianna in such a manner?"

The Witch leans back as if slapped, blinking owlishly- and the gilded corpse beside her throws out a haughty laugh, singular and sharp.

"I might find it less disgraceful if you could claim ignorance, mongrel, but clearly you understand nuance just fine when it suits your sensibilities."

Raika leans forward over the collection of paints, herbs, and ceramics arrayed on the table before her. For all that the skeleton that is Glorianna, empowered by a suit of armor, glass and gilding, pretends at annoyance, the Unbroken has her measure.

Rich lady's bored.

Can't push too hard, or she'll snap back, but don't push at all, and the opposite happens- she'll do nothing at all, turn Raika away at the door, ignore her outright as beneath her.

Internally, Raika snorts. Rich and powerful and all the same- bored. Reminds her of the nobles of Cragend, all snobbish and yet all too eager to follow a trail of breadcrumbs placed before them.

"I am a woman of many talents, Bishop Glorianna. I would hardly have so attracted the eye of your husband if not for that."

A flex of cold echoes through the courtyard, and the sanctified corpse stops pretending to be alive just long enough to turn its gaze on her.

Raika shows her exactly the right face. Bold, humorous, challenging rather than comfortable, ever-so-slightly afraid.

Her psyche might have re-aligned the Mask, might have lost its ability to multitask freely, but it turns out that dead flesh is even easier to shape into place than living. She shows just enough to make sure that the thing on the other end of the table sees fear hand-in-hand with challenge. An interesting animal testing its limits, rather than gnawing at restraints or biting at the hand that feeds it.

"I do believe my husband values your boy far more than he does you, beast," the corpse eventually says. "Though, unlike your interest in me, the target of his interest is far less likely to defend himself. Perhaps he might introduce him to Bishop Seo En-Hyun, hmm? Further his education? It must chafe, after all, to be held so close to a bosom that suffocates."

Is that a dig at her tits? Catty.

There is no heat to the threat, in spite of the un-heat that radiates from the Bishop Glorianna, power tied to Qi yet ever-so-slightly beside its normal manifestations, shaped by imprint and context far more intricately than the orthodox would allow. It's a riposte, and one made with just enough force to allow it to sting, without letting her truly bleed. So it goes.

Raika lets the smile fall off her face, shaping her features into something approaching neutrality. Another mask, made of the same dead tissue as the first- hesitation, mingled with anger and awareness in turn. "I don't think it would be… productive to further insinuate such things."

Without lips, it's hard to read facial features- but for all that Glorianna lacks in microexpressions and Qi flavoring, her haughtiness makes up for. A tilt of the head back, a hand rises as if to cover a smile, a soft clink of metal and glass shifting from a resting position. Victory, claimed in such a way that would wave it against an opponent on the same playing field. "Yes. Perhaps such insinuations are… distasteful. I would hope I haven't too weakened your resolve by such terrible innuendo. Surely you had more in mind when you came here than to suffer at the hands of your betters."

"On the contrary," Raika replies, bowing her head very slightly. "I'm afraid that suffering at the hands of my betters is precisely what I intend. There is no better teacher than pain, in many instances, be it physical or not."

"Hmm. Yes. And in this, I suppose, you show wisdom once more, beast. Perhaps my tutelage will not be wasted on you entirely."

Glorianna doesn't move from her pose, but the world around her does. That's another interesting thing about all the corpse-folk of the Fallen Kingdom Raika's met- they're expressive only when they intend to be. If left without a need, most of the time they just… stay perfectly still, and talk without moving even the semblance of jaws or lips. It's a presentation for them- they don't need to shift or readjust or so much as breathe. They just are.

Makes them weirdly expressive, in their own way.

The courtyard expands in a way that's dizzying to follow, dimensions warping to elevate the centermost area around Raika, the Bishop, and her attendant until they're seemingly further away from the rest of the space than they should be. Arrayed amidst columns of pale grey stone, wrapped in garlands of pressed flowers and artfully twisted bone, the sun beats down onto simple stone flooring, made ornate by its surroundings rather than its construction.

The light from the sun, tinged slightly pale by the aura of the far edge of the known world, shines gently on a vision of a garden, arranged artfully as a maze with courtyards of roses, pillars, arches and statues, all arranged in complicated connection to each other. It would be a vibrant place, were it alive- but there is a stillness that is utter here, as the hedges grow black leaves that don't shift with the wind, and the flowers hold with the stillness of carved stone.

From the center of the open space, two undead Bishops sit, a living (probably?) Witch off to one side on her feet, a table arrayed between them. On it are the aforementioned ceramics, paints, and herbs, many of them explicitly fungal in origin, each of them arranged in neat piles or careful formations. To Raika's right side, there is a section just for tools. Chisels, paint brushes, ornate needles that remind her of Li Shu's works- all of them shining with perfect sterilization.

Theirs is not the only table.

Entering the expanded space, hundreds of skeletal figures emerge, wearing complicated robes of pearl white and ivory grey, layered in intricate designs until the skeletons beneath barely hold any space in their appearance. Tables of carved stone trail behind and between their processions, one on each side of a centered table, hovering over the air soundlessly.

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A funeral march trails slowly into the courtyard, emerging from gardens of stillness and stone like grains of sand.

Eventually, even the altered territory of the courtyard's new spatial dimensions is filled, each part of the procession spiraling out from their entrance to find a spot in a well-practiced choreography. In their perfect silence, their strange stillness, they seem more akin to dolls moving on rolling tracks than people, executing a perfectly silent symphony. Its single note is played as the last members of the pale walkers finds their places.

With a single beat of stone on stone, gentle yet too weighty not to be felt, a hundred-hundred tables of stone land as one against the floor.

Silence reigns again.

She's not sure when, but the tables have become laden with similar tools to the ones before her. Glorianna watches from across the space, hands folded politely as if waiting patiently. In her heart, Raika knows that she might wait in that exact pose for another decade before feeling a need to move, if not longer.

"Your ways are brutish. You have bludgeoned your way into the art, battered your way through your incarnations, and brutalized your way into your current state. It does not surprise me that Bishop En-Hyun would have found a kindred spirit- for all his poise and artistry, he too is a remarkably direct figure. But that is not the Art. Instinct is the way of beasts, and unless you wish to rest on the laurels of the talented little biomancer you have brought to us for the rest of eternity, you will surpass it."

Raika suppresses the instinct to pull out a cigarette. She only has a limited supply, and she's going to need to save some for after this is over.

"My attendant, as you have seen, still lives. She is an aspirant to the ways of Death, but has not yet entered its domains- an unfortunate reality, based on her condition. Do you understand, child, how one masters Death?"

She pauses, takes a moment to think. Well. Answer's a bit obvious, but maybe that's what the Bishop wants.

"By dying."

The clink of glass- fingertips clacking against the table in disapproval.

"No. Anyone can die. Mastering Death requires accumulating Death. Storing it, like one would a proper vintage, and refining it. All power is thus- to take, to store, to refine. As an Orthodox sect cultivates their still-living spirit organs, as a Beast consumes and transforms, as a Witch infuses meaning into their Sacrifices, the way of Death steps beyond, and places one's power into an idea itself."

She raises a hand, gesturing idly- at the movement, a small serpent manifests out of white mist, curling into existence in her hands and coiling around her fingers. Glorianna makes a humming sound with the un-air she emits, admiring the beast- it is shaped with near perfection, each scale glimmering coldly in the dull sun's rays.

"When something dies, it leaves a space behind. An imprint, an Echo. This echo can be magnified, if one uses the correct materials. It can be stored. It can be empowered. It can even be broken down, such that each individual note of it might be added to a wider orchestra. Some cultivate a single death- often their own- and make it into a thing so profound it is like a Daemon unto itself, a consumer of worlds which shapes all reality to the form of one individual end. A powerful technique, perhaps, but foolish. A true master cultivates a variety of deaths, collecting the right materials and infusing them properly into a grander whole. Such is complexity. Such is depth. Such is why I possess my companion, here."

The Craft user, skinless and clothed in her own discarded tissue, does a bow that has her legs spread a bit at the knees and her hands lifting part of her robes.

"There is a saying, amongst your kind. All roads lead to the Dao. Correct?"

Raika nods, choosing not to interrupt the very pretentious and very informative monologue.

"It is a simplification of a greater idea. All power is power. A formation of water and stone might create a babbling brook with the sharpness of obsidian and the density of marble. A vision held in one's mind as one digests can create a manifestation of that ideal. As my husband studied the mathematics of Power, I study its context, its language. Shirai? Demonstrate."

The Witch does that weird bow again- and then expands, or gives the illusion of it. Her skin-robes unravel, expanding in non-euclidean fashion out into vast wings. They shimmer, like they're barely there, a gossamer-thin weaving of flesh- and at its very ends, there, it begins to dissipate, as if vanishing into smoke.

With a wave of her hand and the scent of Qi, flavored by wind and mystery and soft skin made supple by dream-logic, the wings collapse inwards. They fold, over and over, again and again, until they've formed a small crane, like a folded blanket shaped into form.

It blinks with eyes it does not have, and looks around, and makes a sound that is not a sound.

"Good. Unmake it."

The witch (Shirai?) does so, without complaint- and then her robes are just robes again.

"What did she just do?" Glorianna asks.

Raika inhales, using the old habit to center herself. Based on what she remembers with Li Shu…

"She used her skin, rather than spiritual organs, to embody a concept. I think… life? Or maybe animation? And… something ephemeral."

The gilded corpse nods. "Quite. My attendant is one of the few still-living members of the Kingdom, having come to us for aid only a few centuries ago. She exemplifies in a cruder form what I seek to demonstrate. Power is power- and all power follows three steps. Take, hold, refine. Death is taken, it is kept, it is turned to purpose. My husband does this by infusing the base rules of physics, connecting them into equations- what your people call arrays. In this way, he infuses meaning into the deaths he holds, which are powered by Vitae, or what your people call Qi. Do you understand?"

Raika nods. When Glorianna says nothing, she grumbles a bit under her breath, but then bows her head a little.

"Yes, Bishop. Power is power- and all power is meaning, material, and fuel."

"Indeed. My husband, in his gracious generosity, has sought to teach you and your… attendant of the underlying machinery of the world. The brute has shown you of how we who embody Death exist in this world, and the ways in which we infuse meaning into the Death we hold. Now, in your finite wisdom, you have come to me for your true lessons- to imbue artistry into your Death."

With a flick of her semi-mechanical wrist, the corpse-saint moves over the table, hundreds of ceramic shards flying together through space and into the shape of a vase. Another wave and a collection of the herbs flies into the newly-born jar, even as brushes of paint wielded by invisible, long-stilled hands begins to paint the exterior in a thick paste and write words on it Raika doesn't recognize.

"A violent death can be imbued with power to incite violence in turn. It can be a tool to influence a mind towards conflict, or a recreation of itself physically onto another, or an instrument played to influence the context of a moment. One might craft a death that suits a purpose, creating the circumstances they then can empower and utilize, just as one might set in motion the paint and canvas that creates an intentional painting. Do you understand the difference?"

"I'm not sure that I do, actually. You talk about-"

"Enough. Your prattle tires me."

Glorianna rises up to her feet, an act more like a puppet being moved than a body moving itself, as Raika reminds herself that she can't strangle a dead body. And that she shouldn't throngle it yet.

"You wear a curse on your skin. Correct?"

She blinks. "I… do. It's an old attempt at-"

"Yes, beast, I can read. You used the meanings of symbols to change the meaning of you. To do so as a perpetual, lasting effect is a curse, or a blessing, depending on its benefit to the target. A hex, in turn, is any effect placed upon another- it encompasses both. A convocation, however, is a manifestation, a placement of an effect or meaning or event upon reality itself. Thus-"

Raika… feels like she might be here a while.

She starts putting together her own jar, half-listening as the corpse warlock speaks- and is surprised to see that all of the other tables are moving too. Still in perfect, unnatural silence- but each is performing a unique act. Some of the skeletons are painting on canvases, others on banners, while others make ceramic vases, or carve materials into shape.

All around, as the Bishop Glorianna prattles about the nuances of the "Art", the impossible courtyard is filled with silent art all its own.

A hundred-hundred examples, all being crafted at once.

Huh.

Maybe not quite as useless as she thought. These corpse-folk- all so expressive, if you know how to look.

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