Let’s say that there are three parts to every game: a set of goals, a set of rules, and a medium of interaction. If you’re willing to employ a bit of creativity, you can apply that definition to just about every form of socialization: when you speak with another human being, you have something you want out of the exchange, you have a set of rules governing your behavior, and you have the conversation itself as a medium of interaction.

So by this (admittedly twisted) logic, we can consider a conversation to be a game, and that means that it can be approached like a game.

I have a set of goals: I want to survive this conversation, I want to maintain this location as a safe haven, and I want to accrue social capital with these people in case I need their goodwill later. In simpler terms, I need to make a good impression.

To win the game and achieve my goals, I need to understand the rules, and ideally I need to understand my opponent. This would be easier if I could tap Cheshire for information, but I’m not sure how to get her attention without alerting the man in plain robes who is leisurely leading me through the halls of this shrine.

Cheshire? Cheshire, any chance you can read my thoughts? It would be hella pog if you could, and if you answer in the affirmative I’ll give you, I don’t know, my undying fealty to your sinister master plan? No? Limited-time offer to obtain a forever-minion? Hello? Nothing?

Nothing. No whisper in my ear; no brush against my thoughts. Either she can’t hear me, or she’s pretending she can’t hear me to avoid showing her hand. Either way, it looks like I’m on my own.

I’m grateful for the slow pace of the person (or not-person) that I’m following, and I keep my own pace as slow as possible to give myself more time to think. I ignore the sights and sounds around me, careful not to let the architecture and the inhabitants of this shrine distract me. I retreat inward, letting my body move on autopilot, and begin scheming a strategy to win this next game.

Let’s establish a greater goal of making a positive impression on this group–the Myriad, I think Bashe called them–and break that down into the sub-goals of “convince the priestess that I am likable and trustworthy” and “convince the priestess that I am worth healing and do not pose a danger to her community.”

So, how do we do that? What kind of personality would appeal to this priestess, and to the greater organization she belongs to? What do I know about these people?

I string together bits and pieces of what I’ve been told over the course of my time in the Labyrinth. The “reavers” in the club, they worked for an elf–a fae–and I learned from Bashe that the fae are divided between Summer and Winter, with Summer being stories of a dead world and the riders of the Wild Hunt. In my mindscape, Cheshire mentioned “retainers” and “invokers,” and I’ve heard that latter term from Bashe and Eirdryd both. If a diabolist is an invoker aligned with Shadow, then maybe a reaver is an invoker aligned with Summer? I know reavers can’t be scions, because that name didn’t come up in Bashe’s Dreamweaver-verified list, and my gut says they’re not retainers.

In her example of retainers and invokers, Cheshire listed “imps and diabolists” and “kindred and priests.” She never explicitly linked that latter grouping to Spirit, but I think it’s a safe bet; I could eliminate Thrones until only Spirit’s left, but the kicker is in that first name, “kindred.” It’s a word that means family, kinship, like of kind, and that fits perfectly with the notion of Spirit as community.

So we have a kindred doctor and a shrine priestess, and I’m pretty sure I remember it being mentioned that this is a shrine to an eidolon, which are like Spirit’s take on geists. That seems like more than enough evidence to conclude that the Myriad are Spirit-aligned like the King’s Carnival are Summer-aligned.

Spirit’s meaning comes from the collective, and its adherents find significance in tradition, community, and virtue. Speaking less generally, this particular group of adherents chose to heal me at cost to themselves, asking nothing in return, simply because I needed the help. They’ve been nothing but polite, nice, and cordial.

I may not know the specifics of what this culture values, but they seem firmly prosocial, and I can work with that. Assuming their benevolence is not an act, all I have to do is construct a persona that is appealing to the average empathetic human. I can do that. I’ve done that.

We should keep in mind that our very existence might be anathema to the Myriad, if they are indeed aligned with the Throne of Spirit.

They don’t necessarily know I’m a demon, though they might have ways of detecting that.

They also might have been warned by Bashekehi. He went to speak with someone named “Esha,” remember? I give it decent odds that Esha is the priestess we’re being taken to. We should plan for the worst outcome.

Agreed.

And so it is time to don a new mask.

I regret that I was unable to make a proper face for Bashekehi, and to a certain extent Eirdryd, but the conditions of my first day in this world were not at all conducive to careful persona-building. Now I have a chance to do it right, and I won’t squander this opportunity.

There is a method to mask-making, a set of tendencies and habits that produce best results: we build from what is real, from what is existent, and from what is natural or close to natural. An effective mask is built from a core of unalloyed truth, and then decorated with creative interpretation. This process is usually much more intuitive and less structured and pre-planned, but I’m making a special effort given the stakes at hand.

To my amusement, Pandaemonium has actually handed me a new tool with which to carve my false face: the trinity of Truths. The system is compelling, and so I eagerly incorporate it into my process.

Here’s a simple truth from which we might build a Truth: people like it when you ask them about themselves. That’s a good bit of dating advice, but it also applies to basically any social interaction. People like getting a chance to talk about themselves, and they really like it when it seems like you have a sincere interest in the things that they value and consider part of their identity. If someone happens to have some strongly-held beliefs, they’re going to like it when you display earnest, open curiosity about those beliefs.

I shape the eyes of the mask, what some call the windows to the soul, and I fill those eyes with my first Truth: Curiosity. I have a desire to understand and a willingness to learn. My eyes shine bright with a youthful sense of spirit and curious interest. This world is full of so much to learn, and I want to learn all of it. I’m willing to learn it all, if you’ll share it with me.

I am open to new ideas. I am receptive to information received. This curiosity is neither cold nor clinical, no rote gathering of data. This curiosity is warm, earnest, and that of a friend. I want to know. I care to know. These are my eyes, wide-open and glittering.

Gratitude is another potent tool, and I will make it my second Truth. Gratitude is expected when services are rendered, and I have been done a great service. Gratitude is appreciated whether earned or unearned, and I want to be appreciated. Even those who push off gratitude out of insecurity or discomfort will still be warmed by it deep inside. And by the principle of reciprocation, those who are shown gratitude will be inclined to return that positivity in future interactions.

I shape the mouth of the mask, a key vector for the presentation of emotions. I feel gratitude for your kindness, and so I show you a warm and earnest smile. My lips move in thanks, my cheeks lifted by joy and grace. I am indebted to you for your acts of charity. Thank you. Thank you. I mouth the words, practicing them, tasting them.

I’m broken from my reverie by a polite cough from the man in plain robes. “Right through here, miss. The priestess is waiting by the well.”

Gah. I’m not done. I keep the grateful smile on my face, curiosity in my eyes, and say, “Ah, thank you so much. Would it be alright if I took a moment to compose myself? I’m rather nervous about this.” The words sound honest as they leave my lips, but there’s always room for improvement; more emotion, more control, more fine-tuning. I repeat the lines in my head, simulating different points of inflection and emphasis.

“Of course, take as much time as you need.” He returns my smile, gives a little half-bow, and walks off, leaving me by an arched door.

Okay. Play the game, follow the rules. One more Truth. One more piece to the mask. Remember: core of truth, garnish with creativity.

For my last Truth, I repurpose Bashekehi’s observations from our conversation just a few minutes ago: I killed a man, and I don’t know how to feel about that. I killed a reaver, an agent of the fae, and it was in self-defense… but I still killed a man, and that’s not nothing; that can’t be nothing. I am afraid of what that might mean.

I take that Fear and pour it into my mask, allowing the corners of my mouth to twitch with nervous anxiety, my smile not wholly warm and sweet. This world is strange and new, and though I knew of magic in the abstract back home I had never been confronted with it in such blunt and violent ways. There are dangerous brigands here, and I fear for my life. There are brigands, and I killed one of them, and that haunts me in ways I can’t begin to describe. There is blood on my hands, and who will wash it out?

My mask is more than just a face; my mask is my body, my motion, all the way to the tips of my fingers. My hands shake at the memory of taking a life, because who wouldn’t be horrified by such an act? I’m not a killer–I can’t be a killer–but I’ve killed, and I wish I hadn’t.

It’s only a little white lie. Barely a lie at all.

My name is Maven Alice, and these are my Truths: Curiosity, Gratitude, and Fear. I am a girl from another world, but a world of Pandaemonium. The Zero Sphere is a myth, obviously, and I don’t put stock in such tales (and if I’m pressed on the nature of my homeworld, I can pull from a plethora of Earth fiction these people know nothing about). I am curious, grateful, and nervous. I am likable. I am not a threat. It is safe to let me in. You are safe, to let me in.

Trust me.

The mask settles on my face and around my hands and into my thoughts, and I make a few final adjustments to my body language as I push open the door and step into a new, much larger chamber. I try to relax, but I allow a bit of the nervous energy I’m genuinely feeling to seep into my limbs in various fidgeting gestures. The most convincing lies are recontextualized truths.

The halls and rooms of the rest of this structure were clean, and well-made, but there was nothing that I really found worth noticing. This room is different.

The chamber is vast and feels central, important, grandiose. It is made of clean white stone and decorated with vibrant wall murals depicting what I can only assume to be the Labyrinth itself: floating islands, mirror-doorways, and scattered cities. I see no sign of the black tower, however. Unknown to the artisans, or an intentional omission?

There are people here, or perhaps simulacra of people. I see a few in plain white robes, going between groups and carrying bowls that they hold out to people. I take them for attendants, especially in contrast with the others milling about in normal, perfectly modern outfits. They sit on benches and speak to the attendants and marvel at the murals, and I see them laugh and smile and hug each other.

And I have to wonder: are you all figments, or are any of you real? They read like the extras in a scene, the background characters put there to provide verisimilitude, so by the logic of the Labyrinth does that make them less than human?

I set my unease aside and turn my attention to what is clearly the main attraction: the pool of water and the great roots that descend from on high. A full third of the quite-large chamber is taken up by a pool of clear water that shimmers with pale light. Gnarled roots reach down and taper from above, dipping gently into the water and appearing like an inverted canopy of branches. The roots are dual-toned, tinged white and gold, and shift to golden brown as they get closer to the central trunk of what must be the great tree I saw from outside.

Two figures are waiting by the pool, and while one of them is clearly the priestess, my attention is drawn first to the woman suited head-to-toe in what can only be described as power armor. I have the sudden realization that I definitely wasn’t mishearing Bashe when he said, “power armor and a halberd.”

Ms. Space Marine here isn’t carrying a halberd (in fact I don’t see any weapons on her person at all), but she is absolutely wearing power armor and I literally cannot even. It’s that type of power armor that has the bulky alloy plates over a flexible (but still armored) bodysuit, and while the bodysuit is a signature black, the armor plates have been painted white with gold trim in a truly ostentatious display. The plates look machine-cut, and they have that future-metal surface texture to them. I don’t see any obvious signs of circuitry or servos, but there are a few perfectly-spherical glowing red gems embedded in key plates. Something magitek?

There’s a tabard over the armor, white cloth, showing a golden tree whose branches bear many-colored fruit. That does a bit to shift the ensemble from space marine to space knight, and the next detail furthers that notion: while she may not have a weapon, she is carrying a shield. The possibly-knight is holding a largely-unremarkable heater shield that has a gem sphere of its own, this one a deep earthy black.

Ms. Marine is also not wearing a helmet, which I consider an unforgivable sin from a tactical perspective, but if she’s got Spirit narrative powers then it might not be a big deal? Heroes don’t tend to die from getting shot in the head, even when they should by all rights. Her hair is “amber waves of grain” coloration, but cropped short and kept neat. She’s got speckled eyes, very tan skin, and features that make her conventionally beautiful in that generically uninteresting supermodel way.

She is also, however, somewhere around seven feet tall, and from how she fills that power armor she looks to be seven feet of pure muscle. She’s big and buff in that “I want you to step on me, power armor dommy mommy” kind of way. With how heavy that armor looks and how stick-like I am, she could probably lift me like a training weight. She could crush me to death between any two parts of her body, and that is kind of delightful.

Not that I express any of that out loud, of course. I allow myself to internally enjoy the sight of this maybe-literal-amazon for a brief, surreptitious second, and then push that aside entirely to focus on the mission. No distractions, even gay ones.

The other woman, the one not wearing power armor, is dressed in plain white robes like all the other attendants I’ve seen, but she’s distinguished by the clearly magical staff in her hands; the staff is shaped a bit like a shepherd’s crook, but it looks grown from a single branch, gnarled and continuous. The arc of the crook is a bit uneven, and in that imperfect gap is suspended an orb of water that shimmers with the same pale light as shines from the pool. Magic staff! Now that’s some classic fantasy.

A blindfold covers her eyes, and she has rich brown hair that falls in curls. Her skin is honeyed and her features are kind, and she has an ageless look about her like she might be thirty or sixty with no way of telling. This is definitely the priestess. Blind oracle and her space marine bodyguard? Okay, I kinda dig that. She’s kneeling by the water’s edge, one hand hovering just over the surface of the pool.

I run a few scenarios in my head as I approach. Are you the priestess? I wanted to thank you, profusely, and I hope you can pass my thanks along to the healer who helped me. Words alone cannot properly express my gratitude. Words aren’t enough to express how grateful I am. Smiles and sincerity and clasped hands. My name is Maven Alice, and I wanted to thank you for everything. Please, if there’s any way to repay your kindness–if there’s anything I can do to repay your kindness, I would be happy to assist.

Meh. I don’t like any of those, really. Too structured, too rehearsed-sounding. I want to leave a stronger impression. Something… disorienting.

The warrior woman is watching me as I step up to the duo. My initial plan was to cough politely to get their attention, but it looks like I already have the attention of the one I plan to address first. As soon as I’m within comfortable speaking distance I put a bit more spring in my step, look up at the tall lady with wonder on my face, and babble, “Your armor is, like, amazingly cool! Is that power armor!? Where did you get it? It’s so tough and awesome, it makes you look like a total badass!”

She seems taken aback by my outpouring of interest, but then she chuckles and lifts one arm, holding it out and flexing her fingers to show off the articulation of the joints. “It’s nice, isn’t it?” Her voice is smooth, confident, and deliciously deep. “It was a gift from the Machinist’s Guild, for services rendered. Fits like a glove and takes hits like a mountain.”

“Oh, wow, so it was custom-made? That’s incredible! Um, are those guys, like, something from your old world, or are they here in the Labyrinth?” I don’t think I’ll ever be physically capable of wearing power armor, but it feels like a convincing thing for my character to want.

“The latter.” She muses for a second, then comments, “I should let Lady Esha explain; I believe she intends to give you a comprehensive explanation of the state of our city.”

The blind priestess smiles and rises from the water’s edge. “Indeed I do. But first, I believe we should make proper introductions to our guest.” She turns to me and gives me the same half-bow the attendant did. “I am Esha, priestess to the city spirit of Sanctuary 7. This is Achaia, my bodyguard, and we are both delighted to meet you.”

I wince and act embarrassed. “Oh, sorry, I got totally ahead of myself there. I’m Alice, and the pleasure’s all mine. Thank you, profusely, for everything. And please, pass my thanks to the healer who helped me.” Esha and Achaia. I roll their names around my mouth, tasting them and trying to memorize them.

Esha’s smile is warm and gentle. “I am glad to see your wound has recovered, Alice. Even with our Dryden’s talents, it is not often that one heals so quickly.”

“Believe me, no one’s happier about it than I am.” I shiver. “That was more of my insides than I ever want to see again.”

Esha nods sympathetically. “I am sorry you went through that. This city was a peaceful place, once, but violence has infected it, and I fear that things will only get worse unless something drastic is done.”

“So what can be done?” I quickly add, “And I don’t mean that as a pure hypothetical; if there’s anything I can do to help, please, let me know. Words don’t suffice to repay the kindness you’ve shown me.”

“The offer is appreciated, but you should hear the nature of our problem first; you are under no obligation to help us, and these are dangerous matters. And, to be clear on that first point: you are in no debt for the healing you received. There is no charge, and no expectation of repayment. We hold to the ideals of the sanctuaries, and offer our help to all those of good intent.”

Meaning I’m thoroughly disqualified, so lying it is. Her voice practically sings with benevolence and empathy, to a frankly uncomfortable degree. She makes it sound like she actually cares about some random loser that turned up on her temple’s doorstep. “I have lots of questions… but, regardless of the answers, I do feel immensely grateful for your aid, and I do want to give what help I can.”

“I am happy to hear that. Allow me to give you some context, then.” Esha gestures delicately in the direction of the pool and branches, and says, “[Recollection of the Myriad]: show me Averrich, Vaylin, and the Machinist.”

Motes of pale light rise from the pool and coalesce into three distinct shapes, then gain color and definition. The elf is obvious from his pointed ears and languid sneer. The second one looks like an imp, or maybe she’s a demon. The last one… is that a kobold? It’s short and scaly and has an adorable snout and big floppy ears.

“Averrich is the man those reavers were working for.”

The priestess gestures at the first illusory figure, and I commit his visage to memory: he resembles Eirdryd in the sharp features and pointed ears, but that’s the end of it. His eyes are a mercurial blue-green, his hair is big and blond, and everything about him is just so extra. He’s shirtless, which I’m sure I would appreciate more if I had the slightest interest in men’s abs, and he’s wearing a tattered green cape with a purple fur mantle, as well as a crown of leaves and berries.

His bare skin is decorated with tattoos evoking foxes, snakes, and spiders. His ears are pierced with colorful trinkets, but aside from those and the organic crown he wears no jewelry. I don’t see a weapon on him or any of the others, but I assume the real version must carry one.

“Averrich is wyldfae, as I’m sure you can tell. He once rode with the Wild Hunt, and now he rules a band of cutthroats and thrill-seekers, most of whom are reavers or lesser fae and thus bound to him through Summer. His King’s Carnival once respected the truce of this sanctuary, but now they prey upon the vulnerable like beasts of carrion.” Her voice carries fascinating emotion: there’s clearly history between those two, but her tone is disapproving rather than disgusted, like she’s chiding a lost child.

“I heard a bit about this,” I tell the priestess, “but I’m eager to learn the full story. I know that there was a truce, and a gang called the Coiners, and then the Contrite broke them up before being driven out themselves, and then a demon showed up?”

The priestess laughs lightly. “That’s certainly a condensed way of putting it. Yes, you have the right of it, and that last point is perhaps most relevant to the current state of Sanctuary 7. Our truce with Averrich may have survived the Contrite incursion if not for the arrival of one Vaylin Kirinal.”

Esha points to the second figure, who I can now confirm to be a demon. Vaylin Kirinal is definitely the most demonic creature I’ve seen so far in this Labyrinth: she has azure blue skin, two pairs of upward-curving horns, four opaque black eyes with white dots for pupils, and fingers that curve into sharp talons. Vaylin’s arms–bared by her tank top, which is such a jarring sight on a demon–have been stitched into with red thread, the body stitching forming all manner of floral designs.

Her hair is long and black, her black-lipped smile is sinfully wicked, and she is adorned in a truly absurd amount of jewelry: gold bands around her horns, gem-studded rings on every finger, gold studs in her ears, glittering jewels on a golden choker around her neck, and gold lacing down the sides of her sleek leather pants.

“Vaylin came to the remnants of the various groups shattered by the Contrite, and she offered each of them a choice: submit or be made to. Her gang, Vaylin’s Voidhearts, grew until it threatened to swallow the city. And so the other powers of this sanctuary were faced with a choice of our own: stay as we were and risk consumption, or become consumers ourselves.”

She gestures to Averrich, to herself, and to the last figure above the water: a little lizard-dog-person in shiny power armor, with floppy ears and black scales and an adorable snout. “The three of us,” Esha continues, “chose survival. Averrich was first to break the treaty, but the Machinist followed shortly after. To prevent the others from driving us out, even the Myriad have had to become more aggressive in our recruitment of warm bodies and our absorption of smaller groups. We all must eat lest we starve… but of course, with every bite that every power takes, the other powers are driven to keep eating.”

It clicks for me. “The security dilemma. You’re talking about the security dilemma: each rational actor is driven by a need for greater security in the face of possible threats, so they seize more resources and strengthen their capacity for violence, which drives every other rational actor to do the same for the sake of their own security. Nobody’s actually getting any safer because they’re all stuck in an arms race, but anyone who stops running just gets eaten.” I’ve seen it likened to the Red Queen’s race from Alice in Wonderland: running and running and going nowhere. I wasn’t expecting that bit of internet research to be relevant to my life, ever, but here we are. “You’re locked into the conditions of interstate anarchy until a hegemon emerges to settle the mess.”

The bodyguard woman, Achaia, gives me an appraising look. “Well, you’ve got a bit more learning than most in that area. Those aren’t the exact terms I learned it by, but that’s the general idea. Until something changes the parameters, we have no choice but to fight in deadlock.”

Esha waves her hand and dismisses the illusory figures. “I hope you understand now the gravity of the situation, and the difficulty of offering to help. The Myriad would be grateful for your aid–we are desperate for every new pair of hands–but it is no small commitment, and there is no end in sight.”

I process that, slowly nodding and looking down to broadcast contemplation. They think they’re asking me to fight in a forever war, but it’s obvious what happens next: I’m the change in parameters that shifts the balance. Hells, even ignoring the story logic of a protagonist’s arrival upsetting the status quo, I’m a scion in a city where that doesn’t seem very common. Averrich’s a scion, and so is Vaylin, but I’m not sure about the Machinist, and at first impression it doesn’t seem like the Myriad are fronting an exalted. I could be the secret weapon that lets them overtake their rivals.

That’s the heroic story, at least: helping the prosocial group beat out the antisocial groups and restore the ideal status quo of the Labyrinth, the city of sanctuary made true to its name. But I am a demon, and my destiny may be darker than that. Still, even if I have grander ambitions, it seems rational to side with the closest thing to good guys I’ve seen since my arrival.

I raise my gaze back to Esha’s face and say, “Even so, I think it’s worth doing. Kindness should be met with kindness, and I feel like there’s so much I can learn from your group about the Labyrinth and Sanctuary 7. I admit, the thought of facing those reavers again scares me… but the thought of not having to face them alone is a comfort. So, if I can, once I get my bearings in this strange new world, I’d like to help.”

Esha rubs her chin and makes a contemplative noise. “Hmm.”

Achaia raises an eyebrow. “Well?”

Esha shakes her head. “It is as he said: the girl is shrouded from my second sight. I have never met one whose role is so clouded and ill-defined; she could be savior, destroyer, victimizer, victim. She could be all those things and none.”

“But her nature,” Achaia presses. Internally, I start freaking out. She has special sight, like Bashe, and maybe the dog.

“A tricky thing to ascertain. Her shroud ability does not seem demonic in nature, but if it did then that would give the game away. If I did not know to look for it, I am not certain that I could have discerned any deeper truth to her existence beyond the touch of the Abyss shared by all under Shadow’s Throne. Her true nature is veiled behind a tumult of chaotic impressions each vying for my attention.” Esha smiles, tilts her head, and finishes, “But with great effort, it can be discerned. So yes, my dutiful guard: the girl is a demon. This I know for fact.”

Shit.