In the course of my occasional work for the Columbarium, I have been able to inspect some of the more unique artifacts in their reference collection. In particular, an anonymous donor with a fondness for masks has recently gifted two particularly macabre specimens which I was allowed to examine.

The first appears to be in the shape of a jet-black dog and is carved of ebony wood, with arcane symbols from an unknown and possibly dead language inscribed upon it in rounded squares. In addition to a generally frightening countenance, it enables a particularly brutal easy of slaying—daggers slide home more surely, swords find vital arteries, hammers smash their way through helmets all the quicker. The Columbarium assures me that these effects have all been tested thoroughly. The final power that the mask is said to possess—which the Columbarium insists they have not tested—is that anyone slain by its wearer must linger as a ghost for one hour after death and truthfully answer any questions put to them.

The second is wrought gold in the shape of a featureless face, with black lenses over the eyes and pursed lips. If not for the markedly different workmanship and lack of strange markings I would call it a twin to the dog mask, for it too has a grim power to entrap souls. In this case, the mask can be inhabited by a shade of the dead, who may inhabit it as long as they wish until they move on to oblivion of their own accord or are forced out by a more powerful spirit. The wearer of the mask may speak with the current occupant, and if slain, they occupy it themselves if they can displace the occupant, if there is one. It is currently inhabited by a fearful spirit identifying herself as Cattail-of-the-Rushes, who will say little of her life or death except that “he” promised to return for her and place her in a resurrected body. Given the dialectical peculiarities evinced by Cattail-of-the-Rushes, I believe this promise to have been made—and broken—centuries ago.

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