The Trial, The Spirit, The Body

You're on the beach of a sunless sea, the shore and the black waves bright in the white moonlight. The shore is small, surrounded by an immeasurably black ocean that laps at the shore with peaceful laziness. You're on an island, one so infinitesimally small in the sea that you can see the other side and the opposing shore from the beach. A building sits on the center of the island, it shimmers and shifts between castle and hut. It holds no solid form, if you picture it as a cave it becomes a cave. Picture it as the fortress you've escaped from, so it becomes. You could lie in peace on the shore for a long time if you truly wished, but you feel compelled to enter the building.

The massive door of the tiny cabin screams and shrieks as it opens. Inside is a long banquet table, a great multitude of half-tangible figures gathered around in the seats. At the head, a shifting swathe of forms, as unknowable as the building it resides in. You couldn't begin to conceptualize what even one of the figures it takes is, when you sit at the single empty seat of the table, it turns to you with the multitude of specters. Five figures on either side of the table, the shimmering mass as the head, you at the foot.

"Hello dear!" An old woman sits to your right, she rocks in place, considering the food but not eating. When you turn your head and put her in your peripheral vision, she seems to knit idly with long silver needles.

"Where am I?"

"You're here, in this body, same as the rest of us."

The figure on your right twists to see you, "I'm afraid it's terribly crowded."

He seems regal, walrus mustache on chubby cheeks and all. In your peripheral, his shape twists uncomfortably, his face not in line with the front of his body, his neck twisted in a horrifying angle. He offers you a polite smile, seeming to understand as you try to keep him out of your periphery.

"Don't be embarrassed darling, some of us didn't make it out of the world while doing our knitting."

Looking again at the old woman in your periphery, you realize that the peaceful expression on her face wasn't what it seemed. There's some sort of twisted grimace to her eyebrows, a look of heavy consternation bordering on pain.

"Well," The old woman scoffs, "The fine Duke has room to talk, he's not spending the rest of eternity almost done with a scarf but never able to finish it."

The Duke twists his head so that it looks correct on his body, it immediately slides back into the grotesque angle.

The rest of the figures have a similar dance as they chat amongst themselves, looking at them sideways shows some uncomfortable fate, it still doesn't make you as uncomfortable as the figure at the end of the table.

You gesture to the end seat, "Who is that?"

"That's the Judge dear, he's not here yet."

"What's this 'he' nonsense? You would insult the fair lady!"

"I suppose the fine Duke sees what he wants to see."

You squint at the shimmering mist, "It doesn't look like anything to me."

"Nothing?" The old lady pauses, squints, then looks at you sideways. "Now that I look at you, you don't look like much either."

"I say," The Duke twists his neck again, it produces a sickening grinding sound but gets him no closer to looking normal. "Perhaps they're some sort of newborn spirit. Tell me, what was your past life like?"

"I don't remember having one."

The old woman cackles, it's the first truly harsh sound she's made. "It's a silver soul! They do still exist!"

The Duke grimaces, "Then I doubt either of us will win, the fair lady would never pick one of us over virgin spirit."

The shimmering shape across the table crackles like a thunderclap, out of the mist comes the form of the woman, your old master. You feel the urge to flee, but having sat down at the table, you can seemingly no longer rise from it. You shudder, several of the gathered spirits cower in terror.

"She's here!" The Duke whispers, his eyes light up with an enraptured awe.

"I knew he'd come back," The old woman whispers, a tear coming to her eye.

The figure looks down the table at the assembled spirits, pondering over each one and eliciting a different emotion from each as she goes. When her gaze gets to you, she spies your discomfort her body shifts. She becomes a cloaked figure, a single red-lighted eye poking from the skull beneath her hood. She becomes a human bodied-oddity, the neck becoming the wrist of a hand, the fingers constantly plucking orbs from a sea of soul-lights. She settles back to the form of your former master. The table goes silent for her to speak.

"This is most unusual."

Her voice is uneven, . The emphasis is on the wrong syllables like a disembodied hand works the muscles of her mouth like puppet wires. If her voice is as terrifying to those others at the table, they do not show it. For the old woman, it only seems to put her more at peace.

"For the lich has worked ill magic, there must be a decision. Who lays claim to the body before us?"

All of the spirits raise their hand, even you, though you hadn't intended to.

"And do any defer?"

None.

"Then we must hear the cases."

The scene shifts, the banquet becomes a mawkish courtroom, where the figure sits as the sole judge. The high booth she sits in is unfeasibly out of reach, letting her look down onto all of the spirits. The great table becomes pews and benches, the warm firelit stone walls now sharp and imposing. The whole room seems to throb, looking at the walls sideways as you have the people, the cracked stone almost seems to resemble a many-veined viscera that stretches to an infinitely tall ceiling.

The first before the judge is an old man, not just old but seemingly unfathomably ancient. He wears long robes, covering a hunched body. His eyes are old and friendly but have an uneasy piercingness. He looks from the judge, down to you.

Wait, why are you at the front of the courtroom?

When he looks at you, his eyes widen, betraying a second of rage, but he regains composure immediately, smiling to hide his slip-up. When you look at him sideways, his robes become transparent. Inside his sleeves and pockets are an armory of blades and poisons. His face is bloated, purple, his tongue lolls out like a great black slug, but he somehow seems to smile almost tauntingly. His hands are clasped around another intangible throat, the life from it even in his own .

"It seems there has been a misunderstanding." Despite the wizened charm his voice could have, he seems to himself to speak like a man half his age. He intentionally sounds dumb, almost oafish.

"There has not," The Judge responds coldly.

"But it seems you have already picked the spirit." He gestures to you.

"Look at them," The Judge croaks. "Would you deny a first chance at life for your second?"

His face twists, he would. He doesn't say as much. "Then, should I consider this trial farce?" His venom is barely contained.

"There is still the issue of the body, it is new, its shape unknown." The Judge turns to you. "What was the shape of your body?"

You don't know, genuinely and honestly. You say as much.

The Judge nods, "There must be a compromise, a sharing of custody." She points a bony finger at the old man. "Describe the shape of the body, tell me what impulses lay in the muscles."

The old man pauses, you're not sure he knows either, but he starts up. "Your grace, the body was clearly a young beautiful human woman. Her hair was curly and ruby red, her form young and lithe." He pauses for effect. "And her one desire was to become a great and powerful mage, one who could restore the order to their former glory." As he speaks, his words create the image of who he describes in the air. The young woman's eyes are bright and excited.

The old man is dismissed, his figure vanishes, returning to the banquet. The table and room of the banquet exists both within this room and outside of it. You can see him, he likely does not see you. In his place, the second spirit arises.

An elven woman, her resemblance to your old mistress would be shocking were it not for her being far younger. She is beautiful, flawless almost. Her long white gown wouldn't be out of place at a wedding. Her every move crackles with magical power, her soot-black skin almost glowing. At a sideways glance, nothing seems wrong with her, but stare long enough and it looks like she is unraveling at the seams.

"Dark One," Her smokey and regally-accented voice seems to ooze with contempt, "The body was clearly that of a young elven woman. Her hair was long and dark, like mine, her body near perfection, bearing the feminine curves of elven nobility and the powerful cock of the royal line. Her impulse was for power, in any way shape, or form she could have it." The image she conjures is as regal as she is and no less dangerous looking.

Hold on, you remember pale skin and curly red hair, definitely not the elven features this woman describes. You point this out.

"How do you know that your soul returned to the same body?" She asks dismissively.

"She is correct," The Judge wheezes, "Everything you remember was destroyed, bringing it up only distracts from the trial."

The elven woman vanishes, joining the old man at the table. In her place, the third spirit.

The old woman from before! Just as sweet as she ever was, she somehow rocks in a chair even standing in front of you.

"Harry," She addresses the judge. "I think the body should be a fine young woman with her life ahead of her. A girl who wants nothing more than to settle down and find somebody to hold them and treasure them." The image she conjures is a young farmhand-looking human woman with straw blonde hair. Her face is peaceful and almost merrily simple, she's also... developed in the chest, to put it mildly. Looking at the rotund old woman before you, you're pretty sure she's based her idea off of herself and is offering you a chance to live the same kind of life she did.

The old woman vanishes, joining the table, in her place the fourth spirit.

The Duke from before, when facing the judge his face points at you and when facing you he almost turns his back on the judge.

"Fair lady!" He professes to the judge, dropping to his knee and putting a hand to his chest. "I think the body should be a powerful young knight, who may serve in your honor. A strong young man, brave as he is devoted to your cause!" The image he conjures is the kind of golden-haired prince charming you would expect to see on some tapestry. It also features muscles, a jawline, and a bulge that seem artistically exaggerated for lack of a better term.

The Duke vanishes, joining the table, in his place the fifth.

A fat but kind-faced and dark-skinned human monk. He is unassuming in every visual way, but the way he moves himself is so slow and self-assured that he feels almost like he's lulling you to sleep with each movement he makes. You don't want to look at him sideways, the sight of a man who seems to have been restrained while he was fed to hungry animals is an unpleasant one. He nods apologetically when he sees you jerk your head back to him.

"Oh ," He begins, his voice deep as the ocean but powerfully musical. "I think the body should be somebody wise, powerful in their peace. A great mind, but one untouched by vices. A nurturing mother with patience for her children, or a wise father with a caring hand."

"You need to be more specific Orren." The Judge wheezes impatiently.

"Perhaps a young woman, one who finds peace in helping others. One who has known the kindness of the desert and the sturdiness of the mountains."

Through the course of another dozen platitudes, he paints a picture of a young dark-skinned woman. He's not very good at specifics, but the image seems to have a keen analytical gaze but the hint of a smile to it. The Judge groans as he drags on and sends him to the table mid-sentence. In his place, the sixth.

It's a clown, or at least something trying to look like one. Below the makeup and the bell-adorned hat and shoes that jingle sadly as he prances, there's the face of a man who quietly judges everything around him. One who sizes up every person he sees, handcrafting the best insults. One to make them laugh, the other for if they offend him.

Lord have mercy! The sight of him in your periphery is something so disfigured and swollen as to no longer pass for human. To begin to describe it makes you sick. Your only guess would be that somebody locked him in a dungeon and let a gang of tortures pursue every perverse fantasy and inkling they wanted to on his flesh.

"Oh, I say that the body was young and divine.
With breasts like two mountains and pussy like-"

"NO SINGING." The Judge booms.

The voice rocks the man and knocks his decorated hat jingling to the floor beside his cacophonous shoes. He shudders and picks it up.

"Sorry boss."

"Describe the body, in speech."

"Well since you asked so nicely," He says with a smile best described as slimy. "I did see the body, it was one of them Gnoll women, with the being eight feet tall and the big ol-" He makes a gesture like he's jacking off an elephant-sized cock between his legs. "But she's got both, and she loves to party. It's really the only thing she wants to do."

"You mean that you want to do?" You ask.

"Hey newbie, I don't make the rules." He winks and honks a horn hidden in between his legs.

The Jester disappears in a cloud of smoke, a little faster and more eagerly than the others on the Judge's part. In his place, the seventh.

An orc, a towering mass of green muscles. He turns this way and that, looking dully around the room. His eyes are dull, but he bows his head softly. There's a large singular gash across his throat and a dozen others across his body. None of them look like they were made by the same weapon, he's dirty too, mud and blood all over him.

"Father," He starts, "The body is like you were in life, like I strode to be. A powerful, wise leader, one who would not lead his people to some foolish war." He seems unsure of himself. "One who would understand why you chose to while I could not." The image in front of him is... him but bigger and stronger.

Gone before he can add anything else, in his place the eighth.

A templar, her short golden hair doesn't even reach her massive pauldrons. She speaks meekly with a normally powerful voice, looking at her sideways shows fire, a human body being reduced to ash.

"My lord, I would seek to make the body a better vessel for your will than I was." She offers, humble but with barely restrained rage. "A strong-minded general in service to you who would not fall to the temptations that I did." The body that starts to appear is androgynous enough to look almost genderless. "She would be your perfect right arm."

The Judge waves her off and she goes willingly, in her place the ninth.

A young mage, lacking all of the shrewdness of the elder. His shaggy red hair and innocently eager face beam at the judge, then to you. Looking at him sideways, a bolt of magical energy seems to have split him in half, he struggles in vain to keep himself from falling apart.

"Master!" He starts eagerly, "I saw the body! It was like mine, but like, cooler! It was big and strong and had a great big-"

The image he's casting is him as pictured in some teenage fantasy of what he thinks he should look like. It's shameless, surface level, low effort. The Judge cuts him off mid-sentence, in his place, no one else arises.

With all of the spirits returned to the table, you're left alone in the courtroom with the judge. The podiums move closer together, the room shifting and softening to be less imposing. The Judge looks you in the eye through the puppeted form of your old master.

"You have heard the spirits, all of them liars in their own ways."

You're a little shocked by their directness. "Really, wasn't one of them telling the truth?"

They sigh, "Each told what they wished to be the truth, some even may have told elements of it, however until you choose which one you find the most comforting they are all correct and all false."

"But don't I have a definite form?"

The Judge laughs, "Yes, but you have not perceived it. Until you have, each is equally likely to be possible." The pause for a moment, "Okay, perhaps not equally likely."

They set a hand on your shoulder, "The point is, you are allowed to choose. Be warned, while you will remain linked to all of the spirits after your choice, the answer you select appoints that spirit as your guardian. You will be inescapably linked to their voice. Keep that in mind, it may be a regretful thing."

And so the choice comes to you.