ITS FLESH: A winking lattice of clockwork hexes. They flit back and forth between (1d6)—

Shades of coated porcelain, echoing human flesh.
Cold, black iron. Unyielding; impregnable.
Fine textiles in intricate patterns: Paisley, Houndstooth, Gul.
Eggshell with the soft glow of morning creeping through bed-sheets.
Odd bestial textures. Fur? Feathers? Scales?
Eyelets of thin crystal revealing gears & light beneath.

ITS VOICE: Clipped bursts of dead channel hum, barking back patchwork affricates of overheard chatter. As likely to repeat your own words back at you as to meaningfully respond.

ITS EYES: The same peer from each of its many faces--yellow, fierce and dead as a stuffed hawk.

ITS EARS: Nonpareil.

ITS FACE: Changeable. Copies, for a time, the features, tics, & body language of anyone who approaches. Then defaults to someone it has seen die. (1d6):

A scarred bounty hunter with an oily knife & a body like a taut rope. Her wrists are bruised from a desperate, inhuman grip. Drowned.
Seven feet tall, made of purple smoke. Gender obscure or null. Failed to be.
Kind and gentle. Froze to death.
Parchment paper skin revealing networks of veins. Nose shallow, flat to face. Blood shifts colour to match the mood of the closest observer. Beaten by a mob.
Young. A soot-stained face & a ratskin coat. Missing three fingers on his right hand. Hanged.
A haggard and bent elder wielding delicate tools. Unloved marble in a threadbare cloak. A cold sneer stands indignant on a broken, bloated face. Strangled.

This last was its creator. The Mockingbird was the magnum opus of the reclusive chronologist Ebenhaezer Wight. Mistreated, it fled in pursuit of anything else. Wound up here. The Twins & Rahvd do not care for The Mockingbird. They do not appreciate the value of self-reflection and it has learned not to copy them. They tolerate it only because it can cook the seeds of the banyan roots with an artist’s talent. It likes to mimic Jacqeuse’s stumbling walk. Ur sometimes plays with the hanged boy.

ITS NATURE: Nervous and flighty, but can handily defend itself if made to. (1d6):

Arm reticulates out into a crystalline tier of needles wreathed around a core of blue, snarling flame.
Its jaw unhinges. Its throat glots wide. A larynx cannon fires, rupturing eardrums and bursting blood vessels in eyes. Hearts murmur. Synapses aneurize.
A sea of molecular bulbs flash in silent sync. All unwary creatures are blinded for 1d8 rounds. Doubled in especially dark places.
Claw, fang, talon, sting. No form. Only lethal function. The eye recoils at the cyclonic, feral mass.
The blade given purpose. Gleaming and elegant death.
Hexes flutter with hummingbird speed. It disappears into its background, a seamless camouflage. They never stood a chance.

ITS CRAW: Holds a handful of treasures, only disgorged to admire when alone: A silken glove and embroidered lace handkerchief, a coin with a hole through it, a frozen tear, a yellow glass eye identical to its own.

ITS DREAM: Every night the same. It lies unborn in the hollow of a smooth black stone. It is going somewhere; nears its destination. Before it arrives, it wakes. This is frustrating. It does not understand.

Another one of these down, one more to go. I really like Mockingbird, they’re fun to play. I guess its kinda my idea of what Bumblebee should have been. More of a pet than a friend? Also just a clockwork Kenku, I guess.

TL

ART

Memnographic Shelf by Robert Allen Burns

Death Grip by Robert Allen Burns

WRITTEN TO THE TUNE OF

Thierry Zaboitzeff—Prométhée

Hella—Hold Your Horse Is