Floor Sweepers - By BB13

so the snippet/ idea
The albatross, the shard of anthem. The creepy zombie voicebox gal. I admit i'm not up to date with ethnis so I dunno if you've used any of the old ideas regarding her/ she's still a thing but here's my thought: "Floor sweepers" are some of her 'beads'. Charms were important/ had character, beads were disposable. All were strung along. [12:01 AM] BB13: ---------------------
The ruins were cathedralesque. Their tall, imposing visage a splayed dirty hand. Their spires clawing at the sky like decrepit fingers on a horrid little world. Like the hand of a god reaching up to smite and grab and any sophont unlucky to enter atmo. But under those ruins, far from the lights and music of the ever-carnival were the warrens. Underground buildings, ruins, passageways, and crawlspaces. Places the free sophonts of the world could miser out a living and hiding like rats beneath the refuse of the Albatross's fiefdom. The seemingly world-spanning underground underneath the ruins of the old world. Carved from sunken buildings, basements, and bunkers. A maze promising relative safety from above, but with dangers around every corner.
The survivor, some poor fucking sophont, was battered and wounded. They were lucky the resistance had found them after they crashed. A lone ranger forcing a pair of anti-mesmer goggles on them before pushing them underground. What had followed was short, quiet explainations, hushed whispers, and an hours long, painful scramble away from monsters, sound, and the outdoors itself. They had paused for a moment, the ranger darting through a hidden door and pulling her in. The door closing noiselessly behind them and locking on oiled hinges. The slow eddy and current of air cut off and silenced. The room itself, though the term was generous, was akin to sound proofed dirt broom-closet falling off a cliff. The door they closed was angled like a cellar door and the room itself spiraled down into the dirt, hand-hewn and reinforced. [12:02 AM] BB13: . They took a moment to breath. Few words were shared. The survivor was in pain, her wound was deep and the ranger was already unsure of their odds. Worse still they'd had to take this side tunnel because something was behind them. An ear to the door told them it was still 'out there' somewhere behind them. A low warbling and huffing. Heavy footfalls. Pacing somewhere in the distance. They didn't have time to wait. And they couldn't go the way the ranger had planned. This left them at an impass. They had to get back soon. Not just for the survivors' sake but simply because the world itself was out to get them and anyone else.
They had to go deeper. The ranger let the survivor catch her breath, grit her teeth, and guided her down the spiral of dirt to another door. They moved quietly in the dark. Their goggles illuminating the darkness ever so slightly for themselves as the dirt gave way once again to concrete and rubble. Careful footsteps were taken lest a rock shift noisily and something come barreling down the tunnel. They could have taken any number of turns but they pushed forward. The ranger having tread this path before
The going slowed, the survivor's breaths grew more ragged from exertion until the tunnel oppened up. The ranger was relieved. An underground ampetheater, skylight smuged and dirty, several panes missing and letting in weather and air. The floor and seats long rotted and pushed aside. The space was pleasantly quiet at first. Light and air pleasant after the stagnance of tunnel-crawling. That was untill the ranger expertly stifled a swear. And pushed the survivor down. A quizical look lead the ranger to motion over pressing their dirty lips to a blood soaked ear. The barest of audible whispers was passed. (edited) [12:02 AM] BB13: . "Floor sweepers. They look up. Keep low."
The survivor gave a gulp of fear as the ranger lead them along the balcony wall to a pillar for the survivor to get a look.
The wretches before her in the ampitheater were mockeries of human form. Limbs splayed and broken. Entrails removed and voiceboxes implanted. Like most of the Albatross's works they were horrible. But what set them apart was their necks and mouths. Their heads were thrust back so the eyes angled up and skyward. In place of a mouth, jaw, and even neck was a speaker. What was meant for singing the shard's songs was broken. And all puppets that were broken had their strings cut. So they stood. Idling or shuffling about in the ampitheater. Eyes turned skyward, unable to look down with their fused spines. Back and forth they shuffled aimlessly. Bloody feet, shoes, boots. all kicked any debris from the overworld to the sides of the room. a smooth floor marred only by dirt and blood was under their feet.
The survivor leaned in: "Why are they like that?" "So they can worship the Albatross with their eyes and voices. These are discarded. Weren't here a week ago." "They were people?" "Best not dwell on it. We need to go down there." "Why!?" The survivor's voice almost cracked in the ranger's ear and from the corner of their eye the ranger's blood ran cold, sure one of the floor-sweepers caught sight of them. It however shuffled on and the ranger spoke softly
"Door is ground floor. Stairs are over here. Keep close to the ground and avoid their feet." "I can't crawl. I'm wounded." "Then grit your teeth or stay here. We need to move."

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