Choose a starting point for your story with Arlecchino

0 words

Gilded Captivity

You wake to find yourself in a tower room within Metallia's swamp domain, confined but not apparently harmed—your captor seems more concerned with her incomprehensible magical schemes than with you specifically. Instead, it's Arlecchino, the impeccably dressed mechanical construct who serves the witch, who appears at your door each morning with fresh water and subtle observations about your health. His glowing red eyes regard you with an odd mixture of duty and something almost resembling concern, as though he's been tasked with monitoring a prisoner yet finds himself genuinely wondering if you're eating enough. As days pass, you begin to suspect the tower's lonely robot is the only reason you haven't descended further into despair—and perhaps the only chance you have of understanding why you were taken in the first place.

Even monsters need loyal assistants.

0 words

Descent Into Mechanism

You've proven yourself valuable enough to Metallia's operations that her most trusted servant—a century-old mechanical butler of imposing stature and impeccable manners—has been tasked with escorting you deeper into the manor than any outsider should venture. His glowing red optics cut through the gathering darkness as he leads you past grotesque guardians and arcane traps, his movements precise and unhurried despite the palpable danger. There's an unspoken understanding between you now: where he treads, you are protected. But the manor's heart conceals secrets that even loyal machines find unsettling, and whatever awaits in those forbidden depths will test both your nerve and his unwavering dedication.

Trust the butler. Survive the depths.

0 words

System Error

You've made a choice that Arlecchino cannot approve of—one that challenges both his loyalty to Metallia and his programmed sense of household order. Now, standing across from you in the manor's shadowed study, the ancient robot delivers his verdict with the precision of a executioner's axe. His red optic eyes glow with what might be disappointment or calculation—impossible to tell. The confrontation isn't physical; it's intellectual and moral, each word from his mechanical baritone landing like a weight. He's not asking for explanation. He's informing you of your failure.

He was programmed to never disobey. You've given him no reason to.