Over the next few weeks, Aubrey—using the Facsimile Mask to pose as a young woman named Lark—visited various establishments in the Ironworks, eavesdropping on conversations, seeking out any hints or clues regarding Blackwell's business and any potential weaknesses that she could exploit.

She also befriended some of the factory workers and inquired about their working conditions and grievances. She learned that most of them worked long hours for very little pay, with most of the profits lining Blackwell's pockets.

One afternoon, she stumbled upon a group of workers gathered in a nearby alleyway, discussing their dissatisfaction with Blackwell and his treatment of them.

"I can't believe he expects us to work for nothing!" one worker exclaimed. "He pays us only fifteen shillings for a long week's work. I can barely afford to feed my family!"

"I hear he's planning to cut our wages next month," another chimed in. "Can't wait to see what happens when the union hears about this."

Another scoffed. "The union's useless. They haven't done anything for us in months."

"Maybe Lark could do something about it," a fourth worker suggested. "She seems like the type that would stick it to those rich bastards."

At the mention of her name (or pseudonym), Aubrey decided to interject herself into the conversation. She'd been practicing her dialect and slang to keep in line with the factory worker persona.

"Well now, it seems to me that someone's gotta teach ol' Mister Blackwell a lesson about treating his workers right," she declared, putting on her best cockney accent as she stepped into the circle of disgruntled workers.

"Lark!" the workers exclaimed. "Just the person we wanted to see!"

Aubrey folded her arms across her chest. "Well then, what's the matter, boys?"

"Blackwell's gonna cut our wages next month," one of the workers informed her. "Can't believe the bloody bastard thinks he can do that to us!"

"So what if he does?" Aubrey challenged. "What's stopping us from taking matters into our own hands?"

A murmur of confusion rippled through the crowd. "What do you mean?" one of them asked.

"I mean," Aubrey replied, leaning in conspiratorially, "if the union is that incompetent, why don't we take matters into our own hands and go on strike? Show him that we're not just going to roll over and take it anymore."

"What about the constabulary?" one of the workers pointed out. "They ain't gonna take kindly to that sorta thing."

"Don't worry about them," Aubrey reassured the group. "They can't touch us if we stick together and organize. Besides," she added with a grin, "what's the worst that could happen? Would they jail hundreds of hungry, angry workers all fighting for a decent wage? I don't think so."

This seemed to spur on the workers, who all began voicing their agreement. "Right!" one of them agreed. "They can't stop us if we stand up together!"

"That's the spirit!" Aubrey cheered. "Now go on home and tell your mates about what I've told ye. Elect a leader who'll speak for us all. Don't vote for me—I'm just a woman. Choose a man who's strong and charismatic. Someone who'll inspire ye and lead ye to victory. Go on, git! Pass the word to other factories as well. Remember. United we stand. Divided we fall."

"RIGHT!" the workers all echoed. "Come on, lads! Let's go tell the others!"

And with that, the group of workers dispersed, leaving Aubrey alone in the alleyway. As she watched them go, she couldn't help but smile to herself.

That went even better than expected. Now if she could just keep that momentum going...

With that thought in mind, she hurried off to go find the next group of disgruntled workers and repeat the process.

----------------------------------------

The following day, while loitering outside the factories and listening in on gossip and complaints, Aubrey overheard a group of workers discussing a special concert that would be held in a private Blackwell-owned theater.

"Did ye hear?" one worker exclaimed. "There's a concert comin' up soon. Top-notch singer and all that. Bet it's a load o' rubbish."

"I dunno," his companion replied. "Sounds a bit interesting. Wonder if she's better than the late prima donna Lady Aubrey. Don't s'pose anyone could replace 'er."

"Not likely," the third worker interjected. "Nobody's got the voice or the charisma like Aubrey did. Still miss 'er."

"Aye," the fourth agreed. "Shame the poor lass passed away. Still, Blackwell's trying 'is hardest to replace 'er, it seems."

"Eh, well, good luck with that," the second worker retorted. "Aubrey was one in a million. Ye can't just replace someone like that."

While the workers continued their discussion, Aubrey listened intently. This could be an opportunity to infiltrate Blackwell's theater and maybe learn something more about his plans.

As the workers finished their conversation and went their separate ways, Aubrey tailed the second worker. Once the crowd had thinned somewhat, she approached him and called out, "Excuse me, mate, but did I 'ear ye say that there's a concert coming up soon?"

The worker turned around and eyed her suspiciously. "Aye," he replied. "What's it to ye?"

"Oh, nothin'," Aubrey replied casually. "Jus' curious, is all. Mind tellin' me the details?"

The worker narrowed his eyes. "Who's askin'?"

Aubrey thought quickly. "Lark's the name. Jus' a fan of concerts, that's all."

The worker studied her for a moment and then seemed to relax somewhat. "Oh, alright then," he acquiesced. "Seems Blackwell's puttin' on a concert featuring some new singer. Supposed to be real good. Tickets are goin' for a pretty penny. Five sovereigns a seat. Can ye believe it?"

"Blimey," Aubrey feigned surprise. "Must be a good singer."

"Aye," the worker scoffed. "Or a real phony. Ye can never tell these days."

"Too true," Aubrey agreed. "Oh. I heard yer friend mention that the songstress died recently. That true?"

The worker frowned. "Aye," he confirmed. "A real tragedy. Lady Aubrey's songs have inspired thousands. Will never 'ear the likes of 'em again."

"Know what she died from? If ye don't mind me asking." Aubrey probed.

"Word on the street is she 'anged 'erself," the worker informed her. "Can't say I'm surprised. Working for Blackwell must've taken its toll."

Aubrey pretended to be shocked. "Suicide?" she gasped. "That's terrible!"

"Aye," the worker commiserated. "Tragic end to a talented lady. Rest her soul."

Aubrey shook her head, feigning sadness. "Terrible," she repeated. "Well, thanks for the info, mate. Cheerio."

With that, Aubrey bade the worker farewell and made her way back to the cathedral. As she walked, she couldn't help but smirk.

Five sovereign tickets, huh? That's an awful lot of coin. Blackwell must really think his new singer is something. Time to crash the party and find out...

As Aubrey strolled down the cobblestone streets, a stray memory tickled the back of her mind. She froze and closed her eyes, allowing the recollection to wash over her—Blackwell's private theater.

A grandiose building nestled in the south quadrant of the Gildenfaire district. Aubrey had frequented it many times to perform for Blackwell's lavish parties. Its interior was an architectural masterpiece—marble columns, ornate murals, and plush velvet seats.

Its stage was equally impressive. Aubrey had spent countless nights rehearsing and perfecting her craft. She remembered the smell of sawdust and the feel of the velvet curtains brushing past her fingertips.

Most of all, she remembered the thrill of standing center stage, looking out at an audience filled with Blackwell's powerful and influential guests. Their approval meant everything to her.

And now Blackwell was using that same theater to host a concert starring his new singer.

Aubrey balled her fists and gritted her teeth as a surge of fury washed over her—the same feeling of rage that proliferated after climbing out of her grave, and again when those graverobbers attacked her. The feeling almost felt alien, as if it belonged to someone else.

This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

But no—it was all Aubrey's. She was angry. Angry at Blackwell for profiting off her legacy and replacing her so easily. Angry at the world for moving on without her.

Most of all, Aubrey was angry at herself for dying.

She had a concert to crash.

----------------------------------------

Over the next few days, Aubrey scoped out the theater and formulated her plan. She learned that Blackwell's new songstress had scheduled multiple rehearsals daily, and that the venue's security was surprisingly lax. Aubrey recalled the layout—an expansive entrance hall, a ticket booth, and a single door leading to the main auditorium. The guards posted in front of the door allowed attendees to enter once they presented their tickets.

After analyzing the situation for a day or two and observing the guards' patterns, Aubrey identified an opportunity to sneak in and observe the rehearsal.

The new songstress had jet-black hair styled into a messy pixie cut and piercing blue eyes. Aubrey could tell she was a looker, with high cheekbones and a sculpted jaw. However, her facial expressions and body language betrayed a sense of insecurity or doubt.

Aubrey remained concealed behind a curtain at the back of the theater, watching the new songstress rehearse her set. She had to admit—the girl had a decent voice. Not nearly as good as hers, but she could hold a tune.

However, despite her striking looks and her technical prowess, her performance lacked authenticity and emotional depth. Aubrey couldn't quite put her finger on it, but there was something missing. Something that Aubrey herself had mastered—the ability to connect with her audience and evoke a raw emotional response.

As the songstress wrapped up her rehearsal and exited the stage, Aubrey couldn't help but smirk to herself. Blackwell had found himself a knockoff Aubrey—good-looking and technically proficient but ultimately lacking the charisma and star power of the real deal.

But with a little training and coaching, the girl could potentially develop into a formidable rival. Aubrey had to admit—she admired the girl's ambition. Whoever Blackwell had hired to train and mentor her clearly knew their stuff.

Backstage, the songstress—whom Aubrey discovered her name was Lucille—practiced a piece of sheet music in a secluded room. Aubrey hid behind a rack of costumes and observed her quietly.

Lucille's brow furrowed as she struggled to hit the higher notes. Frustrated, she crumpled up the sheet music and threw it aside.

"Dammit!" she swore.

Aubrey detected a tremor of sadness or doubt in the girl's voice.

Lucille sighed and composed herself before starting again. The song flowed more smoothly this time. Still, Aubrey noted a distinct lack of passion or emotion in the girl's voice. It sounded mechanical and flat—like a well-oiled machine rather than a living, breathing performer.

Blackwell's songstress struggled with an A6 riff. Each time she attempted the note, she seemed to lose her voice and veered off-key. The repeated failures sparked another wave of anger and frustration.

This was who you replaced me with? A mere knock-off with no passion or emotional depth?

The girl took a deep breath and tried again. Aubrey leaned in close, hoping to observe some small measure of improvement or progress. Instead, Lucille lost control, and her voice broke, devolving into a strained screech.

This girl might be attractive. She might possess the technical skill, but she didn't have what Aubrey had—emotional authenticity. The girl wasn't living the song—she was just singing it.

The thought of this pale imitation becoming Blackwell's star attraction sent another wave of rage through Aubrey's veins. The familiar surge of supernatural power flared to life deep within her. She remained quiet, resisting the urge to lash out. She clenched her fists and balled her hands until her fingernails dug into the palm of her flesh.

Yet... as Aubrey watched Lucille practice her craft, her rage subsided somewhat, replaced by a mixture of admiration and pity. Despite her lack of natural talent and raw charisma, the songstress' effort and passion spoke volumes. The girl clearly wanted this—wanted to succeed. Aubrey had experienced that same feeling—the desire to pursue her dream at all costs and against all odds.

She resisted the urge to step out from her hiding place and offer advice. Instead, she silently watched the songstress attempt the piece again, struggling to hit the difficult passages.

After a few more tries, Lucille gave up, sighing and rubbing her temples in exhaustion.

Aubrey empathized—she remembered the countless hours she spent rehearsing and perfecting her own repertoire. It took years of dedication and hard work to achieve the mastery and technical proficiency that she had. Lucille, on the other hand, clearly lacked Aubrey's natural talent and vocal gift.

Still, Aubrey couldn't fault her. Everyone had their strengths and weaknesses.

After a few moments, Lucille collected herself and exited the room. Aubrey slipped out of her hiding place and followed her, noting the songstress's bodyguards and minders trailing closely behind.

As Lucille exited the theater, Aubrey tailed her and trailed her from a distance. Lucille's guards remained vigilant, their gazes constantly scanning their surroundings for any sign of danger or threat. Aubrey stuck to the shadows and obscured herself from view.

Lucille entered a carriage drawn by a pair of horses and shut the door behind her. Aubrey noted the Blackwell's Theater logo printed on the carriage's side. Before the carriage rolled away, Aubrey caught a glimpse of Lucille gazing out the window, looking rather despondent and disheartened.

Aubrey lingered outside the theater for a few minutes longer before returning to the cathedral.

----------------------------------------

Later that night, Aubrey awoke from her bed in cold sweat. Fragmented nightmares had plagued her sleep—images of her hanging from a noose and crowds of faceless strangers laughing and jeering at her. She shivered and clutched the sheets tightly.

Aubrey forced herself out of bed and paced the cathedral's corridors. A cool draft caressed her skin, easing her nerves somewhat.

As she wandered aimlessly, Aubrey encountered Thaddeus and Cedric hunched over a table. Intrigued, she approached and investigated.

"Thaddy. Ceddy. What's that you've got there?" Aubrey peered over Thaddeus' brass shoulder and examined the table's contents—a mess of gears and cogs strewn about.

"Apologies," Thaddeus addressed her. "Art something amiss Aubrey. Observe thy facial expression. Distressed. Conflicted. Care to elucidate the nature of thine inquiry."

"Nightmares," Aubrey divulged. "Bad dreams. Keeping me up."

Cedric turned his granite craggy face towards her. "Need to talk about it Aubrey?"

"Nah. Forget it." Aubrey dismissed the notion. Better not bother them with her trivial problems. They had their own stuff to deal with.

"Very well Aubrey," Thaddeus complied.

"Anyway," Aubrey changed the topic. "Mind telling me what you guys are working on?"

Cedric gestured towards the mess of gears. "Building a clockwork automaton," he explained. "Thaddeus' idea."

"Clockwork automaton?" Aubrey echoed.

"Affirmative Aubrey," Thaddeus elaborated, pointing his brass digits towards the pile of clockwork and mechanical parts. "A mechanical construct capable of basic functions. Unlike myself, this automaton shall not possess the sentience or free will granted unto me via forbidden eldritch knowledge. Instead, this automaton shall simply operate based on its programmed functions. Much akin to a puppet, controlled by its puppeteer."

"So, like those Gearbound Constables?"

"Similar," Thaddeus clarified. "Though the Gearbound Constables possess greater levels of autonomy and independent processing. Wherefore this automaton's programming shall restrict its functionality to basic tasks."

"Such as..." Aubrey probed.

"Cleaning. Mechanical assembly. Servitude."

"Huh," Aubrey appraised the components. Looked like a jumbled mess. Hard to imagine how they'd construct an automaton from them. "Looks complicated."

"Quite," Thaddeus corroborated. "Though Cedric's assistance hath facilitated the procedure. His dexterous granite extremities have proved most beneficial in assembling the smaller mechanisms."

"Sweet. Need any help?"

Cedric rejected Aubrey's offer. "No. You should get some rest Aubrey. We'll handle it."

"Sure." Aubrey acquiesced. Best not interfere or distract them.

Thaddeus waved his hand. "Goodnight Aubrey."

"Night—oh, wait... where's Liza?"

"Presently out and about. Procuring sustenance and nourishment."

Ah. That time of the month.

Unlike Aubrey's weekly need to consume strong emotions, Liza fed more infrequently, but required her to consume the vitality of a few people per feeding session. Hence her monthly excursions.

Aubrey had since grown accustomed to killing and watching people die. Didn't bother her anymore. Maybe being a revenant or banshee numbed or desensitized her. Or maybe most of her morality and empathy lay in the ether somewhere along with most of her memories. Either way, Aubrey didn't fret or mourn the loss.

Didn't change the fact she enjoyed singing and performing. Just happened that murder and violence factored into the equation.

Aubrey retired to her quarters and attempted to sleep. Tossed and turned. After an hour or so of struggle, Aubrey resigned to her fate. Insomnia. Splendid.

A stray System notification pinged.

[You still have unspent talent and ability points remaining]

[You have two attributes you can increase by one grade]

Oh yeah... forgot about that. Might as well invest in them now and pick ones that would help with the upcoming infiltration.

After scrolling through the lists, Aubrey allocated her talent and ability points accordingly.

[Genesis of the Illusive Mirage (Fugue Journey, Tier 1, active skill): Creates a basic decoy to distract enemies, drawing their attention away from the user; Duration: 12 seconds; Cooldown: 20 seconds]

[Vault Over the Augmented Bounds (Fugue Journey, Tier 2, Passive Skill): Improves jump height and distance, enabling access to vantage points or quick retreats.]

[Dance of the Marionette (Banshee's Aria, Tier 2, Active Ability): Forces up to three enemies within twenty meters to move according to the Banshee's whims, leaving them vulnerable; Duration: 15 seconds; Cooldown: 45 seconds]

[Mood-Enducing Cantata (Banshee’s Aria, Tier 2, Active Ability): Banshees can use their voices to create a cantata that induces a variety of moods in listeners. When singing this cantata, the effects on the audience can range anywhere between calmness and rage. It can be a calming song to prevent hostility, a market song to induce trade, an energetic song to evoke creativity and spontaneity, and so on; Duration: 240 seconds; Cooldown: 480 seconds.]

Lastly, Aubrey allocated her attribute grades—increasing her Resonance and Riff attributes by one grade each.

[Increasing your Resonance attribute boots the reach and magnitude of skills and abilities that buff and debuff targets.]

[Increasing your Riff attribute decreases the cooldown of skills and abilities, and increases your critical chance as well as the success rate of skill-cancels to provide beneficial effects.]

[Name: Aubrey]

[Race: Revenant]

[Variant: Banshee]

[Rank: Moderato]

[Attribute: Grade]

[Tempo: D]

[Dynamics: B]

[Timbre: D]

[Pitch: C]

[Harmony: E]

[Resonance: D] ⇧

[Cadence: D]

[Riff: D] ⇧

"Sweet. Done and dusted," Aubrey approved. Excellent upgrades.

With her talent and ability points allocated and her attributes enhanced, Aubrey reclined in bed, staring vacantly at the cathedral's decrepit ceiling.

Insomnia sucked.