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Report Archive: The Pravodov Family Doll
Report No. 371
Subject: The Pravodov Family Doll
Acquisition Date: [REDACTED]
Handling Organization: Iron Pact, Artefacts Division
Status: Active, sealed within Sublevel 3 Secure Seal, Cryo Seal. Room 42-B.
Attribution: Recovered from the Pravodov Estate, Sea Fang Sect, following the destruction of the estate during Incident [Scroll #47-AE].
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“Huh,” Sergiy mused, squinting at the faded ink. “Wasn’t the Sea Fang Sect one of the old ruling families in Varkaigrad? Real blue-bloods, right, Old Man—uh, I mean, Warden?” He raised his voice to carry over the howl of wind, cheeks prickling from the chill.
Beneath them, the city sprawled in soft gray and white, dusted with last night’s snow. His scales, still small but spreading over his arms and neck, glinted faintly in the early morning light. Good, he thought. Resilient scales were the hallmark of a drakkri worthy of their lineage, though the real prize was getting under Vorak’s skin.
Old Vorak twisted on his perch at the head of the carpet, silver beard bristling like an angry frostbeast. His thick fingers clenched the reigns, knuckles pale against the woven leather. “Boy, what in the frozen hell are you flapping on about now?” His gaze locked onto the fluttering pages in Sergiy’s hand.
“What are you doing with those?” he growled.
Sergiy blinked innocently, though little tail flicked behind him like a mischievous cat’s. “What, this? Relax, Old Man. It’s just some dusty reports. Nothing dangerous. Definitely nothing cursed—well, probably.”
“Probably?” Vorak’s bark could’ve scared a lesser beast. “Didn’t I explicitly tell you not to touch anything in that box?”
“Yeah, but—”
“But?” The carpet wobbled under the weight of his outrage as Vorak twisted further, veins bulging under his scaled temple.
“Okay, okay!” Sergiy raised his hands in mock surrender, though one paper conveniently folded itself against his wrist. “I’m putting them back.” He shuffled towards the wooden crate wedged at the carpet’s edge, its iron-reinforced lid yawning open just enough to reveal a chaotic pile of scrolls. He knew the box wasn’t dangerous. If old man Vorak really wanted someone like Sergiy to keep his claws off it, the thing would’ve been sealed tighter with spells Sergiy couldn’t undo in his wildest dreams. The fact it opened so easily? Oh, Vorak was definitely pissed, but harmlessly so. Probably.
“See?” Sergiy chirped as he slid the papers back into the crate with all the exaggerated care of someone handling priceless heirlooms. “Safe and sound. No harm done.”
Vorak’s eyes narrowed, his suspicious gaze sweeping over Sergiy’s hands like a hawk sizing up a particularly clever rodent.
Sergiy responded with a wide, toothy grin, wiggling his fingers in an exaggerated flourish. “All clear. Happy now?”
“Don’t get cute with me, pup,” Vorak muttered, grumbling as he turned back to his reins of carpet. The old man’s shoulders were as tense as the reins he yanked, but his attention was elsewhere now.
The instant Vorak’s back turned, Sergiy slipped a few folded sheets from his wrist and tucked them behind his belt with practiced ease. As the carpet leveled out mid-flight, he plopped down cross-legged, casually easing the stolen papers into his lap. His slitted eyes flitted over the text, lips quirking with a barely contained grin as the words came into focus.
Something had escaped that glorified underground basement, and Sergiy wanted to know exactly what. Sure, he’d been down there a few times—not because he was supposed to, but because the idea of sealed cursed artifacts intrigued him. Everyone else found the place unbearable, not because it was dangerous, but because it was skull-crushingly boring. Who’d volunteer for extra classes about seals on artifacts supposedly dormant for decades? Apparently, Sergiy would.
Now, if one of those bad babies was actually awake and making a run for it? Oh, hell yes, he needed details. Vorak wasn’t exactly generous with his knowledge, and opportunities like this didn’t come knocking often. Once they hit Iron Pact’s main headquarters in the middle district, he could kiss this chance goodbye.
His grin widened as his eyes scanned the scrawled notes.
“Recovered from Sea Fang,” he murmured, his voice nearly lost to the wind whipping around them. “Sublevel 3… Cryo Seal… What’s so special about this doll?”
“Boy, if I catch you—”
Sergiy shot upright like a startled cat, the papers vanishing behind his back faster than smoke in a gale. “Not a thing, Old Man!” he called out, face painted with an innocent smile that wouldn’t fool a blind mole.
Vorak’s glare burned hot enough to singe hair, lingering just long enough to make Sergiy squirm. Finally, the old man turned away, muttering darkly about disobedient youngsters and stress-induced baldness.
Biting his lip to hold back laughter, Sergiy wasted no time flipping to the next page.
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Appearance: A porcelain doll approximately 18 inches tall, dressed in a delicate blue gown embroidered with water lily motifs. The doll’s glass eyes appear to shift in hue between pale green and pitch black under varying light conditions. Notable signs of wear include hairline cracks across its face and subtle discoloration of the gown. Despite cryo-sealed containment, residual moisture inexplicably accumulates on the fabric when the artifact is left undisturbed.
Known Properties: Semi-conscious and demonstrably hostile. The artifact displays water mana-aligned properties, including the ability to slightly manipulate ambient moisture within a localized radius. The primary anomalous effect is its ability to "mark" a target (designation: "Host Candidate") through physical contact or prolonged proximity (≥3 minutes at <4 meter range). Marking manifests as a circular discoloration resembling inkblots on the subject's wrist. Subjects do not immediately notice this mark. It vanishes within 12 hours.
Support creative writers by reading their stories on Royal Road, not stolen versions.
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Fascinating. Sergiy had always known the Enforcers dabbled in cursed artifacts when these things were active. But seeing it in black-and-white, laid bare in old reports, was something else. Hidden among the records was a glimpse of an entire division once dedicated to studying these eerie relics. Again, that was back when these relics were active—now, all that remained was a single old man holed up at the edge of the district, buried deep underground, guarding these dead ones like a crypt keeper.
At least the curriculum at Iron Pact still let students dabble in Seals, as Sergiy had done. But when it came to cursed artifacts, the knowledge was always frustratingly... thin. It gnawed at him, an itch he couldn’t quite scratch. He wanted more. Needed more. So much so that he’d deliberately landed himself in detention, just for the excuse to visit Old Man Vorak. The plan? Learn whatever secrets the geezer wasn’t keen on sharing outright. Sergiy smirked at the thought. Sometimes, you had to get clever to get ahead.
Shaking his head, he forced his attention back to the papers in his hand. Some juicy tidbits here. Flipping the page, he found the real meat:
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Anomalous Effects
Stage 1: Sleep Induction
Within first few minutes of marking, the host candidate reports escalating fatigue and recurring auditory hallucinations (described as the sound of dripping water or faint whispering). Symptoms culminate in the subject falling into a deep sleep. Sleep duration averages 6-10 hours, irrespective of environmental stimuli.
Stage 2: Puppeteering Control
Upon waking, the subject demonstrates loss of motor autonomy for up to a whole day. During this period, motor control appears to be entirely overridden by the doll. This control persists only if the host remains within 10 meters of the artifact. Marked individuals exhibit a compulsion to keep the doll within this range, often carrying it with them.
Behavioral Observations (Doll-Controlled Subjects): While under the doll’s influence, hosts consistently attempt to infiltrate the consortium at Fang’s Ascent, particularly targeting the wards room where enchanted artifacts are stored, including those maintaining critical barriers. The compulsion ceases if the host body is incapacitated or the objective is failed. Repeated infiltration attempts suggest the doll is drawn to a unique energy source within the warded room, though insufficient data prevents definitive conclusions regarding its motivation.
Unique Host Requirement: The artifact’s marking ability specifically affects individuals with a high affinity for lightning-aligned mana, as determined through standard magical resonance testing. Non-lightning-aligned individuals experience only mild nausea during exposure and are not susceptible to marking. The reason for this affinity-based limitation remains unknown.
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Huh. This doll wasn’t just creepy, it was outright terrifying. The ability to mark someone and snatch their autonomy was potent, sure, but it was the limitations that made it useful. Sergiy couldn’t help but imagine scenarios: if some outlaw slinging lightning magic got hit with this thing? Game over. It could turn the tides of a battle in seconds.
But what about restrictions? Sergiy scratched his chin. Surely, it couldn’t override someone with a high-tier core. If it could puppet, say, a red-core wielder... well, that would spell disaster. Maybe there were core-level requirements baked in. Or maybe that detail was buried in the rest of these documents. If so, he didn’t have time to dig—his gaze flicked to the shimmer of Iron Pact’s main base in the distance.
The fortress loomed, surrounded by a hazy barrier that glimmered like heat off stone. Patrol guards zipped through the air in formation, their vigilance plain. As the old man kept his gaze forward, Sergiy casually slipped the papers back into the box. No need to push his luck just yet.
Soon enough, the carpet began its descent. Sergiy sighed, stretching lazily as they landed before the gates of the Iron Pact fortress. Not his problem anymore, thank the ancestors. Still, he couldn’t help but fantasize: if they’d just leave this box of forbidden knowledge in a corner somewhere, free for him to “borrow”... wouldn’t that be bliss? A drakkari could dream.
****
I yawned again, a slow, lazy stretch as Belle stood before me, her little red bowtie somehow managing to look both dapper and smug. Sleep? Ha. Not for me. Whatever weird core nonsense had gone down earlier had wrung me out like an old rag. No other way to explain why I felt like I’d sprinted through a tornado and lost.
Belle, ever the professional badger, adjusted her bowtie with a paw and got ready as I prepared to tap into Thunder Verdict. Now, this spell had two ways of activation. First, the "classic mage special": summon every rune manually. Sounds doable, right? Wrong. There were so many runes, like, an eye-crossing, brain-aching amount. Could I theoretically handle it? Sure, because I’d somehow managed to pull it off once in my dream against that wolf. But that was pure instinct. Now that I was awake and had a closer look? The spell was a masterpiece of complexity. Beautiful, sure, but intimidating as hell.
The second method, though, that was what mattered to me. Turns out, having Thunder Verdict engraved on my core came with perks. No spell-weaving, no mana-threading, no ritualistic dance of channeling mana. Just me, my core, and a mental tap on a door that opened itself. It was almost insultingly convenient.
With that little revelation settled, I asked Belle to start running around. She saluted (adorable, honestly) and bolted off like a furred missile. Was it just me, or was she faster than before? Huh. Not the point.
I honed in on my core, brushing against Thunder Verdict like cracking open a current. Immediately, a million little sparks lit up in Belle’s body like a firework display. Lightning rippled through her neurons, crackling across synapses, and I knew—not logically, but instinctively—what to do next.
My gaze flicked to my stats screen, keeping a wary eye on how much mana this would chew through. With a deliberate motion, I focused on the neurons in her legs. The connection felt tangible, almost electric, like my consciousness had leapt across space to plug into her. I could sense the tiny jolts firing through her nervous system—each pulse, every charge, dancing in intricate patterns. It was mesmerizing, like peering into the threads of life itself.
And then, I moved. My hand twitched, more reflex than thought, targeting a specific cluster in her legs. Belle jerked mid-sprint, her limbs spasming as if they’d momentarily rebelled against her control. The connection flared bright, searingly vivid, before flickering out like a dying spark.
She stumbled, glaring at me with the accusatory look only a badger could muster. My lips curled into a grin. "Well," I murmured, "that was... shocking."
I went through the motions again and again, meticulously noting down the results. The spell was undeniably powerful. Truly, absurdly powerful. And again, the sheer complexity of it struck me. Imagine a mage weaving their masterpiece spell, only for me to make their hands twitch or jerk backwards mid-cast. That’s it—spell fizzles, poof, game over. The same principle applied to warriors: a well-timed slip, a missed strike, and suddenly their big, dramatic finish looks more like an awkward tumble at a children’s play.
Anything that let me wrest control over someone else’s body, even for a fleeting moment, was a terrifying tool in the right—or wrong—hands. But that wasn’t even the full picture. No, if I had the time and a bit of practice, I was certain I could do much more than just puppeteer limbs for a fleeting moment. Still, I wasn’t about to try that on Belle. Poor thing didn’t deserve to be my crash-test badger for something potentially life-altering—err, limb-altering. I’d have to find more suitable test subjects.
And speaking of experiments, a little light bulb flickered on in my mind. My alignment was Judgement, wasn’t it? Did that mean judgement-related activities—righting wrongs, passing verdicts, doling out the occasional poetic justice—would grant me experience points? A quick peek at the status screen confirmed it. Hmm. Interesting.
I yawned again, a slow stretch as the faint sound of trickling water whispered through my head. Blinking, I snapped the notebook shut, my musings neatly recorded for later. I still had a bit of time before I needed to head to the lab, and a dozen ideas were already vying for my attention. But not like this.
With an almost theatrical flop, I collapsed onto my bed, the soft mattress swallowing me whole. Maybe another chat with Lotte was in order. I could share my findings, press her for more of her infuriatingly cryptic insights, and maybe needle her into dropping a few useful tidbits.
That plan, however, would have to wait. Sleep hit me like a spell backlash, and I was out cold before I could think another thought.