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A Treatise On Magick Part 2

So when I miss a day of posting, it’s a terrible event and I have to post the next day. When Derek does it, he gets to write it off as “thesis prep.” Seem fair? I don’t think so either. I’ll be sure to drop a box during his move next week to protest this inequality in our posting expectations. That’ll show him! I may even jangle some hangers!

In the meanwhile, I’ll continue posting about the development of my magic system for my first novel. I actually did a short excerpt as some notes to myself between drafts. My original intention had been to post that but I got a tad long winded during Part 1. So here’s the first bit.

Wauters-Emile-Charles-Scholar_at_the_Table

Scholar at the Table by Wauters Emile Charles

A Treatise on Magick

by Scholar Henrik Wulfgang

It is a fact that the primeval energy of the cosmos flows through all things. Within each object, each natural item beats the softest drum of the universe’s heart. The vibrations from these essences can be felt through the natural aether that buoys all objects. A trained mind can perceive these vibrations, can sense their differing frequencies and react with them.

This is the core principle of magick. It requires the carefully trained and honed senses of the practitioner to navigate the aether and its cacophony of noise to pinpoint the source of certain frequencies. A trained practitioner recognizes the very same frequencies that they, themselves, project and learn to focus and manipulate their own projections in order to funnel the natural energies through the aether to produce the desired results. In this manner, a practitioner could funnel the heat energy of a flame into a focused concentration around the reactive energy of another object to create a spontaneous combustion.

However, it requires more than just mere concentration of one’s own energy to manipulate the aether. Due to man’s natural own peculiarities in their own projections, they cause certain repeatable contaminations to different sources which either interfere with their channelling or mutate it into a wholly different form through a process known as transmutation.

It is this mixing of different energies that gave rise to the classification of different magicks and to the development of the glamours in particular. It seems that man’s higher cognitive functioning often transforms even the basest and wildest energies into a subtle perceptual form. It is the belief of this scholar that human energy contains within it a certain higher quintessence that has a profound energizing effect upon most energies. This excites the energy frequencies, causing them to work on a higher level output. While this would create a diffusion of concentrated power, this scholar feels it is a more pure and divine creation that turns even the rawest energy form into something more sophisticated.

Human channelled energies can thusly be a vivid representation of their primal forms but to be elevated to such a level that they no longer possess the entropic qualities of their previous sources. Simply put, human transformed energy is insubstantial. It is more cerebral. It works on a perceptive level while being channelled harmlessly on a physical sense. A human practitioner can turn the raw fiery essence of heat into a blinding conflagration to the senses but leave the actual natural world unaffected by the energies. It turns highly reactive substances and makes them inert. It makes even the most languid of energies fluid and flowing.

These are what the laymen call illusions. Because these energies lack a lasting impact, they are under the impression that the energy never truly existed in the first place. This is incorrect. Energy always exists within the aether, it is just the manipulation of that energy that creates the different effects. Essentially, man can move the energies about the aether of their own accord regardless of the natural frictions inherent in the rest of the essences.

Because of man’s natural affinity to the production of glamours, these techniques are typically the first taught to the initiates. While it takes a tremendous amount of skill and at least some creativity to form these glamours into the most remarkable forms witnessed, the basic glamours are quite easy for beginning initiates to grasp. One need only to step into the classroom to hear the phantom sounds of the beginner effortlessly ringing about the hall to understand our own natural affinities.

This scholar believes the reason for this affinity is due, in part, to man’s highly developed social sense. Few animals appear to possess the natural tendency to perceive and interact with high order social structures and these complex relationships are wholly unfeasible in lower based life. Quite often, the status and rank of a member is determined by almost imperceptible cues and indicators and, as such, our minds are primed to attentiveness for these subtle elements. It is in manipulating this natural propensity that a practitioner can trigger the most subtle of man’s perceptions and play into his natural biases.

While glamours may be the most common, they are certainly not the only skill to be taught. The second classification of magick arose through the manipulation and experimentation of various other substances.

Wards are based on the unmoving energies of rocks and earth. While man has a very transient energy, earth does not. It is this immovability, this unyielding force that gave rise to the development of the wards. These are, perhaps, the sorcerer’s most famous abilities. These are static, focused fields that require a physical sourced anchor. The first wards were protective, creating fields that would alert the practitioner to any outside influence that disturbed its natural order.

However, through the careful application of transmutation, wards could be created to produce just about anything. Most remarkable are the anti-magick wards. These incredibly powerful fields dampen and restrict the flow of aether through their area. Most will weaken the abilities of a sorcerer within, reducing the amount of energy they can channel from all sources. The most powerful, however, can reduce the movement of energy so much that a sorcerer can find that he is just unable to channel enough energy to produce any magickal effect at all!

As with all magicks, the advancement of the knowledge on wards came through the creative use of their energies. Some sorcerers were able to create small, inverted fields that rippled within the aether at such a frequency that they could be tracked far further than one could naturally. Other fields flow through the natural energies of their areas that they can accurately reproduce any changes within, allowing a sorcerer to sense all activity within its area.

The final field of magickal inquiry is in the charm classification. The most recent magickal discovery, through the application of advanced channelling techniques, many prominent scholars have demonstrated that the natural energies of items can be increased or decreased if properly admixed with similar or opposing energies. Thus, a sorcerer could physically turn a small flame into a roaring blaze or turn the strike of a thunderbolt into the most harmless of jolts. These charms are, perhaps, the most misunderstood by the layman’s mind.

To the uninitiated, charms can give the impression that the sorcerer is conjuring or creating new energies seemingly from nowhere. As previously state, this is impossible within the aether. To create a flame from nothing, that object must first have a very reactive energetic source. Then, the practised sorcerer could fill that source with even greater reactive energy that causes that source to ignite, reaching its potential energetic state.

The practical application of these techniques, however, are rarely so obvious. A charm can make just about anything better: a charmed sword is sharper, a charmed sweetroll is sweeter and a charmed door is stronger. Likewise, one could induce a state of weakness into substances by interposing contrary energies. The trained sorcerer could cause a new sword to become rusted and brittle, the tastiest cake to turn dry and bland or make even the sturdiest wall crumble at the slightest touch.

However, in order for any charms to reach such effectiveness, the sorcerer must have an intimate knowledge of the properties of its target and their spell’s ingredients. They must know the exact type of energy produced by sandstone compared to marble in order to properly enhance or detract from it. Otherwise, they will find they have burned through their ingredients and produced nothing or worst, cause an aetheric flareback from the unused energies. Furthermore, a sorcerer must be careful to not naturally contaminate the spell with their own innate energy else they will produce a rather useless glamour effect which will do nothing but reveal the amateur abilities of the practitioner.

These three techniques – glamours, wards and charms – form the foundation of modern magickal study. They are well established principles from which all other research is based. The proposed existence of other techniques or forms of energy are wholly hearsay lacking any applicable empirical evidence. Most are based on the exaggerated accounts of historical abilities captured by past historians working with an incomplete knowledge of magickal practice and theory.

To understand further the magickal practices and how a sorcerer can use these principles in a practical setting, I would like to draw the curious reader to my next paper on the components of Ritual and Invocation.

A Treatise on Magick – Thyre Part 1

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Heroic Landscape with Rainbow by Joseph Anton Koch (1815)

So, I wrote a fantasy novel.

I feel one of the hallmarks of fantasy writing is the magic. People love stories of wizards, witches, sorcerers and what have you. King Arthur had his Merlin and Morgana. Shakespeare had his Weird Sisters. In a sense, magic is the easiest way to express the core of the genre. It gives a sense of wonder, excitement and intrigue that lets the imagination free from the expectations and rules of the mundane. It inherently is mysterious. The reader never truly understands how magic works. Partly because the characters themselves don’t know. It’s magical.

However, being who I am, this wouldn’t do when creating my fantasy world. First, I was setting my fiction in a much later time period that general fantasy. My societies have had their Enlightenments. They’ve already gone through their age of superstition where the unknown was an omnipresent entity and their lives were guided by elements and forces beyond their keen. They have studied. They have learned. They have begun to categorize the life around them and tease apart the elements of their world. Of course, they’re mostly on the breaking point of this revolution of thought but to give that sense of no longer leaving the explanations for daily life in the hands of mysterious otherworldly beings there needed to be some theories for why magic existed.

So I had to create a system.

But where do you begin?

I knew that my story was going to have a greater emphasis on steampunk. I also wanted the world to be somewhat familiar to our own. Furthermore, I have a personal bias against high fantasy and all three of these elements naturally led me to a low magic impact. There weren’t going to be giant stomping suits of magitek kicking around. Steam and electricity were the wonders of the age, not doddering old men waving their hands. I felt I wanted magic to be less this awe-inspiring, grandiose affair and something that had become almost forgotten. Sure, you would have some elements worked into everyday life but for the most part the average citizen didn’t feel the weight of spells. I didn’t want my narrative being hijacked by some mad sorcerer with the aims to ruin the world and the ability to reign hellfire from the skies.

But I didn’t want magic to feel isolated either. Merlini is almost cut off from the rest of Avalon and the knights with his studies and his abilities. The world isn’t shaped by those great wizards of legend. They were there as just mystics who dispensed helpful advice or a timely incantation despite the apparent ability to turn into anything they wanted or to shake the foundations of reality itself (depending on who’s telling the story of course). I did like the idea of a faded glory, however. That there were sorcerers who looked back on those legends fondly believing them to accurate tellings of the day. For them myth and legend were the stored records of an age long past where magic controlled the fates of nations and people looked upon those wielders with respect and awe.

Instead of seeing them as conning charlatans just looking to weasel a little more money from you.

I’ll confess, in our age of skepticism, this is hardly a unique point of view. But I felt it would add that element tension towards change that I wanted to capture with my story. The institute of magic was something that was old tradition. They were used to prominence but in the wave of technological advancement they were being slowly brushed aside. Here were men who had once felt they had all of creation in their palm and now few would give them the time of day.

And to insure this, I had to have limits on magic. I had to come up with the reasons for the fall of mysticism. Arthur C. Clarke famously stated that “An reasonably advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic. ” I took that idea and ran with it. Not only could technology produce what magic could, but it could do it better. A gun can kill a person with the pull of a trigger. A spell could kill a person but it would require you to sit and mumble and wave your hands and possibly sacrifice a goat while you’re at it. Given the two options, any reasonable person would take the gun over magic.

So my magic had to be unwieldy. It had to be inconvenient. It demanded sacrifice and it produced often results that in this day and age were unsatisfactory. Before the explosion of inventions from the industrial revolution, magic would have been really swell when there were no alternatives to produce the results. But once everyone could light their houses by just installing some gas piping, people are going to wonder if keeping a sorcerer on staff and constantly paying for his supplies is really worth it.

Stodgy old Newton. He probably didn’t even like apples.

But even with this fall of magic, I still liked its existence. The rules and limitations of the practice would be seemingly well understand by my societies. But just like physics felt like there was nothing else to learn after Newton’s Laws, I wanted to leave room for the current understanding to be wrong and there to be something more. Magic is, after all, a systematic way of explaining the workings of our universe. And even in our day and age with quantum theories we still struggle to come up with an all encompassing scientific theory that explains all phenomena. In the end I didn’t need a system that would accurately explain how magic worked. I needed a system that adequately explained the magic that could work at that time.

I had my feel for my system but none of the particulars. I hadn’t quite yet worked out the particulars or how it all fit in the big picture. That would take extra work and tweaking. And to find out what I made, you’ll have to wait for a later post.

Prayer to the Toilet Demons

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When I was at University, three other girls and I rented a house for our second – fourth years. It was a small, run down place with its own special charm. One of the charming features was the lack of inssulation and the increadibly cold temperature of the building. We once put an ice cube on the baseboard – it took more than a day to melt. Another feature of the house was the toilet in the only bathroom. Most notably was its inability to function all the time. The following prayer hung above that tempermental fixture for three years.

The best kind of toilet is one that flushes consistantly.

Prayer to the Toilet Demons

To the Demons in my toilet, I really have to go

To the Demons in ny toilet, please let the water flow

To the Demons in my toilet, I am begging you to say

That you’ll be so kind as to let the toilet flush today

I am ever more grateful for the proper functioning of a good toilet. I think this is one of my favourite inventions of all times.

Certainly it is one of the things I would miss most if I was forced back in time. Yes, I have thought quite a bit about toilets over the years. They are great – when they work.

The Coming of the Wurm

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One key component to the Wurzelessern, in my understanding, is their anti-democractic stance. Reading through Derek’s descriptions, however, it has become quite clear to me that the Wurm’s beliefs are a little more complex than I initially thought. For the most part, much of the democratic structure and institutes have been left intact throughout the provinces. Even unsympathetic free members are able to maintain their freedom and property so long as they don’t interfere with the army’s goals and activities. What they focused on was simply the highest levels of the democracy. The same levels that are, perhaps not coincidentally, the ones that are the least democratic with their lifelong birthright appointments.

My inference from these notes is that the Wurzelessern aren’t so much a conquering force as they are a revolutionary one. It seems like they are at least presenting a war of ideals over material gain. While I have no insight into what the highest members of the order are planning, their actions give some hint into how the last few years beneath the Wurm’s rule may look.

This is important for my character since he is an avid supporter of the Wurzelessern. I have to reconcile an individual willing to fight and die for an organization that, on the surface, would appear to be promoting ideals that are against his own self-interests. No one would ever willingly give up freedoms previously granted unless there was some worthy trade.

Unless the Wurzelessern actions weren’t portrayed as against the interests of the common man. They still have their voice. They still have their representation. For all intents and purposes nothing has changed. Except they’re at war. Which technically means the Kaiser is all powerful so long as the war continues but surely no one expects that to last forever. Surely.

Edge of a Wood by Jacques d’Arthois (1613-1686)

The Coming of the Wurm

The hall echoed with the garbled squawk of a dozen voices each shouting to be heard. Torches were light, bringing light to the room which appeared little more than a simple barn and hardly the grand meeting forum that it was. However, careful inspection of the rafters and supports would reveal age old jointing long fallen out of style to the experienced eyes of the natives. This was no simple home for cattle. There was a stoic pride in its construction though it might lack the fancy adornments and ornamentation of the Steinherz capital. But the men and women in that tight space were no artists. They were farmers, ranchers and survivors. Their pride wasn’t on such useless things like intricate woodwork and lavish painting. They looked upon the strength of a building and found beauty in a solid foundation, good walls and proper jointing.

Looking upon the hall, one would never think it the oldest building in the village. They would never imagine that for countless generations it had held so many families, gathering in times of change and need. It had seen untold troubles before and weathered them all. From the great plague of the walking dead that had shambled from the lost lands in the deep south, to skittering hordes of despicable roshome gathered beneath the snaking tongue of an ancient warlord as they poured from the roots of the Green Mountain. In a way, tonight’s meeting was just one in a long series of crises this hall had weathered. Nor glory decorated its walls and no celebrations were held within to sing its praises.

But it stood through it all. And through this it would stand as well.

The great staffed pounded against the front arch, beating the buzz of conversation to heel. Standing upon the raised front so all could see was an older woman. Her hair was thin and wispy, charcoal grey and dirty from a hard day’s toiling in the fields. Though age had worn against her skin, she still stood tall and erect. Growing old and feeble was a luxury for the cities and the folk of the misty hills had no time for it.

“Order!” she called, her staff thumping the last of the stubborn voices to silence. “Order, I say! The Wurzelessern army is reported in the Dusk Veld. Their intentions are unknown and the rumours in the fog are about as clear as the Stranger’s breath. We must decide if we will negotiate with this organization or defend against them.”

“This isn’t even up for debate!”

Elder Dykstra had barely finished speaking when the older man rose to his feet. Ewoud Rooiakkers commanded the attention of all gathered. While the small hamlet was hardly much more than a collection of farmers and a few small guild chapters, Ewoud Rooiakkers was the closest the village had to a mayor. More than once he had been sent to the Steinherz capital to represent the community’s interests on the Senate. A shrewd business sense and aggressive trading had made him quite wealthy by their standards. And many viewed him as the closest the hills had to an aristocrat.

He wore lavish furs over his woollen clothes. A short coat of fine linen dyed a deep crimson was carefully arranged over the finest shirt most of the farmers had ever seen. Fur boots practically shone in the torchlight and on his fingers were a pair of bright gold rings that complimented the silver necklace he wore around his neck. While most of those gathered looked like they had hurried immediately to the hall from either bed or field, Ewoud Rooiakkers looked just as prepared for a debate in the Forum of Law as he did for the simple community’s gathering.

He regarded Elder Dykstra coldly, directing his fury and disdain towards her even though she had yet to presented for either side. It was a trick to rally the people behind a threat even if that threat hadn’t been raised.

“These Wurms are nothing more than their name suggests. They are pests here to eat away at our lives and livelihood. Already the capital burns beneath their treachery. Our representatives and brothers burned when they set light to the Forum of Law and murdered in cold blood the heads of our glorious Republic!”

“That can’t be!” some voices cried out.

But Rooiakker held his naysayers beneath a harsh glare.

“The news came to me this morning, born on the wings of messengers far faster than the armies of these rebels. They are nothing but conquerors and villains. Mark my words, they shall take our fields and take our mines. They will press our boys into their ranks and they will see much blood is fed to our lands. But it will be the blood of our kin that is spilled. And it will be nothing but doom to us all. There is not but folly in their future and I will die before I see this glorious town side with these devourers!”

A few cheers erupted from sycophants and supporters. Much rumbling and whispering followed as his words were debated amongst the present members. Elder Dykstra clattered her staff for calm but before it could be re-established, accusations were already flung her way.

“Is this true?”

“Did you know of this?”

“We must gather our things and get away while we can!”

Saint George and the Dragon by Egid Quirin Asam (1721)

“I hear the Elfhorz are accepting refugees!”

“No!” Rooiakkers voice cut through. “We must defend these lands as we always have. We shall not abdicate our responsibilities. Dalmistig is a proud land. We are all brothers of these hills and mist. We shall not leave our kin behind to an uncertain fate. Only one course is clear for the land of the Maier. We shall defend our farmsteads and our homes. Let each shanty, each hole and each pit cost the Wurms dearly. They shall pay for their sins in the oldest currency of all: their blood!”

More joined in applause this time, even as others looked worriedly amongst themselves. But Elder Dykstra knew that the forum was quickly swaying to Ewoud’s words. She had seen it countless times before. And she worried the price the old man’s pride would cost the community itself.

But before she could speak, there was a disturbance at the door.

At first, she seemed to be the only one to notice the distraction. But slowly a few eyes turned to follow hers, the heads of the furthest turning at the noise. As more and more noticed their fellows grow silent, they sensed the change in the air and an awkward hush rolled through like an ominous fog.

For there, standing in the doorway, was a young man holding an older woman in his arms. He was a big lad, muscles honed from long hours pounding at the metal of Master Smit’s in the forge or carrying the heavy coal and iron the old man used in his work. And though there was a dullness in his eyes, a sort of slow, ponderous look as his mind tried to comprehend that which was so often seemingly beyond his grasp, most overlooked it because of the youth’s stunning features. He was quite a sight for the village. And it was clear where he had inherited his looks.

Leaning against his large frame was a slender woman. There was no denying her beauty. Many questioned if Femke was truly from Dalmistig. Many whispered that she carried not human blood in her veins. They heard the tales of the distant elves and of the Forhemia beauties said to enchant their victims with unearthly grace far too potent for any mortal man. But Dykstra had known her line. She had seen Femke’s family and the gift that Ika passed down to each in turn.

And even as the youth set her down on a chair, there was still a shred of that grace still present. She was clothed in a simple night gown. The white linen lay stained down the front where food and drink and spilled. Even in the dim light, there was a visible bulge about her waist where the family had to fashion some swaddling strips in a makeshift pouch. Her vacant eyes lingered on the flickering of a nearby torch, her mouth hanging slightly open as a drip of spittle fell from ruby lips.

But every now and then when she turned her head, there would be that soft glimmer of the woman that had once been. Though now all that tumbled from those lips was incomprehensible gibberish, there would be the old lilt to it that reminded Dykstra of the songs she used to sing. Her fingers picked aimlessly at odd holes in her gown when once they had carefully woven elegant garments of their own.

This one is apparently done by a Smedje Hornbaek, 1875.

Her son left her near a post so she could lean against it, even the process of staying upright seemingly a concept too easily abandoned by her mind.

The young man walked forward, an awkward silence greeting his arrival. He seemed unaware of it, but it always struck Dykstra any time the elder Van der Nevel was seen. Where once she lit the room with pleasant laughter and talk, she now heralded only silence and shamed looks. Few would dare linger in her direction. And all made a wide berth for her as if she carried some terrible disease.

But that silence was a powerful thing and it immediately slayed what exuberance Ewoud Rooiakker had stirred.

“You speak of price and sin, Lord Rooiakker, but do you know that price?”

A few gaped at the youth’s boldness. Here was young Kaas Van der Nevel, Master Smit’s quiet apprentice standing in the middle of a forum directly across for the most intimidating speaker Dykstra had ever seen. But perhaps it was the youth’s dimness that made him ignorant of his position and actions.

Ewoud Rooiakker cleared his throat.

“I dare say I understand more than you, boy. I have sat at the seat of the greatest gathering in this land. I have greeted dignitaries from the united monarchies. I have weighed decisions that would determine the outcome of many lives and held the balance of a cities in discourse. What would you know of conflict and war? You who has barely seen the tops of the hills yet never left the safety of the mist?! You can scarcely recall the price of your master’s own sword!”

There were a few chuckles, but less Ewoud would hope. Dykstra wanted to move to the youth’s side and to gently lead him away. This was not the place nor the time for whatever he had in his mind. But there was a certain look in his eyes she had rarely seen. There was a light that had once belonged to his mother that flared dangerously. She could see the youth’s hands clench.

“I know not the world as you do, my lord,” the youth said slowly with his misplaced title. “But I am all too familiar with sin. I need not make my own to see the harm it causes.”

“I don’t like your tone or insinuations, child! Be careful, least you forget who helped your precious master pay to get his forge started.”

“I have not forgotten,” Kaas said, his tone steelier than anything that had come from the fires. “Nor have I forgotten your choice to stand with the adjudicators. Or how you stood watch as they took what they wanted from my mother.”

And a deathly hush fell over the crowd. Rooiakker’s mouth gaped like a caught fish as he searched for the words to say. He knew the dangers of the ground he tread and was too aware of the eyes looking over at the drooling Femke. She had seemingly grown tired of her gown and had attempted to extract it ungainly from her body, managing somehow to remove her left arm but catching her head in the sleeve until the garment hung half over her as she struggled furtively.

The boy seemed to take Ewoud’s silence as a sign of defeat. He stepped forward, suddenly his bulk making the great representative seem much smaller. But it wasn’t Rooiakker who the junior Van der Nevel sought to address.

Turning to the crowd he gauged them all in his turn.

“Who was it that raised their voices in defence of us when the reclaimers came to hold their trial? Not the clergy, who turned mute against the charges. She was called a heretic and a witch. They claimed her a necromancer and not a word claimed otherwise. She was dragged before the representatives of Ika. They held up her pendant as definitive proof of her sins. A pendant which you, yourself Elder Dykstra, had said was not but a simple heirloom!”

And he raised an accusing finger at her which she could not defend. She simply held Rooiakker’s silence, feeling the shame and guilt burn her face.

“We live beneath a tyranny. One that Lord Rooiakker would say is freedom. But what freedom had we when they cursed my mother all in the name of Ika’s will? But that curse did not pass to me, Lord Rooiakker. I know it was not this community which voted to let them carry out their punishment against their own. Behind closed doors you elders convened and decided a fate we had no say in. Condemning a friend and a mother to a life of suffering and humiliation!

“And the Senate has done the same for as long as we have belonged to the Republic. Where is our voice in the forum? The Union and the Council must grovel before those rich lords who gain their seat by birthright alone. They must pay tithes and deeds to see their own decisions democratically passed come to form. This freedom is as elusive as the tribal Anspeals but costs all of us daily in sweat and blood. We toil in the dirt and mud so you Senators can live in your manors and fine furs. You speak of a price for sin, so what does your cost?”

It was too eloquent and too convincing. While Elder Dykstra’s heart was swaying her mind could feel something off about the boy. These couldn’t be his words. Not for someone who struggled to remember his simple arithmetic any time he carried out a purchase for his master. But while what he spoke she had heard all to similarly from Wurzelessern mouths, the passion was his alone.

“We live under strange laws and strangers’ demands. The Senators born into their roles far outnumber those we send from our farmsteads. Our own Elders hold their decisions amongst themselves, committing not those of good intention but those who can fill the most pockets. All the while some foreign Goddess dictates to us damning laws without a care for the living. Her sole concern is the dead and the rest be damned. She taxes us even more blatantly than the Senators, demanding our souls in exchange for protection from an enemy we had long defeated.

“You say the Wurms are here to destroy and that they are. They’re here to burn not just the weeds choking our crops but the thieves that would steal them in the night. Our governance is corrupted and there is only one way to eliminate impurities from good iron and that is through brute application of heat and fire. The pure have nothing to fear from the Wurms. It is those whose hearts are heavy with sin that would try and condemn others upon a true noble sword. And I see only one heart here calling for us to die in the name of men who have done nothing but abuse us. I say we see what the Wurms judgement is free from the greed of the Senate and the hunger of Ika.”

Silence followed his proclamation and only then did he seem to remember his mother. He turned, discovering her lying upon the ground in a tangle of her own clothes. He hurried to her side, helping her erect and fighting her resisting fingers to get her clothes back on. When last he had finished, he looked up, seeming to remind himself that he was in the middle of a debate.

But for once Rooiakker had nothing to say. He seemed to turn to Dykstra, the soft pleading look of a desperate man turning to a co-conspirator. But it was clear a change was on the horizon. A change that Dykstra had often quietly prayed for every year. It finally seemed time for Dykstra to say her piece.

“The words of young Van der Nevel are true. We had decided to bow before the Ikan’s wishes and it was their desire to make a demonstration to our community that disobedience of their laws would not be tolerated. Justice was forgotten beneath the priests’ offer. Co-operation would see their influence lightened upon our village but, more importantly, Rooiakker would be granted prime trade of our region with the cathedral in Nebeland. For our part, we would all be eased of our guilt through the success of the land, as Ewoud called it.”

“What are you saying?!” Ewoud cried.

“I have not slept easy since condemning a friend for your greed, Ewoud. And I shall not forgive myself for waiting for young Van der Nevel’s words to stir me from my silence. I shall submit myself to the judgement of these Wurms for my part in this travesty. I can only hope that my soul finds forgiveness from Femke when at last she joins me in Ika’s arms.”

“This… this is madness!” Ewoud cried. “Do you not see, you invite danger and death into your homes!”

“We have laid beside treachery for too long,” Dykstra said. “My seeds are planted, Ewoud and I shall reap my harvest. My only prayer is that the younger of us can learn from our mistakes. I suggest you make your peace or prepare your waggon.”

The elder Rooiakker looked about the assembly. But he did not see the support he had once drummed. Many looked confused upon the discourse, clearly not understanding exactly what had transpired. But there were others who looked upon Ewoud Rooiakker not with admiration but suspicion. They were the dangerous ones. And they were the majority. Enough time in the Senate had taught Ewoud the dangers of such a force. And perhaps it was the gentle hand of Ika which had him last set eyes upon poor Femke Van der Nevel, held coddled in her son’s arms. An unnatural role reversal played long before proper time right in front of his eyes. The Ikans believed in elimination of threats through magics of debilitating efficiency. But the Wurms believed only in death.

In that moment, it was clear Ewoud Rooiakker wasn’t sure which he feared most.

He stumbled from the hall, running into the night as the roar of the crowd began to find its voice once more. The community hadn’t reached consensus yet, but with the flight of the merchant it would finally reach it of its own accord.

And Elder Dykstra knew she would not see the man in the morning. She took a seat, letting the butcher stand to present his thoughts. She finally felt her age, her bones releasing a tension she barely knew she carried. Her work wasn’t finished tonight and she knew she would have to spend the rest of it getting her things in order. It was uncertain when the Wurms would arrive but their coming seemed inevitable now. And she suspected that she wouldn’t live to see the outcome of this council’s decision. Her only hope was that it would be the right one.

Clockwork Caterpillar Sketch – New Fusang

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Awhile ago I mentioned the new novel I was working on and gave a brief insight into the process I go about preparing for its writing. Progress on it continues as I juggle it amongst some other projects at the same time. But I thought the character sketches I wrote were somewhat interesting and they really don’t stand any chance of seeing the light of day unless I put them up here.

One of the characters I’m currently struggling with is a nine year old girl. Writing children is always a tricky proposition. It doesn’t take a degree in psychology to understand that children see the world different than adults. Quite often they make connections and associations well beyond what we would expect. While this gives them that stereotypical air of “innocence” it also creates a bit of a challenge for an adult who wishes to capture that wonderful essence.

What I attempted in this passage was to try and imitate a childhood nursery rhyme. I spent time working on sound play and the cadence of the actual passage in order to replicate the youthful spirit. I don’t think it worked but part of the process of writing is trying new things even if they turn out to be a disaster in the end. So here’s some of my dirty laundry, so to speak, as an example of me stepping out of my comfort zone and pushing my abilities as a writer.

Inspiration can come from the most peculiar places. My idea for the Jader colonies came from a mythological Chinese settlement supposedly founded in America long before English colonial hegemony. A veritable Eastern Atlantis, if you will.

Clucked and cuckold were the markets of New Fusang. Women in pretty coats spoke with men in dirty shirts. Clink, clink, clink went their fingers. Clink, clink, clink went the wen. Dangled the strings of coins, their square holes holding tightly to the lines as they were stretched and counted. Glasses raised and eyes presse. Clink, clink, clink went the fingers that counted the disks. Squawked went the chickens. Wan went the dogs. And the cages rattled.

Chatter and chat. Sing and spat. Round and round they prat. From stall to stall stepped the pretty ladies. And clinked went their strings. Whirled and wove like a little leaf on a stream. Fingers pointed and hands were filled. Mouths chomped and chewed round words and wan. Sticked fish and lizards, scorpions and pigeons. Barbed and bite, boxed and bundle. Fingers flick and all is bought.

The smell of roasted corn, fried jellyfish, cooked cat and brewed tea scent the air. They mixed with sweat, perfumes, cows and poop. Everywhere you looked something was passed, eaten, purchased, tossed, fed or tried. No place was like the markets of New Fusang.

She sat upon the roped boxes kicking small, tight shoes. They were simple cloth with colourful floral patterns of strange pink and white flowers and long petals. They were her favourite for the black embroidery around the anklet slip studded with colourful beads. At the tips were the worn remnants of long lost tassells. She liked kicking her feet and making the little stubs bounce up and down in the air. The frayed ends flapped like a bird’s tiny wing.

Across from her twanged the stringed wood. She watched slender fingers splay across the rows of wires. Picked and plucked. Notes echoed and twanged. Picked and plucked. Talon fingers like small claws of a little bird. They danced and jumped. And the board warbled. While the talons danced, the other fingers jumped about their ends. Ten and more strings stretched over the polished wood. Along the side ran pretty little symbols that she couldn’t read.

She tried to get her tassells to jump to the beat.

Suddenly, the tassells began to flap of their own accord, jumping and pulling without her kicking her feet. As she turned, regarding them curiously, she felt her jacket pull as a great wind nearly toppled her from her perch. She turned a small head with its little cap skywards. Overhead came the thump, thump, thump of great propellers as an enormous bladed vessel gently drifted past the stalls.

The gust of wind sent merchants scurry, reaching for tarps and cloths to tie and bound. Cotton and silk caught in the draft, fluttering and lifting like banners in a parade. She clapped her hands at the colourful twirling and twisting of the clothes as women and men jumped and danced after them.

And still those fingers plucked and danced. Twisted and bent were the scarves to the notes. Hopped and jumped went the women and men like guests at a pretty little party. Their voices cried and the strings sang and chirped, warbled and waned.

No place was like the markets of New Fusang.

The great air ship passed overhead, groaning with its journey. As it passed the wind followed. She jumped from the roped boxes, chasing after the plucky notes and twisting scarves down the crowded streets. Sails caught in the passing gust pulling their little carts on large, creaky single wheels as owners shouted and gave chase. A fancy little parade followed after the big boat as they all ran down the lane. She laughed and clapped and jumped and stomped all while scarves played and flapped about.

It was a parade of bright red and orange with small bursts of green and blue. Lapis lazuri and jade, vermilion and saffron. All were on display as they marched and skipped after the great wheeling boat. Doors burst open as others came to investigate the sounds. From a pile of colourful cushions arose cut sleeved robes, the two men joining in with others as they wove and wound down the lane.

Skipping, jumping, hopping, twirling.

Plucked were the guzhengs. Twanged were the sanxian. Whistled the xun. Banged the bolang gu.

A happy little parade chased the whirling, beating, churning air ship.

But it made not for the docks. Groaning and twisting, the metal turned as the wind caught at ladies’ dresses and men’s robes. Voices gave rise to the music as the procession made its way. Chattered and chittered and shouted and sang. She laughed as she skipped after them and their feet pounded the dirt.

Great dragon heads bit down on the large propellers. The undercarriage had magnificent carved lions with great flowing manes watching over their windows. So close flew the great ship that she could swear she could almost see the faces of the passengers looking out the silk drapes at the canvases of the markets.

A long row of bells gonged as they rushed past. Their great tubes were studded, intricate woven castings decorating around them like a beautiful ribbon wound too tightly. The supports were iron cast men, their bare arms balancing the heavy bars upon their heads and outstretched arms. The iron had begun to wash orange and green as if their skin and skirts were shedding the tarnished flakes to reveal their colours hidden beneath.

She stopped long enough to give a bright smile at the man watching over the row of bells. But his eyes followed the ship. So she quickly reached out, pushing on the largest of the bells and listening to it peel it’s bright, clear note.

Then she shouted and hurried after the fantastic ship.

Eight_Immortals_Crossing_the_Sea_-_Project_Gutenberg_eText_15250

The Eight Immortals Crossing the Sea from Myths and Legends of China

“What is it?”

“Where is it going?”

“Where are the soldiers?”

“Where did it come from?”

“Is that it? It’s bigger than I heard.”

“Isn’t it early?”

“Isn’t it late?”

“It looks magnificent!”

They chattered and chitted as they hurried, clutching to their hats as long braided tails bounced after shiny heads. Hurried they went through the streets of New Fusang. Doors burst open. Windows raised. Women emerged from kitchens and men from taverns. Even the pagoda’s doors were pushed open as orange robed old men emerged, raising wise hands to shield their eyes as the ship thrummed over their tiered tower. The very tiles of the roofs clapped in anticipation as the vessel veered towards the plains on the outskirts of the town.

The gates were stuck with people pushing and jockeying to get a look. As their parade got closer, they got slower. And she had to duck and weave amongst the silk dresses and leather pants. The thin shoes and the heavy boots. In and out, under and between. Around and around.

Everything could be seen in the markets of New Fusang.

Everything but a ship that could fly.

Gears creaked and croaked. The dragons seemed to roar as the propellers shook. The sky banged and smoked as the ship turned and broke. People craned and watched, questioned and gasped. All stood watching in fascination as the great ship banked on its airy waves.

Whistles cried and soldiers stomped. Guns and swords shook. But the people did not make way, grabbing arms, sleeves, jackets and coats. They pointed, they gaped and they spoke.

“Is it from the Emperor?”

“Is it from the ministers?”

“Is it from the merchants?”

“Is it from the generals?”

“How does it fly?”

“How does it turn?”

“How does it land?”

“I want to ride!”

She shouted and pointed, watching as the ship began to sink. Shook and shake, ring and clank. The dragons roared. Bore aloft on their slender backs came this great metal egg. It was a sight and a show and she had to see it for herself.

She pressed against the gate and its thin metal studs worn and marked from the old blades and arrows of the wildmen in the hills and mountains. She tried to press her fingers into the dented and torn wood, pulling herself up as much as she could to look over the hats and heads, braids and parasols. The ship brought itself around, the great fins turning beneath the chains of working gears like a great puffed metal fish.

And then something loud popped.

And the crowd gasped.

And the ground shook.

And the air hissed.

Before she knew it, something warm and strong pulled her from the perch and to the ground. A frightful sound erupted from the air. Shouts and screams churned from the crowd as people pushed and ran. Like little birds scattering before a coming cat they took back to the streets they had hurried along.

Whistles blared and voices shouted. The soldiers stamped their feet.

She looked up to the ship and only saw the frightful burning of a sun. Lines dropped as fire rose. It ran all along the green and red sides. It licked the balloon and grasped the sky. In seconds the entire ship was ablaze as it tore and broke.

And it came crashing down.

She pushed herself to her feet but was bumped and pushed. Feet kicked and clopped and she shouted in pain as they passed. But no one noticed in their haste and fear. They ran and they screamed and she shouted and she cried.

She found herself up against the wall, pulling her legs close. Her pants were torn and her legs were bruised and bleeding. One of her lovely little shoes was missing and she looked at her dirty foot. She pulled it in close, wrapping herself up in a little ball.

Then the wall shook.

It crunched and snapped as a great series of steel beams and chains smashed overhead. Fire dropped like thick raindrops about her head as the metal crushed the roof of a nearby home. The wood caught and blazed. People shouted and screamed as soldiers rushed to the spreading flames.

Smoke filled the air, choking her mouth and stinging her eyes. She crawled away from the fire and the people. She crawled along the wall. Few people ran along side now, but all of them still jumped and struck. The fire and the heat was so strong as the house and its friend caught the dancing red and orange. She watched as the sailed carts smoked up like little firecrackers during a new year festival.

The wall shook and crashed again and she crawled crying away from it as the great metal nose of the ship came crashing through. Stones and dirt sprayed over her as she hid her face behind her arms. She stumbled and scrambled, spun and slipped. She sprawled against the dirt and crawled into the alley seeking silence and cold.

The noise and the shouts were loud and overbearing. She hurt and she cried but no one came. The air grew heavy and dark as black smoke was the only hand that tried to comfort. She coughed and tried to spit the burnt taste from her mouth. Frightened and alone, she curled up waiting for it to stop and for it to end.

There she would have stayed and lay but something stirred from the wreckage around her. From the broken and burning wood, from the gasping metal fingers of a crushed cage, poke two small coals that peered at her through the smoke. Tumbling and turning flopped a small little creature, it’s large tail singed. It plodded towards her, skittering around the flames and metal. It pressed its cold nose against her bloody hand.

And as she peeled her knees away, she could see something red beneath the soot. Two white ears pricked as she cried and its red fur was not from the fires that burned around it. It pawed with its little foot then trotted a few feet away. Turning its white streaked face, it blinked its eyes before giving a sharp, airy cry.

She blinked back.

The spirit of flame took a few more ponderous paces, turned and cried again. Slowly, she followed. Step by step on hands and knees. She slowly made her way ofter its bobbing round tail, ringed and inviting, skirting fires and sliding on its belly beneath twisted metal and smouldering wood. Past darkened bodies and bleeding faces they moved. Over tumbled stones and along cracked metal bones they climbed. She followed and he scampered.

Through the ruins of New Fusang they wound until they broke from its burning shell into the soft grass and green trees. They climbed and scampered up the hills. As she fled, she turned and looked back at the city burning and choking in a dark black haze.

No place would ever be like the markets of New Fusang.

Ikan’s Light – The Creation of a Character

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So today marked a monumental moment in Derek’s Ikan’s Light campaign world.

Today is the day we made my character.

The following photos are pieces of the mural by Edwin Austin Abbey, faithfully photographed and restored by this website: http://www.thefriendsofenglishmagic.com/

I was planning on posting my process for making a character since some of it overlaps with the way I create characters for my story. Then Derek decided to do something different with character generation and take it from a computer role-playing perspective. Which is to say that he asked me a bunch of questions and kept the details hidden behind his DM’s screen.

Which isn’t completely fair, I suppose. I had an idea of what I wanted to be for this game before we started. I’ve played a few role-playing games prior and found that I usually made characters in the same vein. Generally speaking, I gravitated towards the handsome, dashing, daring and glib individuals who relied more on their smarts and guile to see them through trouble. Often, this led to characters with a focus on magic or the arcane and bonus points if it could be a non-standard system.

So, for Derek’s campaign I wanted to do something different. I wanted to go completely on the other end of the spectrum. Knowing he wanted to create a low-magic setting, I decided I wanted to be a paladin. Course, when making that decision, I wanted to do the paladin ideal justice which is to say that I wanted to make a character that would communicate the inherent hypocrisy of the class. Working under the auspices that magic didn’t really exist, I was fully prepared to make a fighter who was deluded into thinking he was a holy warrior.

But then plans change as is always the case. As more and more pieces of Derek’s world came to light, I grew increasingly interested in the struggles of the upstart rebellion in Steinessern. Here was a group that seemingly were cast in the villainous role. Not only were they upsetting the status quo but they were so successful and so brutal in their victories that they were seen as a major threat by all other nations. Being the natural contrarian, I wanted to explore what would drive someone to participate in such a bloody rebellion and the motivations for joining a group that from all other perspectives was nothing but evil.

I still wanted to play a paladin, however, but now I had my god. My character would be wholly devoted to the cause of the rebellion, holding truth to the tenants of this false faith and leading the vanguard against the enemies who held power and tyranny for so long.

What initially drew me to the paladin ideal is that whole abandonment of the self for a greater cause. So often were my past characters balancing questionable morals with self-gain and personal interest. They rarely held to any morality beyond what they deemed was correct and often they scoffed at established laws and structures. They put so much faith in their own reasoning that to prescribe to someone else’s wasn’t just lazy but almost an intellectual sin.

So, in crafting this new character, I had to consider what would drive someone to complete devotion. Practically every complex belief structure has inherent contradictions and flaws yet people still are drawn into believing them whole-heartedly. And I didn’t want this to be some lazy faith either. Here is a man who is joining a movement that, probably by all accounts stands little chance of success, but is prepared to give his body and soul towards.

This, of course, left me with the age old question: why?

For most of my character creations, I start right at the roots. I look not at my character but at those that made him. What is the relationship with his family and how did that mould him into the person that he is today? Oftentimes, the core conflict driving my characters arises from these relationships. For this one, I felt that there was no stronger motivation than that of blood. No other cause would drive a man from his faith to a new revolutionary ideal. He may be wrong, but it is the wronging of his kin that would make him willing to sacrifice himself.

It was when Derek wrote about his Reclaimers that I got my justification.

To recap: the Reclaimers are an arm of the Ikan church tasked with investigating and searching for lost or hidden magical artifacts. Due to the church’s fear and control of magic items, their punishments for harbouring or possessing such devices can be quite strict. In the Reclaimer’s arsenal of solutions for dealing with magic artifacts and their keepers is alerting the Adjudicators. From what I can gather, these are very similar to Inquisitors save for one special exception. As this is a world fueled on magic, they are able to use spells in order to drain a victim of their intelligence instead of outright executing them.

This struck me as an incredibly harsh and brutal method of dealing with people. There are truly some fates worth than death, and reducing a loved one to little more than a quibbling, drooling idiot seems like such a fate. Imagine a loved brought under such justice. Well, it’s the sort of thing that could push someone to extremes. It could motivate them to raise arms against such horrible practices and seek out vengeance against oppressors far too willing to invoke such cruelty on the innocent.

I just had to create an innocent first.

Pulling on the histories, I devised that my character’s mother possessed a magical artifact. What it actually did was, inevitably, irrelevant. In my mind, it was some rather potent item capable of warding off hostile undead from an area. Such a trinket would have been incredibly useful during the scourge, when settlements were struggling to find ways to keep their dead from dragging the living with them back into the graves. In that dark past, this trinket was crafted and served much like a ward to repel these creatures and see this settlement’s continuation from one generation to the next. In order to insure the ward was kept intact, each daughter of the line was entrusted with the artifact.

By the time the Ikan Beacon was light, the need for such an item was gone. However, the thing with traditions is often they persistent long after they are necessary. In my mind, the families continued to pass this trinket down, keeping it hidden from the Reclaimers as long as they could, probably under the belief that this item was incredibly important to the well-being of the community.

However, all things must come to an end. My character’s mother was finally caught with the device. And, perhaps through a combination of rebellion and the power of the artifact itself, the Reclaimers felt that she had to be made an example of. She was turned over to the Adjudicators and consequently stripped of all her intelligence.

I can scarcely begin to imagine the horror my character would have faced, coming home to find his mother lying upon the floor. Likely, she would be incapable of speech. Certainly, she wouldn’t be able to take care of herself. The horror of that first discovery would be utterly heart wrenching for a son. Such fury would have only one outlet: revenge. And for my character, there by chance existed an opportunity. The Cult of the Wurm were the sole voice that spoke out against the church and its practices. The rest of their tenants were irrelevant. If they would see an end to the abuse of the Ikan church, then my character would join them.

That’s the basics of it and is what I approached the character generation session with. Derek proceeded to ask me a series of questions to work out the finer details. First was locating the actual site of this tragedy. Given my race (human), and the elements involved, he decided that Weelderige was the most likely place for this to occur. I had no grand visions of my character’s upbringing so an isolated farming community seemed the most likely. A community known for its lush produce farmed from the soil fertilized with the dead from the great undead wars was even better. Here would be a land steeped in traditions of blood and sacrifice. A fitting location to put my revenge focused paladin.

As a bonus, I get an excuse to hate Derek’s disgusting roshome. Not that I really needed their history of cattle wrangling to dislike the critters though.

Next was to determine my role in the community. I figure rebellion is a young man’s game, so I wouldn’t hold and prominent or settled position. Apprenticeship seemed like a decent start and I gravitated towards blacksmithing. This would explain my apparent physical prowess while also leaving me rather ill-prepared for waging a war against the church. I’m looking for a character strengthened by his will and faith – not some history steeped in secretive training and mysterious masters.

We skimmed some of the details, hopping right to the rebellion. Derek mentioned some positions in the Wurm’s forces that I didn’t understand but after learning my penchant for choosing hardiness over aptitude, he decided I was initially recruited into the Reapers. These delightful beasties were apparently thrown at the more monstrous elements of the opposing Grand River forces. They were tasked with bringing down magical golems and fearsome drakes. A rather terrifying position, I can only imagine but for a man who has little to lose, I felt my character would take such risks with glee. Perhaps, in the back of his mind, he fully expected to die in some beast’s teeth – revenge unfulfilled but his duty served.

Apparently, however, the universe had other plans. My character survived, often against great odds, and his leaders took this as a sign of glorious Nidhoggr’s blessing. They took him aside and trained him in the deeper tenants of the faith, promoting him to be one of the first paladin’s in the army.

At this point, Derek had me take the very generic online alignment quiz. I, personally, think alignments are silly but I obliged anyway.

https://www.wizards.com/default.asp?x=dnd/dnd/20001222b

I ended with Chaotic Good. Which makes a certain amount of sense from the right point of view.

Thus, Kees van der Nevel was born. He’s a big, physically powerful and handsome young man who may not be the most agile of individuals but he has a resounding constitution and almost unearthly ability to take a beating. Through sheer stubbornness and willpower, he seems to shake off the mightiest blows. And, perhaps it was the fact he’s apt to take a hit or maybe it was the isolated upbringing but he isn’t the wisest or smartest man to walk beneath the Green Mountain. But his unending devotion and commitment to the rebellion saw him rise through the ranks, surviving one of the harshest and deadliest divisions of the army.

Trusting in the sense and will of his lord, Nidhoggr, Kees demonstrates a remarkable ability to sense the faltering allegiance of his fellows. Rumour has it, feeling his closest friend’s wavering devotion to both the rebellion and Nidhoggr, Kees sacrificed his comrade to his glorious lord. The young man makes a fearsome sight, striding boldly into the thick of battle dressed in the scales of one of the fearsome Dracfearann mounts. The armour, salvaged from the field of battle and forged through the training he’d received before leaving his village is a grim reminder of the foes Kees has faced without flinching or remorse.

But despite his brutal reputation, he still manages to tend to the armies beasts and mounts with relative skill. Though he may not be the most glib of the Wurm’s agents, he seems to channel a natural connection with the animals and companions, tending to them as if they were comrades in arms, even if his ability to ride isn’t that great. Of course, his smithing skills aren’t just useful in crafting but the proper breakdown and salvaging of items after a battle has been won. Sadly, these skills come at a price and he’s not the most knowledgeable in applying poultices and salves to his fallen comrades or even engaging in a duel of wits when it comes to haggling for supplies from reticent merchants hoping to profit off the conflict.

However, no other member of the Wurm’s forces is as pure in his intentions of bringing about the end of the Ikan faith. For he truly believes the three tenants of the Wurm’s faith, and can be found reciting them each night in a quiet prayer to the one route he hopes to find the salvation of his family:

Oh, great Wurm! See to the end of the monarchy’s oppression for the magocracy is but a false tyrant seeking to further the grip of the throne and the democratic republic is naught but an illusion cast before the gullible masses

Oh, great Wurm! The world has been poisoned from the root, and only by cutting down the rotten tree can a new one truly grow.

Oh, great Wurm! Only once the lost world is purged of the reminders of its failure will it become the cradle of enlightenment and salvation.

May the forces of the weak, cowardly and cruel be not but the blood and soil for a better tomorrow. Let fall their bodies so we may reap a stronger harvest from their bones and their souls. There is no way but the way of the Wurm’s.

Edit: From Derek

Kase van der Nevel(Human, Male)
Paladin, Soldier of the Wurm Army, blacksmith

ABILITIES

Strength: You are strong than all but the strongest, able to wrestle even drakes if you get advantage.

Dexterity: You are average. You can dodge the occasional blow, but you can’t rely on it.

Constitution:You are hardy and stout. You can weather more punishment than most, and are very resistant to illness.

Intelligence: You’re slightly less intelligence than most people. You’re not a dimwit, and you’re literate, but most people would beat you in a battle of wits.

Wisdom:You have average wisdom, with common sense and the ability to perceive your surroundings on par with your peers.

Charisma: You have a stunning, commanding presence capable of calling people under your banner.

FEATURES

AURA OF PROTECTION: When a nearby ally faces danger, you can use your reaction to improve their odds of survival.

CHANNEL NIDHOGGR’S DIVINITY:[2] times per day.

When you channel Nidhoggr, you allow yourself to temporarily become a conduit for Nidhoggr’s will. While you’re letting his majesty flow through you, you can choose one of three effects:

Smite Heathens: After hitting any creature, you can channel divinity to call down Nidhoggr’s wrath and ask him to burn the enemy.

Dreadful Vision: After hitting any creature, you can channel divinity to reveal a vision to your enemies, showing them the death of Ika at the hand of the great Nidhoggr. You can force this vision on as many nearby targets as you wish. Those creatures who fail to shake off the visions are frightened of you for a minute.

Rebuke Undead: As an action, you can use channel divinity to rebuke an undead creature. You choose a creature at medium range, and attempt to charm it. If you’re successful, the undead creature falls under your command for an hour. The undead creature must be weak, though as you become a more powerful paladin you can control more powerful undead.

DIVINE SENSE: As an action, you can allow Nidhoggr to enter you and give you divine sight. For one turn, you know the exact location of any supernatural creature or object nearby, and such creatures cannot hide from you.

DIVINE GRACE: Whenever you face a dangerous effect such as possession, catching on fire, etc, your connection with Nidhoggr guarantees a greater chance at avoiding the danger.

DURABLE: Whenever you’re healed (with magic or mundane), it is more effective.

GUILD CONNECTIONS: You’re an apprentice in the Blacksmith Guild, and can get support from local guilds (barring cultural or racial prejudice).

SKILLS

These skills come naturally from your character’s abilities. Green skills he’s best at, blue skills are good and black skills are fair.

Bluff
Break an Object
Climb
Gather Rumours
Intimidate
Jump
Perform
Sense Motive
Blacksmithing
Swim

Cry of the Glasya Part 8

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< Return to Cry of the Glasya Part 7

We’re at the final stretch team! It’s been a long journey, but hopefully worth it. Sadly, this means I’m going to have to create some original content in the future so my easy street ride is done. But at least you won’t have to put up with these silly pieces for awhile.

On to the show!

I’m reusing the image from the first Cry of the Glasya post. It’s poetry in motion or something.

“Are you sure you don’t need something else?”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know. Head of a chicken? Beating heart of a girl.”

Keirn gave Derrek a withering look.

“Shut up and pass me the chime.”

The bones rattled against each other as Keirn held the object awkwardly in his hands. It was strange – this morbid talisman seemed to be channeling quite a lot of arcane energy lately. Keirn puzzled briefly his sister’s intentions in making it but then realized that he probably didn’t want to know her reasons. Sometimes people did things that were best left unexplained.

The seal had been formed from melting what wax they could scavenge from the packs of their colleagues. They were short on the supplies that Keirn needed for his original ritual. He wasn’t sure how necessary they were. So much of this process was as much a mystery to himself as it was to Derrek.

He held the chime aloft, letting the femurs, skulls, knuckles and whatever else stitched together to rattle emptily in his hands.

As Keirn began began the binding, Derrek shuffled over to a bunk and watched. Both men had cleared a large space upon the floor, pushing beds together and lifting trunks to the corners. Keirn then set about drawing the intricate symbol on the floor, his hands tracing the lines that his mind had forgotten. To the sorcerer, the symbols were meaningless. Possibly some ancient iconography that had been lost long before any age of remembrance. Derrek made no comment on them, quite unlike the bard who was very forward with sharing what random useless bit of trivia he knew.

And given the work Keirn had to go through to discover the seal, he would not have been surprised to discover he was the only one who knew how to draw it.

With the seal complete, Keirn clattered the chime a couple of times before breaking different bones off and setting them at cardinal points around the seal. He placed them in smaller circles drawn in the perimeter, as if the symbol had been created with the full purpose of having additional items placed within.

With the last of the preparations completed, Keirn retrieved a long knife and took his place in the centre of the seal.

“You ready for this?”

Derrek merely nodded.

Keirn took a slow breath then drew the blade viciously across his palm.

Blood pattered along the seal and dripped against the thick wax. It almost sounded like it sizzled when it struck the floor and Keirn couldn’t help but feel a familiar rise in temperature as he worked. He clenched a fist, holding his hand over the centre and squeezing a small trickle of blood upon the most prominent symbol.

During the whole process he whispered that strange incantation he had committed to rote. His words were softer than a strangled whisper. It didn’t matter how loud he was, where Keirn was trying to call was a place that wouldn’t be reached through sheer volume alone. Veracity was the key, and Keirn steeled his heart in anticipation.

The stubs of candles ringing the seal fluttered as if a massive, invisible form rushed past them. The shadows along the walls stretched and twisted as if in eternal agony. As Keirn drew close to the conclusion of his chant, darkness welled up from the furthest corners of the room like an approaching fog.

The candles sputtered again and in the growing gloom Keirn could almost see a massive form shifting in the darkness. Derrek just watched in fascination as the room darkened and swallowed him up in the emptiness.

With the last whispered syllable a ferocious rumble bounded about the walls. From the floor burst thirty six twisted and cracked spikes, ringing the seal and pinning Keirn within. Those spears formed a barrier just as much to keep Keirn within as to hold the braying beasts in the darkness out.

The metal shook and and vibrating as the circling predators tested the boundary. Keirn watched with wary eyes as darkened fangs and claws seem to scrap against the cold metal. But the spears held, though they rattled fiercely.

Further cracking drew the sorcerer’s attention to the floor. The ground swelled and burst, splitting in large sections as piles of bones were belched from the ground beneath. They jutted up in rising piles around the sorcerer, feet and hands tumbling and clattering down the piles. Where Keirn’s blood had spilled before him rose the greatest pile of skulls, an otherworldly wind echoing from their empty mouths and eyes in an unnatural groan.

With the last pile formed, a loud flutter filled the air above Keirn. From the gloom descended a ragged and bloodied eagle. Its twisted talons settled immediately on the skull pile as the bird limped upon its roost. It hopped briefly about, as if its bleeding and twisted legs were pained with its landing. Dark eyes inspected the corpses strewn around as if it expected to find some twisted carcass to scavenge. Having found nought but bone, it turned unimpressed to the sorcerer. It cocked its head before opening its beak and emitting an ear piercing wail that sounded far too similar to a woman’s last dying scream.

“It’s been awhile… demon.”

The shadows shook at his utterance, the spears rattling all around as if the force stalking the darkness was testing each chain simultaneously. The wind howled and the bones clattered and clapped against each other. The eagle merely blinked.

“You know why I have called you. I demand you release your current charge.”

The eagle ruffled its feathers, shaking its head before opening its beak once more. This time, a heavy man’s voice cried out in terrifying agony and pain.

“You know why,” Keirn replied calmly. “If you have any desire to breath this world once more you’d do well to obey.”

The bird called and a young man screamed in sorrow.

“When was the last time you drank from this place? How long was it that I last called you? You think just because you have a new binder that your freedom is assured? We both know that she can not contain you and you will burn through her in no time. She will die if you insist on enslaving her.”

The bird cried and an elderly voice croaked from within.

“I have given you plenty. And I will give you far more than that pitiful feast you have out there. Know that if you don’t obey, I will end her. And with her dies the last knowledge of your bindings. And if I have to raise my blade, I vow with my dying breath I will never contact you again. You can rot in your emptiness for another eternity with only the faintest memories of your bloodshed to drive you further mad.”

The bird glowered upon the skulls.

“I have given you a Countess, Viscount and Princess. You know that where I go death falls in my wake. You can engorge yourself now and vanish from the minds of every living thing again. Or you can leave her and know that even greater sacrifices shall be made in your name. But I won’t debate with you anymore, monster. I’ve retraced those ancient steps and recalled the first pact we made. Know I won’t bend to your will anymore but you will bend to mine!”

The bird cried out in a blood curdling scream as it took to its great wings. In a fluttered of darkened and black, oily feathers, it vanished into the dark and the fog.

“Then let the contract be sealed.”

Keirn took the knife gingerly in his wounded hand. He wrapped his fingers around the blade and cut deep into his other palm. The heat was almost scorching as he squeezed the drops on the gaping skulls beneath him. The blood pattered against cracked and bleached teeth, bubbling immediately as it hit the bone.

From the stone burst great rusted chains. They shot up, wrapping tightly about his wrists and forearms. Keirn could feel the metal scratch and dig into his flesh as they wound and bound his arms together.

But he resisted.

With an agonizing scream he pulled and twisted, wrenching the chains apart. The metal clattered and groaned, trying in vain to assert its dominance. But fire fueled Keirn’s veins and he pulled against their strength. The coarse metal dug deep into his skin, tasting blood again. But the more they struggled, the further Keirn separated his limbs. At last, the metal burst in a great clatter of iron as links smashed into the ground and tore through the scattered bones.

Then, just as loud as they came, the bones scuttled back into the earth. The spears retreated after them and the darkness lifted. Only the sounds of massive retreating paws echoed back to the two men still practically naked in the middle of the room.

Keirn followed Derrek’s gaze towards his arms. A rash of metal links stained his flesh where they had wrapped and the skin itself was raised and bumped as if the iron had been buried just beneath his skin. Conscious of the physical marks, Keirn hurried over to his pack and quickly pulled out a tunic to unroll over his arms.

“It’s done then?” Derrek asked.

“Felicia should be fine,” Keirn said.

At the mention of her name, Keirn felt an echoed whisper just on the edge of his hearing. But that trembled voice was easy to ignore.

“How much did you see?”

“I don’t understand a log in the Urðr Well, man,” Derrek shrugged. “But if you say it’s done then it is done.”

Keirn paused before the door, remembering the sound of frenzied hands pounding against it earlier. Slowly he inched it open, looking up and down the hall. There was no sign of bloodthirsty guests or rotting bodies and Keirn wondered how bad things really were and what was all part of Derrek’s complicated illusions.

Keirn waved for the bard to follow and the two cautiously started towards the hall.

“If it’s any consolation, I don’t think Felicia knew what she was doing.”

“Doesn’t bother me.”

“No, I mean that I don’t think she knows how to do the binding. I think someone set her up – built the seal and inserted the chant within her song without her knowing.”

“Women just ruin everything, eh? The aria itself isn’t half bad when done by an actual professional.”

Keirn stopped, looking gravely at his friend.

“This means that someone learned how to do this and they probably learned it from me. Much like you recongized the ritual from following me at the Academy. And even though Felicia will have no idea how to do it again, whoever is behind this can always trick another. I think we were lucky this time that bards have some arcane understanding. The next time could be much worse.”

“So someone has been following us on our adventures and learned it when you did a binding before?”

Keirn nodded.

“Someone has an unnatural interest in us. Maybe we should be more careful from now on.”

“That’s unlikely to happen.”

They started again down the still hall.

“So if they learned it from watching you, how often have you been doing this?”

“How long have you been sleeping with Felicia?”

Both men looked accusingly at each other.

Derrek shrugged again.

“Forget I asked.”

“That’s what I thought.”

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Cry of the Glasya Part 7

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< Return to Cry of the Glasya Part 6

For those that are avoiding reading the shorts until they’re all finished so you aren’t left in rapt suspense, I can confirm that this one will complete on Monday. Then I’ll see if I can’t get some non D&D articles up in case people are getting tired of them.

Also, I’m nearing the end of the draft I’m currently working on so I’ll have more focus and attention to write my thoughts and musing. Plus, I hope to see Pacific Rim this weekend so maybe I’ll have a glowing review to share!

(But it’s unlikely.)

A Medieval artist’s rendition of some good, old fashioned dark magic. Cry of the Glasya does it better, in my opinion. At the very least, it does it with more style.

Keirn rested a metal gauntlet on the handle. Hoping he wasn’t about to burst into a room of suspicious looking men, he pushed.

The first chamber he’d tried was filled with damp robes and the unmistakeable smell of the wrong place. And while he wasn’t expecting to find a second garderobe he wasn’t even sure he was on the right level of the keep. Who really knew where Dukes or Earls liked to roost. Probably as far from the smelly peasantry as possible was Keirn’s thinking.

However, he immediately knew this wasn’t exactly the place he wanted the moment he crossed the threshold.

He stood in a simple stone domicile. Wrought iron torch holders were clamped against the cold walls. The far wall was reinforced with a tickling familiar iron frame and held a row of opened windows. A chill breeze whistled past, invading the empty space like an unwanted assistant in Keirn’s searches.

He was about to turn and leave when something caught his eye. A large fireplace set across the room seemed to shimmer with the faintest of flickering embers. Releasing the door handle, his metal suit clattered as he drew across the naked floor. A simple iron poker hung upon its side and Keirn lifted the tool before scratching at the remnants in the ash pit.

Charcoal popped and snapped, releasing trapped flickers of flame to float like gentle wisps in the culling wind. Keirn sifted through the ash, the tip of the poker striking something hard and buried beneath the fire’s powdered body. Prodding along its side, it felt like something large and he worked the hook of the poker until he dragged a long piece of polished mahogany onto the floor.

Curiously, the fragment seemed untouched by the scorching ghost of the demised blaze. The piece was excellently carved with flowering wreathes of intricate vines and leaves running its length. It seemed like the post of a rather elegant bed and Keirn was reminded immediately of the guard’s story. He looked about the room, but no furniture offered a reasonable explanation for this piece’s existence.

Keirn was just about to roll it back into the embers when he discovered something surprising on its opposite side. He slowly removed his gauntlet, bending down to run a finger slowly over an unexpected seal.

Embossed on the underside of the post was the inexplicable coat of arms for the High Academy of the Queen Enthroned.

Keirn recoiled from the quartered symbol and the opened book centred at the crosspoint of the quadrants. The runes on its tiny pages seemed to pulse and glow as Keirn watched. Along its ruby border twisted the thorny vines of a blood red rose that slowly began to blossom. The petals uncurled like the pages of a book slowly revealing themselves to an inquisitive mind. In the span of a few seconds the plant seemed to bloom and wilt, its petals dripping down the wood like thick drops of blood that pattered thunderously against the floor.

Keirn dropped the poker and recoiled, turning quickly for the door. He leaped upon the handle, wrenching his way to promised freedom as a swirl of unwanted memories began to unravel behind him.

But it was not the familiar corridor of the keep that greeted him. Instead, the door opened upon an expansive hall with shelves rising from the ground like great monuments to Vör’s unending inquisitiveness. Almost every surface was covered with mounds of books and sheaves of rolled paper. Great writing pedestals sprung from the heaped tomes like large, solitary mushrooms. The high backs of those chairs appeared to hunch over their massive curved writing tables sprouting beneath as if to protect those seated from the light overhead.

The scratching echoes of a thousand phantom quills clawed amongst the sheets of paper like a great footed beast stalking this gloomy space. Keirn felt all too familiar with this space but as he turned to retreat back to the empty room in the Duke’s keep he discovered only more of the library stretching behind with not but the handle of the door still clutched in his hand.

Frightened, he dropped his gauntlet.

This was impossible. This was a dreadful dream. This was not the Keep of Gelph. This was a far more dangerous place and Keirn had to escape.

He turned, fleeing down the first row of books he found. His boots cracked the aged spines of the tomes he stumbled across. But they were piled so high that his retreat was soon impeded by the the leather backs slapping hard against his calves as he stomped. He paused to catch his breath, looking worriedly around for an exit.

Something warm and wet slipped through the gap between his breastplate and skirt. He could feel a glob of something slowly ooze down his lower back before hardening in an unsettling chunk. He reached back, his fingers scratching at the metal in an attempt to find the hole in his armour. Failing that, he just lifted the shirt from his body. But as he pulled it overhead, he heard the impact of another glob landing upon the metal.

Holding it to his face he found a thick piece of wax slowly cooling against its surface. Keirn looked up.

High overhead hung the great chandeliers, their twelve arms forming the spokes of a great wheel. This place adored its symbolism, using the great candle holders to reinforce their dogmatic views above the students even as they tried to work.

Keirn couldn’t stay. But he knew of an escape. Turning, he pushed a mound of books out of his way, clawing through waist deep tomes as the scratching of the scribes increased to a deafening roar about him.

He pulled himself from the stacks, freeing himself from the weight of the chain skirt before stumbling before the great curved stairs that led up to the private collections. Students weren’t allowed access up there. A great iron gate barred the way and all along its sides glowed the insignia of the keepers in warning for those that would dare attempt to breach the wards an intrude upon Vör’s sacred ground.

But it wasn’t the private collections that Keirn sought.

He hurried along the edge of the stairs. Statuettes grew as the side of the stairs ascended, creating an ever growing parade of hooded women and bearded men whose names had long been ignored and forgotten. Most students paid no attention to the exquisite detailing of the grand staircase. But Keirn wasn’t like most students.

Amongst the detailed figures and near the curve when the stairs made contact with the raised half floor above stood a cracked and broken form. Unlike his compatriots, this figure seemed cleaved and shattered with little but a pair of stumpy calves to mark his spot. His neighbours seemed to look unsympathetically away, as if even the statues dared not look upon that blasted spot.

And from that little hole, Keirn felt something. He couldn’t describe what it was but it felt like a calling that tumbled in the back of his skull. Just looking upon that space made his heart began to pound.

“No,” Keirn muttered. “No… this is not real.”

Suddenly, fingers seemed to wrap about him. Cold flesh squeezed his exposed skin and Keirn felt a dizzying strike of lightning flash across his vision. Instinctively, his muscles tensed and a force before him seemed to pull harder against his resistance.

A flash of white seared his vision before Keirn blinked and found himself looking up at the familiar soft features of the damnable bard.

“Found anything yet?” Derrek asked, holding the clinking bone chime in his hands.

A scraping pain peeled across Keirn’s brain as he rubbed his eyes and looked around. His friend was still standing in his linen braies in the guard quarters. He looked expectantly at Keirn.

“Wha- where?”

“Have you figured it out yet?”

“By the Seven Sisters what are you nattering about?”

Derrek’s simple answer was to thrust the chime back into Keirn’s hands. With a whip of force and pop of air Keirn felt himself blinking back at the library.

He raised his hands to his head, crying out at the pound of pain smashing against his skull.

“Is that what you’ve done?!” Keirn cried. “Is this some kind of game to you?”

Silence answered back. Not even the phantasmal scratches whispered amongst those walls.

Of course this was Derrek’s doing. It had to be his all along.

“I won’t do it!” Keirn cried. “Fling one of your other friends into their own head!”

Keirn brushed a few scattered books away then hunkered down rebelliously upon the floor. But the moments ticked by with nary a hint of change. Keirn knew Derrek couldn’t keep him here forever. Eventually his concentration would waver and end. If the sorcerer had to wager on his friend’s persistence against his own stubbornness, it was a bet he was certain to win. And he’d much rather that than face the empty alcove.

But that tickling in the back of his mind struck a familiar cord deep within him. There was something there, something far too alien for his friend to know but far too comfortable for Keirn to ignore. And if this world was of his friend’s creation, how could he know? Unless…

Keirn looked around, feeling a sudden shiver take his whole body and cause every hair to stand on end. It was night here. He knew that. This light was nothing but a phantasm. He came with a cloak of twilight on his own. But if his friend’s illusion had led him here, had he been truly alone when he donned that disguise?

Keirn peered down the stacks again, searching for some hidden, prying eyes. Some secrets were never meant to be uncovered.

Keirn slowly pushed himself to his feet then he approached the broken statuette. He extended a hesitant hand slowly into the crevice.

A great gush of chilling wind wrapped about him and an unearthly groan filled his ears. Keirn closed his eyes as dust and dirt sought his vision and he raised his naked arms in futile defence against the assault. He felt the ground shift beneath his feet and the air grew frigid. His head pounded through the force of his will as the entire library seemed to rebel against his desires. But darkness eventually snatched him as the master of the world began to change hands.

There were some things Derrek couldn’t know and Keirn was certain to keep those things hidden.

It mattered not for when the wind died and Keirn lowered his arms, he was in an all too familiar chamber. Candles flickered in the gloom, casting sinister shadows over rough hewed walls that had been abandoned long before the hammers could finish matching the ornamentation of the grand library far overhead. Here was a place meant to be forgotten and buried had persistent eyes not seen beyond what others overlooked.

Keirn looked down at his hands and the red candle flickering between his fingers. Thirty-six candles were needed but Keirn used only thirty six points in the seal at his feet. The thick blotches of spilled wax dotted the perimeter and he slowly stepped into the circle as he raised his face.

Between the cracked columns rested the statue. A young chin drew back the shadows, smooth and unblemished unlike the hole that it occupied. He was a hunter and warrior that was plain to see. But this faceless being was cast in darkness now, his name long lost to places where none could know. Some terrible tragedy had beset him, the slain hounds at his feet suggested just as much. But it was the broken bow and spear that painted clear the defeat and the talons of a great eagle had torn its price from those muscular arms.

The candles sputtered and Keirn could feel his heart begin to pound.

“This is why the words were familiar to you,” Keirn whispered. “You had heard them before.”

He turned in the circle, holding the candle high overhead to pierce the darkness. But only emptiness greeted him, the shadows too reticent to betray their keeper. Keirn tried to pull back the veil but the pain tore at his mind. He shook the stubborn pride from his thoughts. It would have to be one battle he’d concede.

“I thought I’d come alone. I thought no one else knew. The door had remained hidden for so long that I didn’t even think to close it fully that night. Who would look there anyway without knowing the key? But you’ve always seemed to know things that you shouldn’t. As if someone or something else guided you through the dark.”

The candles sputtered again and in that shifting darkness behind him Keirn could hear the soft whispers.

“I’d only hoped for that same power, you know. For the same guidance you seemed to hold. How could I know how wrong I was?”

The whispers grew but before they could become audible a great howl enveloped Keirn. The sound of ghostly hounds braying in the night filled the tight space, pressing out all other sounds. Yet Keirn refused to turn back to that statue.

“I confess, I’ve made some mistakes. But how could I know what I was about to commit? Sometimes there are no obvious answers and when you look beyond the registered teachings you can’t know for certain what you’ll find.”

A heat began to grow but it rose not from the candles. The braying grew louder as the shadows danced madly about him. Keirn closed his eyes, trying to shut the visions and sounds from his mind. But even in the darkness shone those infernal candles. And though he stood blinded and unmoving in that seal, he could feel a form moving about him – a younger form and certainly one more foolish.

He wanted to call out. He wanted to warn him of the danger. But he knew it was futile. Some mistakes were impossible prevent.

Slowly, he opened one eye followed by the other. He watched as a ghostly figment moved through him. It was little more than a wisp of a memory, but the young man barely more than a boy, moved with awkward uncertainty. He was tentative with each placement of the ritual’s components and in the transparent face reflecting in the candlelight, Keirn could see the doubt in his eyes.

Once the last of the preparations had been completed, the youth stood before the statue. The last vestiges of his hesitation seemed to slowly drain from him. He set his jaw defiantly, stepped to the centre of the seal and began to chant.

How he had practised those words every night, forcing their archaic sounds to spill effortlessly from his lips. In the shadows of the quietest chambers he’d rehearsed, as far from prying eyes and listening ears as he could be certain. When paranoia took hold, he’d taken to stealing off the grounds in the evenings, finding secluded grottoes where the tumble of the water would drown out the echo of his own words.

As the last utterance passed his tongue, Keirn turned to the statue, his heart dreading what would come next. But as his eyes swept across those dark walls, his vision seemed to blur and meld together. He felt dizzy, the world seeming to rush rapidly past.

Then came a familiar glare of light.

Derrek wrenched the bone chime from Keirn’s fingers.

“Have you-”

“Yes, yes!” Keirn cried, standing to his feet. He wavered for a moment as the room began to spin about him. But he grabbed hold of the closest bunk to steady himself. He waited for his mind to finally clear before looking around the quarters.

“We’re going to have to move some things before we can proceed.”

Keirn turned to Derrek.

“And I’m not doing all the heavy lifting.”

Continue to Cry of the Glasya Part 8 >

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Cry of the Glasya Part 6

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< Return to Cry of the Glasya Part 5

It’s hot and unpleasant. Summer is not my favourite season of the year. I’m more of a middling spring/fall kind of guy. On the plus side, it’s the perfect excuse to get a use out of basements which mostly stay ignored and neglected all year.

Anyway, let’s continue on with our adventures with bad summons and we’ll see if we can’t finish them soon.

Cry of the Glasya art taken from the Ars Goetia. And you thought the others were weird.

It was the sound of familiar voices that ended Keirn’s tour across the keep’s walls. They were remarkably loud, drifting up from the courtyard like a rabble of angry crows. He peered over the edge, experiencing the peculiar sensation of viewing himself from different eyes.

The four of them stood before the knight captain, pulled from his duties to inspect the new hires. Jeremiah stood regally in his hastily polished suit. The plates of his mail gleamed in the sun overhead. But though he felt he gave off the appearance of some distinguished warrior, from Keirn’s spot it was all too easy to spot the dents in the metal and the worn straps. His boots were dirty from all their hiking and his sword could use a bit more care.

Derrek was far more presentable of the lot, with his brilliant flowing hair and eye catching features. It was unfortunate that he took too little interest in the interaction with their employer, especially when word of the entertainer of the evening was dropped. Keirn could see his shoulders droop at the mention of Licia’s name and the lute tapped limply at his side.

Kait was more taken with the apparent keep than the occupants or work that would be required inside. Amongst the sacks and bags strapped about her like some overburdened mule lay the thin, curved wood of a bow and hand fletched quiver of arrows. Her interests were varied but seemed more consumed by talk of hounds, stables and architecture than it did about rumoured assassins and paranoid dukes.

The only one of their group that paid any attention to the knight captain was the sorcerer himself. And Keirn couldn’t help but frown at his rather seemingly lanky frame draped in the clothes of a traveller with the start of an unkempt beard bristling his face. He appeared far more the vagabond than he thought and couldn’t help but think that his hair could really use a good cutting.

And even then, it was less the required guarding that drew his attention and more the promised feast.

“And when shall this meal be served?”

“The Duke wishes to celebrate at the crack of eve. The sun crests the tips of the distant mountains and makes for an excellent backdrop for the banquet hall.”

“Yes, yes and surely someone will be required to sample his food. You know, to insure that he won’t be poisoned.”

“He does employ a cup bearer.”

“My good sir,” plain clothed Keirn sighed, “we aren’t just talking about the cups. You see, we are adventurers that have travelled far and wide and know our fair share of honourable lords that have fallen to more nefarious means. No, the more sinister poison is mixed in as oils for breads, stews for vegetables or even glazes on hams. There are hams, yes?”

“A… boar is being roasted upon a spit as we speak.”

“Spit-roasted! Heavens, the most foulest of ways to go. I suggest we begin our duties in the kitchens immediately. Best ensure that the foods are cooked to a proper degree that’ll prevent any would-be assassin from murdering the innards.”

“That really isn’t necessary. Mostly you’ll be required to stand guard over the grand ha-”

“Speak no more, fair captain, for you have hired the merry band of Keirn Faden. Amongst our numbers are Kait, the seasoned baker who saved a kingdom through her savory muffins.”

“I did no such-”

“And Jeremiah the Bold! A chef so desired that he was summoned to the wind blasted steppes to show a glorious warlord the perfect wine for decoction. Then there’s Derrek who… who…”

“I’m pretty good at roasting turnips.”

“Who’s pretty damned good at roasting turnips.”

“Look, just report to the quartermaster for some… proper supplies and we’ll get you posted…”

“Your coin is well earned!” called Keirn beckoning for his friends to follow. “We’ll be dressed proper for the feast, you can count on us!”

“And a bloody good feast it was,” guard Keirn muttered, feeling his stomach grumble at the memory. “Only because Jeremiah saved the roast from those incompetent chefs.”

Keirn was tempted to follow his past self and see if he couldn’t once again obtain a sample of the foods before they were served. However, he feared the ramifications of perhaps alerting his past self to his future self’s existence. He was unfamiliar with magicks of time and space but felt such an unnatural occurence would no doubt lead to some greater travesty. No, it was better to identify this assassin and prevent the entire massacre and the kitchens were not the location of the crime.

Even if the boar was delicious.

Keirn hurried along the ramparts, making a strict beeline for the audience chamber. With the knight-captain distracted with his past self, he should be able to hide himself amongst the galleries and discover the identity of the mysterious saboteur.

Accessing the hall from the ramparts proved a far more trying task than Keirn anticipated. It was made further difficult by the noise of his clunking armour and his desire to avoid any confrontation with the steadily increasing amount of bodies in the buildings.

It was remarkable that someone had managed to prepare the summoning with all this attention. How did no one spot something suspicious with all these eyes peeled for anything suspicious?

Keirn emerged into the galleries to find Licia’s performing troupe already taking up their spots. Directions were shouted as the entertainers arranged their equipment. Raucous strings were strummed, horns were touted and the entire symphony seemed intent on blaring as much cacophony as they could while they were not under the pressure of an audience.

They paid Keirn little attention, the regalia on his suit giving him enough explanation for his presence. But, once again, it seemed impossible for anyone to organize the likely rigorous preparations required to summon the demon. This was getting Keirn nowhere.

“How goes the investigation?”

Keirn spun, finding Licia looking at him expectantly. Her fingers tapped her arms impatiently and he could tell she was re-evaluating her previous decision to give him free roam.

“It… uh… goes. Making lots of progress.”

“Is that so?”

Keirn nodded.

“Just checking up on things here. You wouldn’t happen to know anyone that knows magic?”

“I’ve already told you that bards have a tendency for picking up the odd ritual here and there.”

“Rituals, precisely!” Keirn said. “See, there was this seal but it was like hidden so no one would see it.”

“An invisible seal?”

Keirn could tell she wasn’t buying it.

“Yeah, you wouldn’t know if anyone is versed in summoning, would you?”

“Back to blaming me for this supposed murder?”

“No, no. Not you. See, the Duke’s only been here for three years and the Earl…”

Keirn paused as a thought struck him with the full force of a knight’s charge.

“I… need to check something…”

“Indeed. This wouldn’t happen to be the kitchens, would it?”

Keirn cocked his head.

“I saw you, out of your disguise I might add, heading there with some of your confederates. I must say that you managed to get changed rather quickly.”

“Then you know I speak the truth when I say I know Derrek!”

“Derrek! Yes…”

Licia looked over the rails at the entertainers working. Keirn then recalled that his friend had disappeared for a time before the feast.

“You know, I don’t think we ever established how you know him.”

“It’s really not important!” Licia said quickly. “Well, carry on with your search then!”

And she turned, her long braid whipping like a frightened snake as she hurried from the hall.

“I don’t have time for this,” Keirn muttered with a shake of his head. He hurried towards the corridor. He had to find the old Earl’s rooms.

If the guard was to be believed, it would be located near the top floors of the keep. And, presumably, it would still be abandoned if their superstitions still stood. He found the curving staircase ascending to the higher floors, his boots taking the steps as quickly as they could. The clatter of the metal made it sound like a legion of soldiers hurried in his wake.

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Cry of the Glasya Part 5

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There is a confession I should make. I don’t understand feudal peerage. Every time I start writing one of these things I’m constantly spending time on Wikipedia and the web in general checking and cross-referencing the damn caste system established so long ago. I keep meaning to do a deeper study of it so I don’t have wonder whether a Duke is higher or lower than a Viscount and what the hell a Baronet is.

Of course, I still haven’t gotten around to it so I mostly do the standard trope of tossing some fancy titles out there to make it sound extravagant. The devil, as they say, is in the details. And typically the details are worked out in the editing process that these shorts generally miss.

So to all those big Medieval history buffs out there, I apologize. For the rest of us, who cares if an Earl is greater than a Duke. None of us would ever have any of these silly titles anyway. On to the next part!

I don’t even know what this is trying to be. Art for the Cry of the Glasya story, I suppose.

The sun shone brightly above as Keirn clanked up the steps. He clutched the haft of the halberd with unsure hands, frowning as the ridges of his gauntlets pressed uncomfortably into his skin. He was certain he was going to have ring imprints all over him for the rest of his life.

He scanned the length of the ramparts, pausing briefly to marvel at the majesty of the fluttering banners held in their posts. Like a sea of crisp standards, the exterior of the keep had been lavished with just as much attention as the inside. Whatever special occasion the Duke was celebrating, he was sparing no expense.

Keirn clanked along, keeping a bored eye out on the town as he passed. He didn’t know what he was expected to watch for. It wasn’t like an army was going to march up to the gates. The threat was far more subtle and wholly impossible to detect from this location. Perhaps after he made a quick round he could sneak back to the throne room. Maybe take up perch in the galleries where it would be harder for a random passer-by to find him.

He paused, feeling the heat of the sun and weight of the armour pressing down. He leaned against the stone rampart, enjoying the moment as he caught his breath.

All too late he heard the more sure footsteps of another. As he fumbled quickly for his halberd, his armoured fingers knocked the weapon to the ground with a clatter.

An arm bent and retrieved his weapon, holding it out to him.

“You must be new here.”

“What gave it away?” Keirn asked, taking the halberd back. Quickly, he added, “was hired just today actually.”

“Not much surprise,” the guard said, joining Keirn against the wall. “The Duke’s been throwing money at mercenaries and the like for the last fortnight. Seems he’s willing to give pay to anyone that can hold a weapon… or wear a suit.”

“And even to those who can’t do either.”

Keirn caught a forgiving smile.

“Have you been here long?”

“Most my life,” the guard responded. He stretched a long arm over the rampart. “That there is my humble home. Had aspirations of becoming a squire and perhaps one day a night. But… well… funny thing about aspirations.”

“So the Duke hasn’t always been this paranoid?”

“Ha, the man hasn’t always run this keep. I can say things were far better before he took up the throne.”

“He hasn’t always ruled?”

“Three years to the day. And with each passing night he seems to grow more and more anxious. At first we didn’t think much of it. New lord would surely be worried over his security especially given the circumstances of his arrival.”

Keirn looked at the man curiously.

“What do you mean?”

“Not from around here, eh?”

“To be honest, my friends and I were just passing through. We didn’t think much of the place but jumped at the opportunity for coin. Was a little surprised to find such a keep in a place like…” Keirn stopped himself before he said anything truly stupid about the other man’s home.

But the guard only laughed.

“Don’t worry, I’ve heard worse. Many travellers like to comment how Etreria has some decrepit fort while backwater Gelph has this resounding keep. What they don’t know is that this used to be the centre for a powerful kingdom.”

“Sounds like there’s a tale in there.”

The guard shrugged.

“Perhaps but I ain’t a bard.”

“Probably for the best. I’ve had my share of them for the day.”

“Aye but have you seen the one the Duke brought in? That man certainly spares no expense.”

Keirn watched the banners for a moment as he puzzled the guard’s words.

“So what happened to the old Duke?”

“Earl,” the guard corrected. He stood, looking up and down the rampart as if he suspected the knight captain to be standing over his shoulder. He then leaned in close to Keirn. “Rightly no one truly knows. Word amongst the quarters was some dodgy visitors came up to the keep one night demanding to see the Earl’s wife. Obviously, the Earl wouldn’t take such a flagrant show of disrespect. Had them locked up for the night to teach them some manners. But when they went to release them in the morning, they had apparently vanished.”

“Did the Earl have a change of heart?”

“You didn’t know the Earl.” The guard shook his head. “He was right jumping that day. I missed the whole event but he had us turn the entire keep over searching for them. Threatened to lock all those involved with handling the guests in the stocks. I think he was convinced they were looking for some improper dealings with his wife and the guards were conspiring with those folk.

“I remember him saying we were to arrested any of them on sight if they showed up in town again. Would have been quite the feat since no one seemed to have any good idea of what they looked like. Kind of strange, how the entire staff and even the Earl couldn’t quite get a good description of their faces.”

“That does sound odd. What happened next.”

“Lots of stuff. Can’t hardly even remember what order it was in either.”

The guard looked at the edge of his halberd, turning the weapon in his hands to slowly reflect to glare of the sun.

“The Earl and Countess had quite a few fights the following nights. Most of us tried to keep our heads down and avoid what we could. I couldn’t even tell you what they even fought over.

“More peculiar were the complaints from the scullery. Had us running all over the damn grounds searching for missing hounds or raided larders. Truthfully, I was thankful for the distraction and excuse from the throne room. But…”

The guard paused once more.

It was clear he was about to say something and thought better of it.

“But what?”

Keirn straightened, regarding the man’s features. He seemed momentarily reminiscent, letting some fleeting recollections pass quietly by. But the guard merely shook his head.

“Nothing. I should complete my rounds.”

“But you haven’t yet explained what happened to the Earl!”

The guard hesitated one last time before letting the spirit of gossip finally win over.

“Well, it’s like this. The Earl got really withdrawn. Like, he refused to see audiences, refused to see the Countess started demanding the servants stay out of his rooms. He wouldn’t eat. He wouldn’t even leave for his garderobe. The servants would have to collect a bucket deposited outside his door.”

“You think he suspected something of the servants?”

The guard shrugged.

“No one knew what to make of it. By the time the bucket stopped appearing the knight captain decided to investigate. The door to the Earl’s chambers were barred from the inside and after hollering for some time at it, he ordered it bashed down. By the time we broke through, we found nothing.”

“What do you mean nothing?”

“Just… nothing.”

“The Earl was gone? Perhaps he just left in the middle of the night.”

The guard shook his head.

“You don’t understand. It wasn’t just the Earl that was missing. His entire private chambers had been cleared. No desks. No chests. No bedposts. Nothing.”

“What?”

“Precisely!” The guard accentuated his point with a raised finger. “We poked around. There was the burnt fragments of something in the fire pit. Caulder thought it looked like the remainder of his bed. His windows were opened so we thought perhaps he’d fashioned some makeshift ladder and scrambled out. Instead we found the ruins of some furniture that had obviously been pitched but nothing to suggest he’d escaped that way. And the keep is quite large, I couldn’t imagine the Earl trying to scramble down its side with his… stature.”

“What of the Countess?”

“She hadn’t been allowed inside for some time either. She was quite shaken by the discovery. The knight captain suspected some sort of foul mischief and had a retinue posted about her. I was told that she simply couldn’t deal with the Earl’s sudden disappearance and had a few trunks packed before mounting her carriage and leaving quickly into the night. She was gone before the knight captain was even woken from his sleep.”

“That must have created quite the chaos for the knight captain.”

“That’s just the thing. Two days later the Duke rolls up in some fancy carriage with a proclamation of his right. There was no way the messenger would have arrived by then and yet he was here making the transition seamless. And aside from having his room moved, he made no comment on the Earl.”

“And now he’s fearful of an assassination on the three year anniversary of the Earl’s disappearance.”

“Well,” the guard paused, “when you put it that way it sounds downright sinister. You think there’s actually something going to happen?”

Keirn clasped the guard’s shoulder.

“I’d probably try and find a post that’s not in the audience chamber today.”

Continue to Cry of the Glasya Part 6 >

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