Shadows & Sorcery #141
The celebrations come and they don’t STOP coming because this one hundred and forty first edition of Shadows & Sorcery arrives on the heels of our three year anniversary with the SIX HUNDREDTH STORY!
Not gonna tell you which one’s the actual 600th story btw
If you think that’s absolutely ridiculous, you’re not alone, because I also think this. Who let this happen? You did! And thank you for letting it happen! I don’t have an actual word count on hand, finding that would be something of an undertaking, but if we assume each S&S story very roughly averages out at, say, 700 words, and we put 600 of them bad boys together, that’s like 420,000 words. Almost certainly quite a bit more. And numerous people have read every single one of them! Good heavens, just imagine that.
Hey, if you just signed up or missed out on last week’s anniversary special, give it some love and check it out HERE!
And lastly, my friends, please take a second to tap that little heart button and let the stories know you liked them!
This week, we peek behind the veil of the Sealed Cosmos, we jump into the action with our Sorcery Hammer, and we get the lowdown on what lurks in the War Wilderness…
Sealed Cosmos
Even now, knowing all they did, and being able to do what they could do, they found it hard to believe, to really comprehend, that the world was as dark as those most ancient of scriptures described. And yet they knew it was stone cold truth. The need of a sacrifice, the likes of which was made to imprison Them behind the Seals, must never come to pass again, for the greed and arrogance of mankind would set the Powers behind the Seals to its designs.
And before they knew it, the world would be under their grasp once and forevermore.
Three figures in amber robes passed along an earthen side road in the heart of the old town. Half-dry black mud, sitting puddles, damp grey stone, weather-stained wood, and a sky casting its pallid, diffuse light from behind a bank of heavy, slate-grey clouds made for an exceptionally dour and exhausted vista. It was reflected in the muted chattering and lethargic movements of the locals who spied the passing curates, making the prescribed signs of general beneficence over themselves should eyes fall on them. The curates did their part and stopped a few times to wave their hands about before moving on. The vigilance was good to see, for both parties.
They ducked then into a deep porch, over which hung a badly faded sign. Inside was a small door set into a thick frame, and they had to bow their heads as they entered. It was a long, low, smoky room, poorly lit and probably for good reason. A few furtive shapes half turned their heads and froze when the amber robes stood out. But they weren't here for trouble. The trio made a line directly for the bar, behind which was a stout woman who waited for a second before handing a packet to one of the curates. They made a beneficent sign each, and left without a word.
Only through the faith could Their existence be hinted at, and warned against. If one wanted to pass wisdom down through the ages, make it sacred. In a time before time, the curates would repeat, a mighty Hero forged onwards and into the fastness of the Dark Ones, and used their own power to banish them from the world, and only through vigilance would they remain so. This tale, and the constructed rites and prayers of the faith, were mostly veiled truths: what dwelt behind the Seals was indeed Doom. But it was of a far stranger form than most folk were ready to know of, as was the nameless Hero of popular myth. With this benevolent falsehood, those who could Shift the Seals could choose whom they taught and how, but alas, never could they control the knowledge. Things had inevitably leaked out over the long years. Apostates, heretics, these dire names and more were levelled against rogues with reason, though it could never be revealed, only smothered in easily digestible zealotry.
It mostly worked. The necessary displays by secret Shifters of the catastrophes awaiting humanity behind the Seals, all to dissuade too many questions, were becoming more common than anyone was comfortable with. But the fight must be kept up.
Some ways beyond the old town, a dark tangle of forest sunk into a deep ravine or steep depression in the undulating countryside. It spread its limbs across the low land between the uneven rises, but was concentrated in one particular spot, which was home to the most horrible stories. It seems those stories had been providing the perfect cover for a cabal of rogue Shifters.
The art by which the Seals may be Shifted was granted, it was told, so that the Great One's descendants, each and every one of them all over the plane, could aid in their maintenance. What the Shifters had learned early on was the simple, staggering truth: every Shifter was accessing the same Seals. If too many Shifted a single Seal at once...well, the horror of it washed over them almost in unison, for the these thoughts rushed to the forefront whenever they were sent to assassinate rouge Shifters.
Someone had made sure that the only thing resembling a path between the twisting trees and snaking boughs was as difficult to traverse as possible. A boulder of prodigious size blocked the sodden passage, but by the looks of it, the rogues they expected to find within knew how to bypass it. That worried them. The stone was uniquely warped in several locations all down its face, looking as if melded, or one might absurdly think, stitched back together multiple times. It wasn't a problem for them, though. One of the trio stepped forward, and with two fingers on the left hand, she drew a small circle in the air, and then with both of her hands, made a combination of interlocking motions. The stone, as if a great pile of gelatin or tallow, suddenly rippled and pulled itself apart. The trio stepped through hurriedly, and she quickly drew the circle again, only this time in the opposite direction. Closing the Seal was the first thing she, and the rest of them, had ever learned.
The hands were believed to be, and taught to be understood, as tools. Hands were the method by which mankind interacted with the world, and set it to form and function. This was true. Hands were also how Seals were Shifted. The methods by which Shifting was achieved was akin, students had said over the years, to picking a lock. An apt metaphor if there ever was one. The careful and precise motions and joinings of the palms and fingers were functionally impossible for a person to accurately replicate by accident in the course of daily life. It did happen now and again, but such events were minor, and thus usually chalked up to the supernatural.
But the folks here seemed to have gathered more than a few scraps of motions.
From their vantage point on a short ridge, one of the Shifters unleashed a sudden harsh, searing wind that caused the dense, dark woodland to erupt into spasms. The three rogues below, who had been gathered around a meagre camp studying a great black grimoire, fell back, dropping their tome. One of them, a tall, thin, sallow fellow shot a glance up towards the amber-robed curates who stood imposing, hoping to wear them quickly into submission by their authority. Instead, he looked down to his hands, and began a slow, but well-practiced series of motions, almost like reaching into something, and opening it up. A ripple flew across the earth before him and up the ridge, causing the ground to all but liquefy into a thick, roiling mud. He had no idea what he was actually unleashing.
The first curate set to closing their opened Seal, while another made a series of quick, sharp motions inside a circle, and from the air itself several flaming red darts left serpentine trails in the air as they flew out. The Seal was closed but the darts flew, blasting with screeching billows of smoke into the earth, the trees, and one of the rogues who fell back with a panicked scream. Though evenly numbered, they were terribly outmatched. The final curate Shifted a Seal, and suddenly a blanket of smothering darkness fell across the forest.
They were lit by only two things: the sputtering campfire, and the angry red embers of the Sealfire. The curates came together, and closed the Seal whose disruptive force was dissolving the landscape. The land ceased to move under the Power's influence, and solidified into frightful, jagged shapes of clay and filth. A call was sent out to the rogues.
"You have come this far, and have learned this much. Are you willing to go farther?"
It sounded like an offer, but it was in truth a challenge. The alternative, as it had been for many other heretics, witches, apostates, and such rogues, must always be death.
Sorcery Hammer
With a singing arc, the hammer struck with the sound of a great gong and the lunging orc erupted into raging flames, its very bones flaking to black ash before it even hit the ground. But the swing didn't stop, and the battlemage crouched low, grasping the hammer head. With a deft twist of its topmost and leftmost sections into a new configuration, the battlemage flung the head down in a short strike upon the bare stone, and a great golden hand rose from the ground, palm out, causing the boulder which hurtled forwards to crumble into harmless dust.
The boss orc screeched and snorted, the nostrils on its snout flaring. It threw out a meaty paw, two fingers extended, and the final two minions lumbered forth, clanking in heavy plate. The boss' primes. One held a great flat-topped cleaving blade and spiked shield, the other bore a rough iron ball on a long length of thick, spiked chain, and it was the latter which shot out with a quick spin--no time to configure, the battlemage ducked and dove forward, but didn't bet on the swift reflexes of his opponent, who immediately tugged the chain back, raking the spikes across the battlemage's back.
Three middle twists, count them carefully, he thought. With loud, solid clicks the hammer head's middle section was turned to form a new sigil upon its front face. Just as the chain-bearing orc began to swing its chain high in the air, eyes red beneath its barred visor, the battlemage slipped his hand down to the long leathern hoop and spun it in tandem. The front face sigil began to glow and hum. The chain orc gave a roaring laugh--the battlemage returned it, but the attack wasn't aimed towards it, rather the battlemage spun and threw out a wide crackling blue arc that flew into the raised shield of the cleaver orc, sundering the spiked wall into a useless battered length of metal, and knocking the beast back.
Turning back to the chain orc, the rough iron ball blasted over the battlemage's head by a hair's breadth, the sphere crashing into the nearby remains of a wall. The cleaver orc had regained its feet and was charging forth, bellowing orcish curses, cleaver held high--there was no doubt it could split him from shoulder to hip. The two side sections of the hammer head were turned twice, and then both the top and middle sections once. There were few charged sigils left in the hammer. This needed to end quickly. There emerged from the hammer head then a series of short, wavering, translucent feelers. The battlemage simply held it out in a low stance, and the incoming cleaver snapped to the hammer with a resounding clang, and try as the orc might, wouldn't budge. Battlemage and orc fought for control, but swift timing beat brute force and the cleaver was flung harmlessly away. Two wide, solid smacks to the orc's helmet and it keeled over.
The chain orc had freed its weapon and was now swinging it about wildly, sending chunks of stone flying. The battlemage dodged in, twisting the top section of the head once, and the left side thrice--but not fully, and on another swing, held the hammer with two hands and let the chain wrap around it. With a quick twist of the elbow, the left section slotted into place, and yellow bolts of lightning cascaded across the chain, sending the orc into convulsions before it fell to the earth, the chain rattling upon the ground.
The boss orc loomed over the scene. With only three great strides, it met the battlemage, gave another snort, and clapped him on the arm. It drew out a thick vellum page or orcish sigils and put it in his hand, then gave a kind of low hoot--of admiration, he believed--and left.
War Wilderness
Scrapper's Guild is safe, lass, as long as you're smart. You'll learn the lay of the land fairly quick. I mean, it's not as if we're short of landmarks, eh?
So, the big ones: the Twin Valleys are off limits, they're just too dangerous. Gangs prowl them, the remains of the bridges, and the Grand Ridge--whole area's a warzone and it's not so much running into gangers that's the issue as it is getting caught in the crossfire. Don't bother.
The Pillar Peaks may as well be off limits because you can't get to them without crossing the valleys, see? But everyone has their eyes on them. The Pillars of Heaven, or so they were, the stories go. We hope one day enough bands join together and either put the gangs in order, or just wipe them out, so we can see what the gods left laying around in there. Maybe in future, eh? We Scrappers'll be the last to see it, though, so keep your eyes and mind elsewhere. You listening to me, lass?
The Forest. Also off limits. Don't ask why. We do know, but neither myself nor any guilder--hells, no ganger will tell you why, if they know why, and you are better off not knowing. Listen, lass. If you're going to take to heart a single thing I say here, please let it be that. Don't worry, you'll know if you get too close it. You'll know. Trust me. Anyway.
Now, the Planes of Arko will be your proving ground, in the beginning. Big stretch of rolling country, rotten brown, ashy grey, full of gouged out trenches. Millions, and I mean millions of soldiers clashed in battles they say you could hear leagues away! Don't doubt it, either, enough scrap down there to keep us going for generations. Mostly you'll be looking for armour sections, blades, anything decent and especially anything whole. Even shirts of maille from back then fetch a good price nowadays, considering the wonders some folk bring back.
Once you've some experience, you'll join some of the others on excursions to the City of Aureas. Ah, you can still see it shining in the west some nights. Up close it's...well, it has an effect on people. You'll be told all this before you even set foot in it, but be careful in there. Something about it just gets to certain folks. I've seen a few guilders reduced to tears inside it, seen them come back and they're just not the same. They say the same thing, too, and--see, this is the stuff I don't know I should be telling you. I've been told off for this more than once, I can't be going around, filling your head--
Okay. Alright.
Shame. It's shame, they say. Like they've seen something so bad, they just can't go on. Like they feel responsible. I know, it's strange, but...suppose I can't blame them, I mean, it was the City of Aureas, the jewel of the world. And we left it like that? Does something to a body, you know? But look, I know this all sounds very strange, but the War was strange! End of the world stuff, and that's not stories. No I'm not that old, what, you think the world was always like this?
Right, what's next...the Divide. A lot of that's stripped clean, but there's good scrap to be found if you take your time. It's safe, so if you've the time to spare, go out, look around. Almost never anything funny happens out there now.
Which brings me, lass, to the next bit. This is arguably more important, so if you'd please, take a seat and listen.
Rival guilders and gangers aren't the only thing you've to worry about out in the field. See, the guilds are the best option for a living because we pool our resources, we share, we allocate, which means protection. Something you've got to understand, and you will in time, was the scale of the War. The entire northern span of the world, lass, that's gone. And it didn't begin suddenly or end in a big bang, it ramped up and faded away. A lot of things were left behind. Yes, such as what we scrap. And also weapons...and relics...and people...and things that aren't people any longer.
Many who fought in the War were a little more than human. I'm talking Heroes, Demigods, Avatars, Aspects, I'm talking enchanted knights and high magisters and the like. People who don't die to easily is the point, lass. People still out there. Lost, broken, mad, feral. And they wander. That's why you get protection, to spy out the really nasty stuff before it spies you. Hells, the stories alone--nevermind you mind what I've seen!--what I've heard would curdle your brains. Don't like talking about it, though. Most don't. Seeing people who were meant to be legends, reduced to the things I've seen them do. Seen a few die, too. Miserable. Felt rotten scrapping them. What an end for a god, eh?
There's beasts roaming everywhere, too, mean things that feast on the ancient carrion and bones. Let them alone, not worth spooking a snakehound or direhawk you think you can run off. Let the guards deal with anything that fancies a fresh meal.
Lastly there's the wizards. Every single last one of them is a disaster waiting to happen. Oh, you'll meet very pleasant ones, very nice people even, eager to cooperate, join forces, share the spoils--yeah, don't believe a word of it. Avoid anyone else out there. Best case scenario is they're a dangerous thief, but worst case scenario? You've a necromancer with big ideas and you're going to end up as part of one. If you can kill them, though, good scrap.
Which brings me to the actual final point. We're scrappers, yeah, but...don't overlook anything, you get me? There's Jeweller's and Smith's and Arcanist's Guilds, and we might have agreements, but we haven't survived as long as we have just being nice and well-behaved, eh? We've channels here, don't you worry.
So, lass, looking forward to your first trip out?