Shadows & Sorcery #112
And all of a sudden, happy new year and happy one hundred and twelfth edition of Shadows & Sorcery!
This week’s edition has an idea behind it: I want it to serve as a kind of introduction to a new setting I hope to flesh out in real time in this very publication, right before your eyes! You may recognize some names, because it appeared once before in a three-part tale some time ago, but consider that merely a prototype. This is the real thing.
What the hell am I talking about? Go find out! You’ll also find an episode with a fearsome dragonmagick wizard below you may remember, too.
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This week, the wizard Alzared faces a rather troubling situation in Sepulchre of the Serpent, we gaze upon the mystic secrets of the Conjuror’s Armour, and we learn the secret power of a Ritual Death…
Sepulchre of the Serpent
A number of things had wormed their way into Alzared's mind over the course of the night. Things that by themselves warranted no suspicion, but he had developed something of a nose for odd behaviours after one too many encounters. What had presented itself as the gracious and generous elder host of a small forest village had quickly became a fawning almost reverence. Alzared did not begrudge his fellow man any notions of reverence—but reverence can all too often lead to blind worship, and there were things that would take advantage of that.
Alzared was, of course, also a wizard, and carried quite openly his silver sceptre with its dark orb of pure dragonblood. He had made some subtle motions earlier in the evening, calling forth its power to neutralize anything untoward in his drink, and it seemed that he had been observed. Almost certainly they feared his power, or desired his power...or, he secretly brooded betwixt raucous tall tales of his wanderings, they didn't want him—they wanted the dragonblood.
It had crossed his mind that there was a chance they were simple thieves, too. The sceptre was of greyfolk silver, shaped in the depths of this very forest realm. A fine instrument and attractive to even untrained eyes. But no matter their intent, innocent or not, one hand lay near the sceptre at all times, ready to call forth by its design the draconic power it held fast. Into the wee hours did Alzared humour the villagers, and it wasn't until ale stores ran dry and tales became a bit too fuzzy to remember did the elder speak to the wizard in low tones by the light of guttering candles and a low flickering hearth.
"Would you honour us, traveller, by coming to our sanctum, and looking upon the greatest treasure of this meagre village, so that perhaps you may speak of it in your tales?"
Alzared acquiesced favourably, but not once had his caution waned, and he walked by the elder's side, hand resting upon the silver sceptre that depended from the wide leather belt about his waist. His bronzed flesh and slate grey robes must have made him seem somewhat dark and fearsome in the twilight passage they now traversed, considering the more pallid, stony complexion of the villagers in their bright dress. There could be anything at the end of this corridor, he mused. An ambush. A trap. Nothing he couldn't handle, he knew. But darker thoughts crossed his mind unbidden, and flashes of scales and braziers of blood refused to leave him.
At last they gained the wide wooden portal. The elder began to open it, and looked back only once with a grin. Alzared braced for any sound behind him. Four villagers had followed, after all. But it wasn't them that caught his attention now. The chamber beyond the passage was roughly fashioned, if at all, with rugged stone walls and pillars of dripping rock. In the midst of this was a long flat slab, itself crudely carven, and upon it was something that made the wizard start forth.
"You are a wise man...a wayfarer who has seen wonders..."
Upon the slab lay a corpse. A slender form with elongated limbs, a head that sloped further than any human one should, thin claws, and a curling tail. Taken together, the traits revealed nothing less than a fully formed serpent-man, a thing that had long ago been a human being, and had fallen irrevocably back into the corruption of the ancient dragon overlords. The elder walked to it now with slow, reverent steps. Upon the bare ground the thing were piles and piles of discarded skin...and yellowed, mouldering bones.
"Our prophet, injured many years ago, but who shall reawaken soon." His voice was high and tremulous with faith. He picked up a pile of shed scales and wrapped them around his shoulders. "To even touch this cast-off skin of the immortal is worship, wayfarer. Much blood has been spilled to get here, but the thirst is slaked. Will you join us?"
Alzared didn't hesitate. He grasped the man's shoulder and ripped the sloughed off scales from him, and then threw him aside by the power in his sceptre. There was a scrabbling and confused babbling behind him. They could wait. The wizard didn't let the dragonblood express itself very often, he kept that globule of blood on tight reins. Such was the peril of dragonmagick, even the blood of a dragon almost itself alive and with malevolent will. But here he could gladly make an exception.
The fire roared and hit with the force of a gale wind. Alzared was almost thrown backwards by its sudden release. Flame screamed across the cave-like chamber, devouring entirely the slumbering serpent-man upon the slab, reducing it to a very much dead ash within seconds. The wizard fought to wrench it back and replace it in his belt. Broiling heat flowed from the charred stone chamber. The villagers were cowering by the doorway. Killers. He ought to slay them where they crawled about. But he was glad they were craven and not the zealots he feared. Too many times had he had to put down humans lost to the enemy. But this he could fix.
If they wanted to he remembered in story, let it be one of redemption by their own hands.
Conjuror's Armour
Through a long arched corridor did Prelate Argentus lead his guest, Legate Thraxian, offering witty anecdotes about the various statues and altars that lined its length. The eastern side of the corridor was open to the air and valley below, and evening sunlight flooded the long chamber with roseate light most days. The Legate was accompanying his daughters on a tour of the whole breadth of Regnum Regis, to educate them, he said, as his scions, but also to celebrate their coming of age. While he went to make the rounds with aristocrates and cult officials like the Prelate, they had been left in the capable hands of the Templum Dedicate for instruction on regional civic cult duties. A dry subject matter for most young folk to be sure, but invaluable for future diplomats. And besides, rewards had been promised for dilligent study.
The long gallery through which they passed was a monument to such things—the Prelate had dedicated every altar and eikon himself for visiting dignitaries. The gods were the gods of all the world and all that dwelt within it, but there were many provinces which yet held rites unknown elsewhere that the empire must subsume. The Prelate, a high ranking priest himself, kept up to date on these matters. It never hurt to have a different rite of devotion, or ceremony of supplication, or what have you on hand.
They passed then a particular eikon, a tall, rough statue, or rather carving of dark wood, like a pillar covered in low relief engravings made to resemble a stylized human form bearing a bow and spear. It was the image of a warrior god, known to Regnum Regis as Mares Inverion, but to the horse clans of the dry northern steps as Tematar. It was from a veiled reference made by Legate Thraxian that the Prelate began a series of similarly veiled counter-replies as they stood and admired the rather striking barbarian idol, all of which led finally to the two men shaking hands in the prescribed manner, and revealing to each other their mutual membership in a war cult Mystery.
The Prelate had been a third rank inner initiate for some time now, and was comfortable in the position, as it did not detract from his civic duties. As such, he outranked the Legate, who as yet dwelt in the fourth level, but was advancing quickly. But obeisances aside, they were brothers, and the Prelate offered then to show his kinsman something not many of his guests got the chance to lay eyes on. The Legate of course enthusiastically agreed.
What looked to be a culvert for a slave's entrance or small storage room was in fact a cunningly hidden entrance to a low, square chamber lit by paper lanterns. The shadows hung heavy upon the vaulted ceiling and far corners, lending the space a curious hallowed depth. In the center sat the object of focus—what looked to be a kind of suit of armour. Not like those even elite soldiers wear, for it was more akin to a long thick coat the horse-men in the north wear, going just past the knees, but its whole length was covered in metal plates of gold and silver, each one of them delicately engraved with intricate symbols like flowing letters or characters.
The chest bore a segmented breastplate of jewels and precious metals, overlaid with a larger plate bearing the most complex design of all: a triangle within a diamond within a five pointed star. The band of each one was minutely inscribed in the script of Regnum Regis. Each limb of the star contained symbols known to the initiated as planetary sigils. Enclosing the star were three overlapping circles, their bands too engraved in Regic script.
The armour bore gauntlets of a complexity in keeping with the rest of the set, the thick, somewhat crude plates upon the hands and fingers making up ceremonial words or invocations. A purple mantle about the shoulders was weighed with gold disks, which also had magickal symbols. The helm of the set, though, was different. A shawl of chain about the neck was surmounted by three faces, facing forward and to the sides, the faces were those of wizened sages with the appropriate curling beards. The back of the head, however, rose in a tall forward-curving crescent, like some kind of priest's mitre.
The Legate let his eyes wander this bizarre specimen of secret rites. The Prelate let him take it all in, for it bore clues that it belonged to their very own Mystery. When the Legate turned with an inquisitive look, the Prelate smiled in assent and was proud of his brother.
"The armour you see before you is an old relic, entrusted to me for many years now. It once dwelt with Governor Paloto, but you know what happened to him. It was from a time when our kind spoke more openly, and was heard. When we took to battle and conquest not under civic cult banners but under our own. You see, Legate, any old barbarian can pray for boons and favours—not that I am looking down upon the gifts of our gods!" he said said with a nervous laugh. "But it takes a special sort to rise above the battlefield sacrifice, the cultish orgy, the feverish ritual, and to partake of the refined ceremony of mystical communion. To speak with, and be with a god. You and I, Legate, and our kin in the Mystery, are such a kind."
"The armour was an experiment. To use the names and signs of deific aspects, to be clad in them and direct them by using the body itself as a sort of, how shall I say, instrument for the formation of sacred geometries. An advanced and refined form of the things we already do. It saw one battle. Only one. And much of the working of this armour has been lost. Perhaps intentionally forgotten."
"Why so?"
"Imagine the face of a god bearing down upon a lowly barbarian, every plate shimmering with divine radiance, vast and subtle forces twisting about almost perceptibly. Beyond any battle favour, beyond any barbarian boon, or even the esoteric war-rites of the Alfar, chemyck of the Dwarrow, or frightful maw-magick of the Great Beast—divinity manifest, Legate. Truth that the gods smile on us always."
"Surely that is a point pride for Regnum Regis."
"Indeed. But more precious is the safe keeping of wisdom, Legate. Things were seen that ought not to be seen by those without the right eyes to see."
Ritual Death
The heat of the day had been forgotten in the excitement of the arena—the streak of crimson on the pale sand, the symphony of battle cry and clashing iron, the spectacle of mortal combat, there was no greater rush to true scions of Regnum Regis. Even if your favourite fighter had been slaughtered by a warp spasming brute imported from the distant reaches of Vargeld. They who left the arena now were three in number, clad in the heavy navy blue robes of Chief Rhetors of the Oratorum.
Only a little official business passed between them: civil disturbances due to a shortage of sacrificial animals, allocation of imperial tithes, diplomatic envoys in southern Áéa, another legion marching out west—the latter of which naturally led back to chatter over the day's sport. Tales of the warp spasming Vargeld hordes were common amongst returning soldiers and adventurers, of masses of writhing flesh and rippling muscle tearing across the stark, misty planes and tearing men in half, of howling nightmares roaming the benighted vales and moon-frosted hilltops—but to see a man become a monster! To see the distension and mutation of living flesh before one's eyes, well, it made the rhetors question why in the name of the gods had they not taken and imparted these mighty pagan rites onto their warriors.
"Ah, 'tis too dangerous, I fear," said one of the rhetors, a gaunt fellow with the watery blue eyes of a righteous northerner. "The barbarians of that dark land are addicted to possession. If the words of dozens of well respected generals are to be believed, most barbarians aren't human half the time."
"Indeed," said another, her hair the rich chestnut of a heartland native, "and what's more, ridding them of demon spirits is entirely another matter."
"Perhaps they'll get it out of that creature in the arena yet," said a third, sneering voice which emanated from a broad, stocky fellow, also a heartlander. "The campaigns are bearing little fruit in the way of land or labourers."
"There's more to find in Vargeld yet, I'd wager," said the lady.
They passed down a quieter street now, in the shadow of a venerable urban manor. The rush of the arena was beginning to wane, and thirst was gaining on them quickly. The northerner guided his peers to a small vinorum where he was well known, and in no time at all were the three of them seated under a canvas shade, cups of rich wine and small cakes in their hands. A few solitary figures passed in and out, not bothering to be seated, using one of the chained cups on the walls, and going on their way.
"More to find in Vargeld indeed," said the broad fellow. "There's naught more of worth than their sorceries."
"You speak of their corpse-wizards?" asked the woman with a knowing tone.
"Aye," he replied while downing the dregs of his cup and motioning for more.
"Pray tell," said the northerner, sipping his wine, eyes peeking over the cup's rim.
"I have a general under my patronage," said the woman, "who told a rather stirring tale in his address to my family elders."
"Where I happened to be present," added the stocky heartlander.
"He was still a mid ranking soldier at this time, and had found himself captured by barbarians in a raid. Now, this is quite uncommon, they tend to slay outright in their attacks, and their kidnappings bred all kinds of fearsome rumour. One can only imagine what was going around in his head as he was dragged into the hills. His story went on to relate how he was forced into labour by them for some several weeks, during which he was witness to their brutish culture firsthand. Little of their rites made sense to him, and the details escaped him—all but one. Specifically, what he and his fellow captives were being driven to do."
A fresh round of drinks were ordered, and the chestnut-haired woman leaned in close as she continued the account.
"You know the wilds of Vargeld are strewn with monoliths, yes?"
"Aye, it is a famous feature of that cold land. They have more jutting stone than they do trees."
"Well, it seems that, just like trees, they find some use for the strange stones littering their land. Their roots run deep, apparently, and the soldier told of how one was excavated and hauled to a naked hilltop in a cascading rainstorm, where some Vargeld priest was waiting. The stone was then, remarkably, reburied in the hilltop, and the priest lashed to it. The soldier spoke with some tremor in his voice, I remember, as he was bade detail the gruesome but extremely intricate ritual death the priest underwent...only to be unshackled from the stone, and step forth, very much animate."
The northerner's brow was raised with a restrained excitement.
"Indeed," said the stocky rhetor, "the Vargelds have some rite of immortality hitherto unrevealed to Regnum Regis."
"The fellow made a rather daring escape after that, out of, I suspect, mostly fear, but true to his training he returned with priceless intelligence. Hence his patronage and promotion. He's heading that expedition back into the western wilds we talked about."
"So...if you are interested, fellow rhetor..." said the stocky heartlander.
"Your contribution to his campaign funds would not go unrewarded..." said the lady, brushing back a lock of chestnut hair.