Shadows & Sorcery #113
Buckle up and strap in and various other things cuz it’s the one hundred and thirteenth edition of Shadows & Sorcery!
On the docket this week: three dark fantasy tales of eldritch lore, deep mystery, and grim battle. If you weren’t expecting this, you’re either in the wrong place or you just got here—either way, hello.
We’re taking a trip back into the brand new world of barbarians and monsters introduced last week, so if you missed that, check it out HERE
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This week, we catch a glimpse of the Sorcery of Slumber, we delve into the lore of the Altar of the Sea, and we meet on a dusty battlefield before the Blazing Altar…
Sorcery of Slumber
Glimpses caught from a small manual in a hidden room within the house of a suspected heretical sage.
During humankind's Dawn of Knowing, the magics and alchemies of our ancient, bestial ignorant age were laid bare under the light of supreme logic, and thus was it revealed to us that the laws by which the world was ordered were immutable. No prayer or supplication, no sacrifice or intricate ceremony, could bid whatever forces we believed ran the world to give in to our pleas. The truth of it was that there was naught to even listen.
Wherever we went, no gods revealed themselves. No mountain peak, nor ocean deep, nor crystal dome of the sky held gods in them. No bones, or marks, and traces remained, if they ever were at all. After these final depths and reaches were plumbed and combed, there was nowhere else the gods could go, and so the idols were smashed, the icons melted down, the texts cast away. The shadow of the gods was placed into its tomb for all time.
...
There is the world, and its unending, unbending cycles. Nothing more, nothing less. An mechanism against which we are gears. Yet if that be the case, what, then, is a dream? A confused fragmentation of slurred memories serving no purpose? Or nightly visions of impossibilities? Is not the mind no less a part of this world than aught else?
You are reading this because you know it is more than the wanderings of an inchoate consciousness. You've seen it. Felt it. Perhaps you have even experienced it.
The Sorcery of Slumber.
...
In dream, there are no limits. All boundaries are sundered. The passage of time, the traversal of space, each one is fluid. The permanence of what is and what could be does not exist. Have you dreamed of being in a place you dimly remember, but have never been to? Thinking of something only to find in your hand, or suddenly being in another room, in another place in the blink of an eye, through a passageway that could not possibly exist?
Have you ever come out of a dream with a tune in your mind? Or a word on your lips? Or in the middle of performing some action?
Still you hold a limit on yourself, and believe a threshold must be crossed from slumber to waking. Cast this notion aside. You will learn in time.
...
Begin first with the sleep-talkers. For they have made thin the veil drawn over them, and will transmit to you seemingly impossible knowledge from what you will learn is not beyond, but within.
Write down your dreams on paper and see them in the light of day. Know them not as transcriptions, but records of events.
...
You must conquer the nightmare. The aged nectar will assist you. Imbibe this only under the supervision of the true dreamer who took it back with them.
...
Darkness is conducive to strong and vivid dreaming. In sealed, windowless chambers will you experience, with an immediacy you scarcely thought possible, visions with sensation and motion.
Dream in darkness until you achieve lucidity. Every fraction of a second of slumbering awareness counts. Take the prescribed measures of the lotus, and the root, and aged nectar, in that order. Take no more.
In a full and stable lucid state, perform the actions the true dreamers have taught you. Recall them, and realize you have always known them. In dream, nothing is held back from you. When you drift back to the waking state, the transition will not be clear. For there is no transition.
...
The mind and what happens in it exists just as much as anything else. There is no true division. And thus, the limit is lifted, and the true nature of the so-called static laws of reality is opened to you.
All comes from dream.
Altar of the Sea
Overlooking the Opal Sea, with its milky waters and calm cream foam, are a series of towering cliffs of chalk-white stone pitted and smoothed from aeons of the sea's fury and embrace. Atop these cliffs are shoots of vivid green grass which spill over in a still wave, tinging the rim for miles each direction with a pleasing light jade. But on certain protrusions in these cliffs, with great distances between each one, something dark can be seen peering over the edge. Of such sharp contrast are they to the rest of the landscape, that upon clear days, sailors use them to judge the length of their travels along the lonely coast.
These things are altars where the seafolk of all the world come to make offering.
To approach a sea altar from inland, the first thing one notices is the land upon which is sits. These small stretches of clifftop jut out a great deal, almost like fingers pointing out to the waters, for although the sea has wrought its will upon the the rest of the cliffs, where the altar sits remains almost entirely untouched. With age this effect shall only increase. Some cliffs have been eroded far more than others, and the approach to the altars in such places are like long, solemn paths to the end of the earth.
No altar is the same. Some are high, chest high even, and some are as low as the shins. Some are quite broad, some almost thin like pillars. Each one, though, bears a good sized flat surface upon which offerings to the sea are placed, and from which there is a constant exudation of moisture. This could be attributed quite reasonably to storms and cast up surf, but this isn't so, for even in the depths of scorching summers where the grass lies brown and brittle and the sea is utterly still under a clear, pearlescent sky, does the dark rock emanated that perpetual deep water wherefrom it emerged.
The altars are stone borne from the abyssal regions, soaked through with ancient waters from below. Waters no human being, living or dead, has ever beheld, save for what appears upon the altars to trickle back to the eternal source. For the seas are eternal and the waters which dwell at their very bases have existed long before there was land. When land came to be, during its final shaping, its own most primeval foundations were thrown to the surface from the ultimate depth, granted some measure of warding from the wrath of the sea that no other land is given.
But sailors know the sea will reclaim even the opalescent sky one day, when all the world shall be a calm, obsidian abyss. Until that day, the sea will take at a time everything in the world, one by one, as it sees fit. To this end do all seafarers make offerings—things for the sea to take in their stead. The waters do not discriminate, but they do seem to know when something of worth has been given over. Other time it seems to know when a perfunctory offering is made by an arrogant sailor who will never dry land again. Seafolk of all kinds will pass by the cliffs where the altars watch, and will bellow prayers to them—let us pass, Ocean, grant us just this passage, and we will give something to you.
The sea sometimes does return, if only temporarily. And all is temporary, in the end. But the sea isn't cruel, it just is, and if an equivalent exchange is made, even a lost life may wash upon the shore. But so, too, may things that deserve to be lost and forgotten reappear. The sea isn't cruel. And the sea isn't benevolent. It just is.
What takes the offerings none can say, and few would dare guess. The ocean-winds, perhaps, or it may be the unceasing dampness, the water carrying things back to the source. None have ever stayed to watch out of the not entirely unfounded fear that, should the sea not be able to claim its prize, it may seek out something else.
Blazing Altar
The dusty plain, where a weak wind blew particles of sand around the parched growths of short, dry grass, was ringed in the distance by squat, arid hills. Upon them there rose, sometimes near to the summit, multitudes of wild, sprawling cities of stepped towers and slender minarets. Beyond this there rose a range of high, barren mountains, where there grew irregular spans of short, rough, twisted trees that upwards gave way to brittle earth, and stone. Above all of this scorching world sat the infinite waters of the firmament, where the gods watched two armies slowly advance across that dusty plain, the air nervous with the energy of zealous hatred.
But on that plain there sat, amidst a jumble of low, nigh-formless sand-blasted ruins, the shape of a mighty altar. It was of hammered bronze, the whole thing. It took the form of a great square dais, with four sets of stone steps accented in bronze leading to a flat surface upon which sat four things arranged near the corners: a sort of tall brazier, like a goblet, then a lower and much wider bowl-shaped brazier, then a tall rectangular plinth upon which were plates and chalices, and finally, a wider slab with stained grooves down its sides.
This was the Blazing Altar, moulded by an ancient artisan to form the images of the gods that revealed themselves in the time before the tribes had come to this land of Anur-Anakh, where the bones and withered corpses of unhallowed antiquity warred with them. It was the very center of their world. But two of those tribes had died long ago, and their scattered descendants now approached once more, centuries later, seeking to make sacrifice.
A strange throng trod solemnly along the dry earth, gathered under three great banners of cured animal hide, each painstakingly adorned with the image of a horned humanoid figure carrying a staff. The rabble, for they were barely an army, consisted of dark men with long hair caught in copper rings, wearing plain thick tunics and carrying swords and daggers of burnished bronze. Clearly tribal men from the far reaches of the desert. There were tall, lithe Vargelds in long loin cloths with long spears and axes of dark iron, far from their home of black forests and misty hills. Heavily bearded men covered entirely in robes and hoods carrying short bows, testing their strings, were harder to place, but likely a conquered race fled from Regnum Regis. The most curious ones, however, were the relatively small groups, consisting of hunched figures, long-limbed and, when they peered up from the dust to observe the goings-on, with beast-like faces with snouts, sunken eyes and long teeth. Some had wicked talons and some legs like running animals. But under their great helpings of loose robes and shaggy manes, they were plainly things once human. The result of deific couplings with human beings in a distant past, the kind of which infest the arcadian deeps of Áéa just north of the badlands.
Ahead of this militia stood a person of singular aspect. Tall, noble and with a great black beard reaching to his chest with gilded disks woven into it, striding forth in richly coloured purple tunic and crimson robes, a gnarled staff in his left hand. Under a heavy black brow there shone eyes of green fire. But opposite this figure there was a force undeniably composed of disciplined soldiers who now watched him approach. Long manes tied back with thick twine, coarse limbs all grasping short swords of sharply tapering bronze and tightly woven wicker shields. Some wore helmets or thick girdles of leather. Lances, too of bronze, protruded from the army in regular intervals. Their commander was sullen-eyed and sardonic of countenance. A figure of supreme arrogance and might, dusky limbs showed battle scars while a thrust out chest displayed an only lightly marked lamellae breastplate accented in silver. His sandalled feet impatiently crushed sand under it as the enemy approached, and he looked up into the sky, where he reminded himself of the gods’ sworn favour.
“This is your last chance to turn back, O Prophet. The Altar, walking-place of Mesheirat and His Kin, will see not the footfalls of...” the commander's voice trailed off for a second as he cast his gaze upon the enemy. “Pagans and sinners,” he finished with a disdainful sneer.
“We ask not for you to abandon the gods of your sires,” said the Prophet as he walked forth into the plain and offered with outstretched palm, “but join with us and see the union of the tribes as it was of old.”
“The Mesheirohm see only sin under the conquering boot of Yevush, Demon of the Wilderness.” The Prophet's lip could be seen to curl but immediately soften. “You gather under your banner all manner of destitute idolaters and cultists, their rites crushed under your tyrant heel. Your standards will make fine beds for our beasts.”
“It was the power of Yevush behind our spears that united the valleys, not your swords. All were offered redemption. Even those born with the touch of sin, who at this moment continue to offer prayer to Yevush after our restless voyage, they fight with us as equals for their absolution is ordained in our victory.” The Prophet half-leaned on his staff in clear confidence. He could see the commander searching for a reply to his challenge. The man seemed to force his mouth shut, and not a moment later, in the mere blink of an eye, a golden flash flew across the prophet's throat and a rich scarlet wetness seeped into the thirsting grey earth. Favour, the commander thought. My favour.
Mere seconds passed. Before the commander of the Mesheirohm could raise his arm for the archers and lancers to let loose, a monstrous screech and roar exploded and the heretic army was on the warpath, veering like a wave towards the commander and his army. Dropping into a defensive stance with his bronze blade before him, bodies clashed and the commander met the oncoming spearmen with chops and thrusts, breaking shafts and knocking warriors into their fellows. But quickly was he surrounded, and from somewhere beyond the roaring horde an arrow flew and pinged off his breastplate—just enough to distract him. A brute of a man swung a beast's jawbone down in a violent arc that wouldn’t be stopped. Dropping to a knee hoping to somehow hold the blow, the commander was suddenly showered in a spurt of thick blood as one of his soldier's spears was driven through the barbarian’s throat. The Mesheirohm had joined battle properly and had broken up the waves, men now fought in wide groups and struggles were won and lost every instant.
Above the din, axes could be seen raised, arrows arched, and spears thrust upward. Choking clouds of dust kicked up by the fight seemed to dance and whirl through the armies. The gods were watching. Mesheirat was watching. But the commander had made the sacrifice himself. Favour was his. The commander could now see the enemy with weapons taken from his slain soldiers. Rage swelled in his stomach, seeing the pagans clumsily swing the holy metal arts of Mesheirat.
Gathering several soldiers before him, he went to strike down several great bearded soldiers but was stopped by the sight of a wiry barbarian dropping a standard amidst the fight. Something drew his attention to it. The barbarian ducked and dodged thrusts and swipes, pulled aside spears as he frantically danced about. He was looking for something. The commander followed his movements and saw he was aiming towards the Prophet's corpse. He stop the enemy. Gesturing to his men, he gave chase to the barbarian, who seemed not to notice. One of his soldiers stopped and threw his spear, landing it through the thigh of the searcher, but he did not stop or even appear to notice his wound. The commander muttered some curse under his breath about the sorcery and devils of the walking bones of Anur-Anakh, and broke from his men to intercept the seeker.
The commander cast aside stocky warriors and parried the wild swings of flint and bone. Under its red coat, his sword burned gold. They were about to gain the trampled body of the Prophet. The seeker ran and bent down, taking the long wooden staff in his hands. But the commander was upon him and threw his sword point blank into the seeker's back, before his men came and finished the job. The commander took the staff in his hands, examining it. Something about it allured him and he did not hear the death rattles of his men as they were pierced by a volley of black arrows. He only dropped the staff as another short volley struck his legs and neck, sending him to the ground.
Around him the chaos of war bleat like a demon.
In his dazed and reddening vision, he watched shuffling horrors of sin use their talons to tear his men apart. He watched squat Regic cavern dwellers impale his soldiers and strip them of weapons and armour. Above it all, half in the sky, half formed of the vortex of dust that clouded the battle, the commander thought he saw two titanic shapes, barely defined. One, he thought, looked much like him and his soldiers, it had a long braided beard and a fine mane of swept back hair. It also wore a sort of conical helmet and bore a sword. It was merely a silhouette, but in his failing heart there stirred the memories of the icons of his patron god. But before it was something horrible, a great man-like thing is bulging muscle and the curving horns of a bull. Its hand had been thrust through the vision of Mesheirot, cowing it.
Something like terror washed over his darkening vision as the sound of battle gave over to the sound of violent exultation in a tongue not his own.