Shadows & Sorcery #165
The numbers don’t lie, it’s Shadows & Sorcery, yes sir it is, one hundred and sixty five, and while it’s a new edition, as it is every week, it’s not three new stories, not really, well it is new, but it’s a three-part exploration of a new world. Will it ever return? If I remember, it will!
So last week’s edition came out on Bloodborne’s birthday, and this week’s edition comes out on my birthday! I think that’s mad. Jung would have something to say about this, I’m sure.
This week’s helping is of course in stark contrast to last week’s super old school lore-heavy edition, which was pretty cool and you should check it out if you haven’t, or even if you have, do so right HERE
And please, tap the like button to let the stories know you enjoyed them! It’s my birthday and you have to do what I say.👁️👁️
This week, we learn the history of the Rune of Chaos, we meet in secret to discuss to the Shadow of Chaos, and lastly descend far below the capital to seek the Throne of Chaos…
Rune of Chaos
"The tales of the gods are the tales of the runes."
-Saying attributed to High Magus Khanem
"Of their Coming from the Far Places, and of those Far Places; of the Great Convention, and of the Nine Wars; of the Discovery of the Runes, and their Mastery; of the Fashioning of the World, and finally, of the Casting of the Runes; and furthermore among these Primordial Epics elucidations upon the tales of the First Magician, of the First Words, and of the First Numbers, tales of the Great Runes, of the Secret Runes, and of the Dire Runes, and tales of how thus they attained godhood as the runefolk were struck from the earth."
-Subheading of a popular edition of the Annotated Liber Deus Divinorum
"The runes, their sounds and their meanings, and the understanding of them, are the fundament, structure, and binding force of the cosmos. Only through this did they overcome all that they were and speak into being a world with words whose name and number were harmonious, fined tuned with utterance over millennia, during each of which came into being all that there is now, and the runefolk to oversee all. And unto them did go knowledge of the runes, which was the basis of their languages, of their mathematick, and of their faith. The runefolk would go on to venerate the gods as their sires and divine ancestors, and beseech them for wisdom. But the runes are the true power."
-Passage from the Book of Dharadach
"...and to the restless hordes of the Dimlands went the rune of chaos, godless, terrible to behold, cast deep into the earth...daubed on their flesh and banners with abandon which would be blasphemous were it not done in profound zeal...source of fearsome might and monstrous sorcery...the only-once-spoken...stamped from the world...gone are the ages where conflict was a necessity, let not this golden age..."
-Only remaining fragments from a scorched copy of the Guardian Grimoire found in an ashen pit where once a village dwelt
Shadow of Chaos
Against a calm, ancient sky stood the grand and stately expanse of Greywall, paled with age, still its banners flying high and eternal fires shining like stars come to the earth. Though bowed and hunched and bearing tattered raiment, the long years spoke not to decay and dissolution, but to a life of hard-won prosperity well-lived, and forever wearing its victory with pride and gratitude. Its whitestone streets teemed with colours and scents and sounds, by day its temples filled with sonorous chants and gentle invocations, and by night its taverns filled with raucous laughter, jests, merry-making, and re-telling of the old tales with fresh embellishments each time.
It was on such a night that three figures rushed through the twilit winding streets and snaking alleys. The open doors of public houses and taverns spilled lurid radiance into the cool blue darkness, and the calls, songs, clinking of mugs, and warmth echoed from each one. But none of the three turned even turned their heads. Passing revellers made way and gazed back in wonderment at the incongruous shapes which clinked and whooshed by. Only the glint of a deep oaken eye from under a wide brim ever met their own gazes, and it told them to keep their distance.
They were in the very heart of the city. Above them, rising imperious into the deepening night was the great keep of the impregnable and untouched Chrysmagos itself. And may it ever be so, each one of them thought as they arrived at the squat tower house that had been designated as the secret meeting place.
The chamber was low but broad, squared walls rose to a nearly flat domed ceiling with criss-crossing vaulting. In the middle of it, lit by dim lanterns hung from above, was a large eight-sided table around which sat eight people. Each one stony of complexion and black of hair, with eyes like gems and crystals. Three of them had just taken their seats. They were two young guardians, one of which sat near to the tall, fearsome magus they had entered with, the other closer to a high priest. The other four were arrayed in minimal ceremonial armour befitting their station as guardians of various orders—but of these, one was unmistakably above the rest, who now motioned for talk to begin.
"My partner and I," nodded a slate-skinned fellow with a short bristling beard to one beside him, "found it on the old road leading from the historic Gatetown, only some few feet into the woods themselves."
"On the road?" asked the one above the rest, their order's commander, with no small measure of concern.
"Aye, though we cleared it quick. To be so brazen cannot be a good sign. It can't." He sat forward, resting his chin upon his clasped hands.
"How old?" asked the commander.
"Days," was all he said from his hands.
The commander turned to another beside her.
"The cleric and I found signs in the outskirts," said a wiry, pale grey man with high voice, "you know, amidst the remains of the old outer walls."
"Happily left to crumble..." the Magus mused to himself, though he did not lower his voice. He received a few looks and the guardian continued.
"So many corners to hide in, so many nooks and crannies to conceal, and yet..." he looked to the high priest next to him.
"Out in the the open, was it?" asked the Magus. They shot a look to him, meeting his dark, lustrous eyes, and assented with a nod each.
"And you two?" the commander how turned to those who had just arrived.
"Snuck away in the old tunnels and sewers, just as we thought." The table erupted into murmurs. The one who spoke might have been deemed young for her station, but by her bearing alone none could deny she belonged at that table. Angular features on a tall, rake-thin frame barely bulked by her armour, a grey skin tinged with brown, and dark green eyes. She'd gotten the moniker Pikestaff upon conscription into the watch, and had been the only name she offered upon induction into the guardians.
"And not too far from Chrysmagos, either," the pale, round-faced, sapphire-eyed young man added. He had a name, Serge, but gave little more than that. The table fell into silence at that.
"A shadow is cast again..." rumbled the Magus, "From whence we cannot say, save that it was from afar, and that it was cast by no rude intellect."
"Could this in truth be the coven we have feared, Magus?" enquired the high priest.
"Nay," the word escaped the clay-skinned wizard like a ragged sigh, "the rune of chaos is not conducive to stealth and secrecy in great numbers—you must understand, all of you," he sat forward and swept his eyes around the table, "none of you, no soul within living memory but myself and a handful of sages across the world have faced true chaos, long believed to have been stamped out by my master and I three centuries ago..." he broke off, sitting back, lost in the welling memory.
"We understand well enough, Magus," said the commander, trying to free him from a dangerous reverie.
"No, no, none of you do—not the way this lone actor does—and of that detail I am certain," he punctuated this with a bony upheld finger. "Chaos...ah, it is from a time when conflict and war were a crucible, and such had been the vision of the gods," he did not see it, but the high priest and Pikestaff shared a look, "for had the runes not come to them through war? For all they are sacred, for all they are the bones of the earth, the runes are close and dear, are they not? We speak them even now, in our daily lives. But the rune of chaos...it holds within it a mythic allure, as well as a power. To speak what even the gods will not. But, my friends, there is only one thing for it: we must show that we are hardened and that our world cannot burn!"
Throne of Chaos
If the Magus' arcane calculations were correct, the attacks were following a pattern, and they had a number, a revelation which had only served to deepen the old wizard's gloom. It wasn't some fool in over their head after all, then. It was someone who really knew what they were doing—and they were going for the ancient keep. Pikestaff didn't like this. Magick never had sat right with her, not as a young lass in the slums, not as a guardian working every day alongside the Magus. Better left with the gods. Was going to end up in a problem like this one day or another. Serge didn't think as much. She had it in her head she could at least balance out his fascination with the Magus' powers. He was too good a guardian to get lost in that heady old strangeness.
Down, down below in the ancient, slumbering depths under the fortress of Chrysmagos were an expanse of sacred catacombs, the tombs first of warriors and heroes, then of sages and scholars. The signs had led them there: what the Magus had calculated, and what had, they felt, been left for them to see. Runelights burned in a perpetual soft illumination in this deep place, which usually sat in total silence, there usually being little reason for any of the living to walk these hallowed halls. Would old spirits stir to help them, thought Pikestaff? Or would the wizard rouse them if he thought it necessary? She chafed at the thought.
The oldest sections of the catacombs were roughly hewn from the stone of the earth itself, still more than half the yawning caverns and winding cave bowels they had once been, a penultimate meeting place where runefolk dead could dwell closest to the stone from which the gods had once struck them, given them animation, and many shapes in which to walk. It was in this elder place, which was what Chrysmagos truly guarded, that they found and met their quarry in combat.
The Magus had come prepared—there was at least that, Pikestaff admitted. Magick was the deep understanding of the meaning, sound, and number of the runes. Writing and speech were holy mediums for these fundaments of creation, inexorable parts of each other. But it was the knowledge of their interactions that brought power, as some runes, or secret combinations thereof, were too powerful for simple utterance, and, for example, must be sandwiched between or buffered or lead by other combinations, written and spoken. It was as much a science as an art, for something of the individual's understanding or interpretation made its way into the expression—the spell. Each set of runes, too, had their sacred numbers, harmonious evens and dissonant odds, the science of linking sets ascending numbers, and the art of arranging similars in one's chosen spells. Pikestaff had, somewhat against her will, learned a smattering of this and found herself considering it every so often in her daily life. Seemed to only make others slow and late was what she noticed mostly.
In truth, it had little functional difference at all from the sanctified, controlled, measured use of the church, but magick had no one to leash it, and in this day and age, it was more often than not an ill-advised would-be sorcerer's tampering that caused any real trouble. The runes had been mastered by the gods, Pikestaff was quick to remind Serge, not the runefolk. And, he often retorted, they never would unless they learned. True enough, Pikestaff would then admit, but one would think they'd have made more progress by now. All the same, there was no power a runefolk could muster a god could not—in theory.
It was such power that was now displayed before both of the young guardians, as they had never seen before.
Upon the earth there appeared entire glyphs as the Magus spoke, circles of entwined runic inscriptions which chiselled themselves into the stone at his command, boundaries of protection and warding against the frightful expressions of chaos hurled at him from the darkness of the grand chamber they now stood within. But at the same time had their opponent done similar. The ground of the chamber was awash in the eldritch radiance of massive interconnecting sigils and sacred geometries the two mages were cast against each other, sending odd shadows high into the air. The Magus had walled the two guardians off with a line of powerful script, and Pikestaff knew better than to go barrelling into a magician's duel. So, she observed their quarry from afar. What surprised her most was that he seemed to be a sea captain. No mere port wanderer, no sea-legged stowaway or smuggler, but someone of substance and responsibility, if that coat and chain said anything. A captain. A leader. Made her sick. But there's all sorts out there in world, she also supposed. Far off shores touched by a little less of the golden age. Where things thought stamped out may yet dwell in the darkness.
The magicians stood now, having tested each other's wisdom, and now sought to test each other's resolve.
"You are matched, slave of chaos! By my knowledge, by these blessed guardians, and by the will of the gods!"
"It took all that to hold me back?" said the captain.
The Magus never was very good at this.
"You're beaten," yelled Pikestaff, "so unless you want a hammer to the back of the skull you'll let us clap you in irons and be off."
"There's nothing," the captain grinned, "you can do from behind that ward. But you," he pointed to the Magus, "pray tell, what makes me a slave, and not you? I speak of no divine will. I speak of chaos, by my own hand."
"The words of an upjumped zealot who hasn't the faintest clue what he's gotten himself into!" the Magus retorted.
"I think you've seen my skill with runes well enough. It wasn't an education bought easily, in two dozen ports across more than half the world, transmitted to me by elder sorcerers who'd give you a run for your money, I'm more than willing to bet."
"Nests of madmen and anarchists—you have no conception of the truth of what you seek to unleash, what it really means."
"I know more than most, magus, what I'm sure you'd call too much. But too long has conflict been stifled by the weak and the wounded."
"I've put this darkness from the past down myself over three hundred years ago and I'll be damned if I will let its shadow fall over this age of abundance again!"
"What you see," the captain spoke with great deliberation, "as an age of abundance, I see as an age of stagnation."
"Stagnation...damn your eyes, is peace stagnation? Laughter and cheer over howling pain and horror, that is stagnation? Is safety and comfort, hard won through millennia, stagnation?"
"Spare me, wizard. Is this really the form of our perfect world? Is this the best we can do? A city of mouldering nooks and crannies which can easily hide from sight the rot we have been unable to shake off? You sing the tales of the olden times in the taverns, and walk through your historic streets, chest fit to burst with old pride not your own! You yearn not to make that history, not like those of us who wish to burn ourselves away in the crucible until only a pure core remains...savage and unmatched."
Even as the Magus stepped forth, calling him fool, calling him madman, Pikestaff couldn't help but find that some part of her agreed with the captain. The world had aspired to much...could it really go no further without upheaval? Where had been the bounty and light of the golden age for the orphans and cripples in the isolation of Bridgetown, living in sight but never really in reach of the Chrysmagos, the sprawling perfumed gardens, gleaming temple towers, and toppling streets filled with song? The light didn't burn so bright it seared the whole world, sure, but neither did it burn bright enough to do away with the shadows of its own self. Pikestaff had been a thief, cutpurse, footpad, and all the other names since she was a child. Naturally a pretty bony, rakish specimen, the homes she'd been shipped around had exploited her for all the wrong work, slipping in through propped open shutters, hidden between walls and closets, slinking through the deeper alleyways...sometimes knife in hand. It had always been personal to her. It was survival. How could it not be? And every life she'd left worse in her wake, if she left them at all, had stayed with her. Bridgetown, the Underhalls, the Canal Works, and the Bowels wouldn't lift themselves out of squalor. Sometimes it was because there was no hand to help them. Sometimes it was out of spite and bitterness, she knew that well enough. And sometimes it was because other hands were keeping them submerged, because they liked things how they were. So...something had to be done, didn't it?
"Change—real change," the captain continued, "true and profound evolution can only come with destruction. Blood must be spilled as a sacrifice to feed and birth a new order. This is the truth and power of the rune of chaos. It is an unfortunate truth for some, that death carries such value, but plain for those with the drive to pay it. And this place," he said, waving his hand around, "once the symbol of stagnation, will be the throne from which a new king—nay, a new god will burn away the impurity and weakness from the world through war and slaughter, the kind which bore the fruit of the runes to the gods!"
Well, he'd almost had her considering being convinced until that. Something did indeed have to be done.
"Aye," growled the Magus, "and then you will cast away your claim and repent only when it is too late! This is not your power—it is no one's power to guide or control, merely drive, even against themselves!
"Evolution without courage will be the ruin of our race, isn't that right, magus? The gods became distant masters, who deign to whisper in our ears whenever it suits them, after speaking it only once. All will speak it now."
"I'd rather pay the price," came the voice of Pikestaff from the murkiness behind the captain, "of a few slums we can clean up in time, than see bodies stacked in the streets." The sorcerer of ruin had barely a moment to turn his head. It was too late for him to even begin a word. She was a sneak, and a damn fine sneak if she did say so herself. It had been a necessity, and it done her well in the two years she'd been in the watch, and she had made a brand of it in the guardians. Luckily word didn't spread, and the sorcerer met the business end of her lump hammer with nary a squeak before he crumpled to the ground, all the wards and circles and ruinous glyphs powerless against a good smack to the skull. She'd gloat about that later to Serge, who was standing absolutely rigid behind the ward the Magus had thrown out.
The old wizard lamented the sudden death, saying there probably would have been much to learn of dark things in far places, but it could have been worse. For all that, he couldn't hide his relief and mirth at the irony of it all. Pikestaff said little as the Magus disposed of the body and instructed Serge on what had happened. She watched the captain's remains as they crumbled into dust. She couldn't quite shake off the fact that the captain had been right. Something did have to be done. But it wasn't for someone like him, or any one person to decide.
Happy Birthday Sean!!!!