Shadows & Sorcery #45
Welcome to the forty-fifth edition of this newsletter which we call Shadows & Sorcery!
A no-nonsense issue this week, folks, five pieces of conceptual dark fantasy weirdness with a particularly strange necromantic theme that manifested as it was written. Perhaps the heatwave is finally getting to me.
But that’s not all.
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This week, we’re going to visit one of the legendary Sword Graves, we’ll learn why you shouldn’t mess with a Lunar Temple, we discover the dangers of Serpent Steel, we delve into the history of the Archives of the Dead and its keepers, as well as reveal the truth about the Iron Undead.
Sword Graves
Some are found in the middle of cities, some in quiet cemetery corners, some at the top of mountains, some are scattered across desolate plains, or in the depths of forests. Each one, a cairn of black stone and earth, and through them, a sword is thrust. The traveller who passes them may pay quick respects, but daren't touch the blade, magnificent and untarnished as it may be. Not even the most desperate or callous would even consider removing such a thing.
The dead sleep. Spirits rest in their graves and do not pass into some other realm as was once thought, but dream in the earth. Unlike the body, the spirit does not expire, it persists in its own way, cooling and ceasing to expand. From birth, our spirits begin as white hot embers, which through our lives expand and vitalize our flesh, eventually stabilizing and finding a comfortable fixture. The body, however, becomes, as per common parlance, "burned out", and we die. But some spirits do not stop growing. In fact, over the course of life, they expand far beyond the confines of the body itself, resulting in what people have called demigods, heroes, sorcerers, the worst tyrants and the greatest liberators.
The burning force of a great soul is that which has shaped the world around us, and these spirits do not want to stop, but the expiration of the body demands it. It is no surprise that those with vast spirits live either painfully short lives, or exist far beyond any conception of a natural lifespan. Simply put, they are ultimately not good for the world around them. Burying such a body is itself a task, but keeping them in the ground is another matter entirely. Those with unbending wills have often found ways around natural order, either in life or in their writhing dreams beneath the loam.
Thus came into being the Gravekeepers, parties of solemn ritual warriors armed with divine Graveswords, whose feats against the wandering spirits of ancient heroes and magicians are nigh-legendary. But the proof of their might is visible in every Sword Grave, for it is a Gravesword which stakes to the earth those spirits unwilling to pass on their power and rule. No soul is beyond their reach, from the most beloved kings who have kept safe entire generations, to the most frightful warlock who warps the world to their will. It is a kindness they deliver to spirits driven mad with unrest, and to those living under the shadow of mighty ghosts.
Of course, many Gravekeepers are themselves of great soul, and they know as they look to their comrades who help them perform their duty, that one day a Gravesword will split their bodies and keep their souls cool and still. The Gravekeepers make a point to hide the truth, but it can be guessed that some keepers flee to the ends of the earth after witnessing the sorrow and rage of a great soul set to rest, denied its unending rule. But it's no matter. There is a sword for every soul on the planet.
Lunar Temple
The moon is a medium, that we know. A kind of port upon which cosmic forces dock before they may appear in our world. But ancient humanity didn't know that, to them a night sky with a full moon was a realm of wonders. The lunar cults of primeval man were as varied as they were strange. Built wherever the semi-nomadic tribes found purchase in this hard land, these rough stone structures were not only some of the first buildings raised by humankind, but they were also host to things best left forgotten by the modern world.
Humanity fought for its place here. Ten thousand years ago, this was a new world, raw and wild, unclaimed and only half-formed. As the king of the beasts, humanity wandered and explored its kinship with the creatures of fang and talon, wing and scale. People in that age had more than a little of their animal kin in them, too. Us moderns are a pale shade of barbarian humanity, but we kept that which helped us survive the most. You'll notice that the lunar cults of old are not one of those things.
When the first astral being answered the call of ancient humanity, the world was forever changed. Fascinated by the alien majesty of their visitors, they quickly became objects of worship, for these beings were older than the world itself, and part of orders unimaginable. But humanity was ascending, while the many astral entities which walked and shaped the world as they saw fit had found their ends aeons ago.
The lunar temples which made secret signs under leering constellations slowly changed, and in places did the worship of astral beings become superseded by study, which in turn became conjuration and binding. Those were dark days, to be sure. Mankind had begun to raise the first cities, and temples had been greatly expanded from the original stone piles. In these shaded places were things called down and cut open by cruel knives, and human blood mixed with the spilled ether of inhuman forms. There are people to this day who exhibit ancient human traits, commonly held now to be blessings, and there are those who exhibit, in secret shame, the traits of astral beings forced upon their line millennia ago.
Humanity eventually sundered themselves from the astral, and settled upon a safe but solid ancestor veneration and animal reverence, holding in piety the great forces or their ancient past. The lunar temple practices are forgotten by all save the most reclusive, and some astral atavists take to their emergent alien traits and go in secret to the ruins of lunar temples which still stand, and speak with what still gathers about the moon at certain phases.
Serpent Steel
Draconian weapons are unfit for humans to handle. They are not designed for humans hands, let alone elven hands. The Draconians are the half-human dragonmen, born from ancient perversions. Not even the finest elven artisans can repurpose a Draconian weapon. But the Serpent-Men, they were born human, and mutated thus via exposure to Dragon flesh and ingestion of snake venom. Their weapons are entirely unique, usable by humans, and a dangerously seductive draw like no other.
It is likened to Dragonmagick, the dark arts of the Dragons which require either their blood or the blood of their various Spawn, which over time causes its users to manifest draconic traits regardless of well the blood is contained. But the power of Dragonmagick cannot be denied, and it has for humans both a dreadful allure and a sense of rebellion, using the powers of their ancient overlords against them.
Serpent Steel is similar, for the weapons simply swing and strike faster and more accurately, regardless of weight or even skill in the user. But their dangers are greater--there is no containment, and thus mutation occurs faster, stronger, and almost inevitably creates a measure of wickedness in the owner of the tainted steel. And, too, the greatest risk but also the greatest benefit is their venom. The steel itself exudes a toxin harmful to any it touches--even the owner--thus making its speed and accuracy all the more frightening. Serpent Steel venom is painful but quick, impossible to cleanse from blade or victim.
The weapons themselves are distinctive: they curve, hook, twist, and waver, not one of them as a straight edge. So do many natural human and elven weapons, but there is no efficiency in Serpent Steel design, they are cruel, created to cause damage rather than deliver a swift kill. The intricacies may be subtle, but even to an untrained eye, the overall design of such a weapon is clear.
Humans who carry them have poor reputations, feared and hated in equal measure. Crime lords and assassins carry them and trade them, and it is even whispered that some villains have secret traffick with Serpent-Men cults in order to obtain them. Some half-mutant criminals have attempted to create their own Serpent Steel with grim results.
It is unsurprising that the cursed Orc folk utterly revile the steel, and they pride themselves upon never even so much as touching it, destroying them wherever they are found, either in Serpent-Men cults or in human hands. Though the Orcs may be the enemy of the world, it's hard to find fault with them when such a thing happens.
Archives of the Dead
Necromancy has a long, complicated, and troubled history. Since time immemorial, humanity has coveted control of death. Some circles consider the first necromancers to have been warriors who created the first weapons to more efficiently divert death to their enemies. But as humans do, they desired more. The deliverance and diversion of death became medicine, warriors rose from being bloody killers to finding form and art in battle, but the search for mastery over death, and the spaces beyond it, never ended.
Necromancy grew alongside burgeoning humanity. To bring loved ones back from the brink, to get that final goodbye once stolen, to learn where the treasure or will was hidden, to learn how one was murdered - everyone had a use for the necromancer. Physicians worked with necromancers in the early ages of the craft, and learned what would become the foundation of today's medicine. But as culture developed, and tastes changed, the world found less and less love for the barbaric acts of the corpse-meddling sorcerers.
And yet, they remained on the fringes, behind closed doors, funded quite handsomely in secret. The wisdom and learning they could bring was too good to lose, though they began to find themselves on rather tight leashes, kept as aides, in advisory positions, or as last resorts.
But through this long transitional period, necromancers formed a close and secret community. The actual arts of Necromancy, and an art it was, not a science, was a collection of related practices that were refined and added to throughout time, and such techniques were made known to those who could be trusted. The finest repository of this knowledge wasn't from a mentor, but rather it was from the necromancers' greatest secret of all.
On the barren slopes of a dead mountain unfit for life, there lay a dour stone fortress. The walls were as vast slabs, monolithic, the great portal was covered in gargoyles and other grotesque figures. The low, vaulted corridors were lit with cold ghostflame. And lastly, in a number of great central chambers, there sat dozens of large black wooden shelves. Upon these shelves were not tomes, scrolls, or clay tablets. What lay there in profusion were dead necromancers who could be slid out and spoken to, so that all might learn together.
Their rest was sweet and sacred, and certain bodies were brought across the mountain to interred master necromancers of ages past to be compelled to speak. To be inducted into the archives of the dead was an honour beyond reckoning for them, and they never admitted the dead of anyone outside the society, despite the losses of wisdom for not saving the minds of philosophers and researchers that might happen. Best not to rock the boat, so to speak, stealing away famous bodies to the archives. The graveyards were open to them regardless, but there was no gravekeeper like a necromancer.
Iron Undead
It began with a haunting. A warrior, buried with full armour and weapons, returned and restless. Vengeful. It took much to lay the spirit back to rest, and took as much every time it happened. It was a long time before humanity began to understand what caused it.
As the war against the supernal world began to grow, the secret of nullifying iron became so commonplace that entire cities were built from it, denying all but the most devastating supernatural force: death itself. Humanity dwelt, once cowed, in a world replete with horrors that preyed upon every moment of their lives and carried what remained after death into some far, dark place. But with the advent of iron, humanity carved out its own niche as its own power, yet had no way to combat that final danger, until one ferromancer had the idea of encasing corpses in iron.
The first ironclad corpse was that of a hero, given the honour for his duty to humanity. He was to be protected fully, for all time, from the supernatural powers which infested the world, and most of all from the thief of all souls. As he lay dying, his body was immersed in molten iron and placed in a simple stone crypt in an isolated, serene glade.
For some time afterwards, the practice persisted and mankind sighed with relief that their ancestors would rest easy, safe from the clutches of that which harried them in life. But then, about a year later, a hero-worshipping noble made pilgrimage to the grave of the "iron hero" and looked with horror to find the stone crypt sundered. And as the sound of tearing, straining metal erupted from the tomb, the fellow fled screaming as he glimpsed the faceless, ferrous corpse of the old hero howling from within the confines of its deathless skin.
A terrible decision fell upon the leaders of humanity as the ferromancers came to the dread realization that the phenomenon of warriors buried with their iron weapons, and returning from death, began to make sense. Though the body may expire from wounds, illness, or natural degradation, what we knew as death was the severing of that intangible animating essence, the soul, from the body. Without it being whisked away, it remained within its rotting remains, seeing, feeling, thinking, and now encased in iron, slowly going mad. Graveyards across the lands were filled with them. And at any moment, they might break out.
But what to do with them? Give their insane spirits up to the soul thieves? In the end, human leaders made a hard decision, and rather than relinquish the souls of their kin, they instead set about attempting to better preserve them, and as time wore on, extremely mild supernatural powers were bound and compelled through ferromancy to give the Iron Undead some kind of repose. As they could not sleep, or die, methods were invented to give them mental numbness so post-mortem madness could be staved off.
The Iron Undead serve now as powerful warriors against supernatural forces. Their very presence nullifies many horrors, and their touch is cleansing and terrible to behold. They hold an extremely violent hatred of demons, ghosts, and supernaturally reanimated undead, howling wordlessly from within their eternal skins. The living who fight beside them look and know what awaits them either minutes or years from that moment.