《RE//Shuffle》
Overture - Folly
Baethen ¡®Sore-Loser¡¯ Locke awoke with the giddy excitement only a child can possess, running around the house like a draught-addict on devil¡¯s-powder¡ªwhatever that meant; his parents did not deign to comment or expand on that topic even with his pestering.
Brushing his teeth with a horse-hair brush and charcoal wash, Baethen sat down on the dining-room table, rocking back and forth on his chair as Mother made eggs, bacon, and pancakes while Father read the morning print.
¡°Nezarrem took the port city of Janash.¡±
¡°King protect us from those savage ash-skins.¡± Mother demurred back as she stirred the whites and yolks together into a nice scramble. It was left unsaid that the Locke clan hailed from Nezarrem and that their amber hair and greyish complexion was a product of said ¡®savages¡¯. As if the local Woedenites would distinguish a fourth-generation Nezarri that didn¡¯t even speak the tongue of their former homeland from a proper native of the Dreadsea.
The geopolitics flew over Baethen¡¯s head as he scarfed down the food on his plate. Robust breakfast such as these came few and far between in their household since his mother lost her job at the local card-smithy¡ªthough not a card-smith herself, Volentia Locke worked the dye vat to help the master mass-produce [Of-a-Kind] cards that were needed in the day-to-day operations of their city.
¡°Are you ready for your first card, Baethe?¡± Father sported a grin when his son nodded so emphatically so as to almost fall off the chair. Thankfully, the man had caught him in time lest the boy crack his skull on the tile flooring.
Carothian ceramic did not come cheap.
Being dealt your first card is always a momentous occasion.
Baethen and his parents had walked to the local temple of the Twenty-One Gods. Other nations had their own variations on the Major Arcana though whatever those were, the twelve-turn-old could not care in the slightest.
Hewn of the whitest, purest marble imaginable, the temple was a grand affair with columns as thick as Baethen was tall, holding up a ceiling of black-alabaster. Each pillar was carved in the likeness of one of the Numbered-Pantheon, starting from Unnumbered Loken whose face was hidden behind two half-masks made one and ending with Eot the Twenty-First whose very body all things walked upon.
A gaggle of other children streamed in which signalled the boy to look back at his parents.
¡°Go on. We¡¯ll meet again by this column.¡±
With a nod, Baethen ran into the yawning threshold of the temple, dodging the slower children to get to the inner sanctum all the faster. A bark from a deacon set him to walking rather than running¡ªthe threat of being barred from the ceremony for a whole turn did not fall on deaf ears.
Sitting cross-legged in a circle around the cartomancer, a divine conduit to Morgana Herself, the children were silent before the grave weight that impregnated the air. They sat within a pool of water, upon black-alabaster¡ªthe holy stone of the Gods Themselves. The material had the base colour of a rich midnight-ebony but a lustre somewhere between metal and liquid with a pattern-weld like damascene, bright-ivory veins shimmering.
With a brazier in chain held in thrall of hand, incense spilled forth in heavy veils of vapour. The cartomancer went from child to child, setting a blank card¡ªcarte-blanche¡ªbefore each wee little tyke, the rectangles of white floating atop the water yet affixed rather than ebbing.
Only once all of them had one, she sat down in the middle of the circle where a heptagram lay etched within the stone; the seven-sided star was a symbol for Babylon the Sixteenth Major Arcana or the Broken-God. Even though there was water within the large, circular basin, each and every person within sat atop it as if it were solid ground.
¡°The equinox is upon us, the veil porous. Gods now look through from the depths of the ether and gods suffer no fools. Mind your tongues children¡ªwe¡¯d rather not have to go through the complicated Ritual-of-Untoadifying.¡±
A couple of giggles later and the cartomancer¡¯s crows-feet were all that remained; though the bairnlings would soon forget of her, and her of them, High-Priestess Jecate would possess an indelible mark of their presence.
¡°Touch your cards, little ones, and be blessed by the Twenty-One.¡±
Baethen touched his card and the world went dark.
Only the black-alabaster and the water remained, a firmament of unending black before him, spreading from horizon to horizon. Looking up, Baethen saw his reflection or was it down? Which Baethen was the ¡®true¡¯ one?
The liminal space of Babylon was mind-bending to say the least. Had he paid better attention to the priestess¡¯ classes on metaphysics, he would have understood that this instance of Babylon, known as Babel, was the seat of the soul, the depths of one¡¯s being and that the darkness beyond was the ether from whence the Gods came and where humanity¡¯s myriad fears festered. There, just after the horizon of eternity, lay the waters of Hypnagogia and the madness of Gehenna.
Words, silver as the morning dew of first snow, wrote themselves into being upon the waters. They were cuneiform rather than runic, a square script of living flame effervescent with divinity.?? This very same tongue had been the one employed to erect creation from the all-nothing, to cut from the wholecloth before time a strip of existence.
Omniglot; the Language-of-the-Gods that all could read by will alone, even blind or entirely senseless. Though Baethen perceived it as if his native Woedenian runes, the ideographs were universally intelligible such that even soulless beasts could parse them.
Harken, the [Dealer-of-Fate] stirs awake! As {Eldest}, [Fata-Morgana] takes {Rearhand} as {Dealer}.
Scouring [Akashic-Archive] for compatible {Arcanum-Deck} [¡]
Compatible {Arcanum-Deck} found; shuffling probabilities set to base one over mean [¡]
Shuffle complete, [Three-of-a-Kind] {Sets} {Drawn}; please select {Three} {Cards} to form a {Set}.
*Selections are final; results are blind; only {One} {Card} of each {Set} may be selected. Should a {Set} not be formed in the {Allotted-Time} of {Ten-Licks}, a {Set} will be selected at random.
? Set I: [The-Fool], [Death], [The-Devil]
? Set II: [Three-of-Spades], [Jester], [Two-of-Staves]
? Set III: [One-of-Cups], [Golden-Triumph], [Nine-o¡¯-Cattails]
As far as carte-blanches went, the hand that Baethen was dealt was a good one.
He had a pick of three of the Twenty-One Major Arcana. [The-Fool] was the Twenty-Second or Unnumbered God of Loken and wasn¡¯t counted among the Numbered-Pantheon but it was better than [Death], the nameless God-of-Crows-and-Burials, or [The-Devil] the Fifteenth God-of-Terror-and-Strife. It was by the Fifteenth-Hand that monsters arose from Gehenna where the shadows of humanity¡¯s phobias gestated like ulcers on the underside of existence. Were Baethen to choose the Red-Dragon, he would be branded a warlock and be thrown into the Black Legion to fight on the frontlines against the Nezarri. He did not like his chances of surviving against his expatriates even if they shared the same pallor.
The second set was forgettable beyond the wildcard of [Jester]. It would deal a random card from the ether and could otherwise saddle Baethen with an even worse draw than the Red-Dragon.
The third set was a harder choice as a triumph, especially a gold one, could easily elevate his Lynchpin to three stars¡ªthat of a lordling, that sort of power. The Ninetails could also signify great potential as it was just as valuable as a gold triumph though much more volatile. Since Baethen didn¡¯t know which god would want to play against him, he¡¯d rather choose the more well-balanced¡ª
The white Babylon-script unwound as if fraying rope, reforming what should have been set in black-alabaster stone; the ten licks allotment was changed from ten licks of the clock to ten blinks. NO!
Allotted time of {Ten-Licks} elapsed; {Hand} selected at random.
Harken, the [Shuffler-of-Decks] stirs awake! As {Eldest}, [Loken-the-Fool] is granted dominion to select {Game}.
{Game} selected as {Fools-Gambit}.
I can still win this. I just need to play with the cards I was dealt¡ª
Again the Language decided to change itself before Baethen¡¯s very eyes. Instead of choosing a game that could be won by skill or wit, the game was chosen for him and it was entirely luck-based with only a single choice and thus none at all.
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Baethen would hate the game of Fool¡¯s Gambit for the rest of his life.
{Forehand} [Baethen-Locke] plays: ({All-In} - {Arcana-Played: [The-Devil], [Three-of-Spades], [Golden-Triumph].})
{Tabula} calculated: {Twenty-Two} to {Zero}
{Middlehand} [Loken-the-Fool] plays: ({All-In} - {Arcana-Played: [The-Fool], [Death], [Jester]})
{Tabula} calculated: {Twenty-Two} to {Zero}
{Rearhand} [Fata-Morgana] as {Dealer} plays: ({Draw}, {Fold}, incurs {Reveal-Hand} and then {Discard} - {Arcana-Discarded: [Two-of-Staves], [One-of-Cups], [Nine-o¡¯-Cattails].})
{Tabula} calculated: {Twenty-Two} to {Zero}
{Forehand} [Baethen-Locke] incurs {Loss}; {Middlehand} [Loken-the-Fool] is granted dominion to select [Baethen-Locke]¡¯s {Hand} from compatible {Arcanum-Deck}.
[Loken-the-Fool] is selecting {Hand}; please wait [...]
{Hand} set as:
? [The-Fool]
? [Death]
? [Jester]
Fusing {Hand} of {Three-Card-Set} into [Lynchpin]; please wait [...]
Baethen could not put into words the anger he felt. The burning loathing only a child could feel at blatant unfairness. Once his Lynchpin was set in stone forevermore, he felt jubilation and then profound confusion.
This confoundment would last until the day he died for gods suffered no fools, much less responded to their questions.
Card Dealt: [Reshuffle] ¡ï¡ï¡ï¡ï¡ï
Draw: [One-of-a-Kind]
Drawback: [Death-Seal]
Arcana: [The-Fool]
Number: [Zero//XXII]
Suit: [Back-Pocket]
Portfolio ¦µ: [¡®The Eldest Hand¡¡¯]
It made no sense! The arcana should have had two more parameters. The portfolio description should have more than three bloody words! The thrice-damned card was an enigma wrapped in a riddle hidden within a mystery and then thrown within the Seas-of-Conundrum. Five stars was a strata known only to emperors and yet the only way to play the card was that Baethen had to first depart this mortal coil.
Back-pocket suits were usually inactive until their trigger condition was met. The drawback of [Death-Seal] could activate with the demise of others but by the intrinsic knowledge granted by the card, Baethen knew that only his end would satisfy the drawback.
When Baethen awoke from the Trance-of-Babylon, the white card laid atop the water before him had turned pitch-black, disintegrating into tatters and then ashes and then nothingness.
His hopes and dreams were reflected in the carte-blanche¡¯s dissolution.
The return home was silent and after the first few questions, Baethen¡¯s parents knew better than to prod. His Lynchpin was useless! He couldn¡¯t use it or test it without actually dying. It could have been a resurrection-card but Baethen wouldn¡¯t bet on it, fool¡¯s gambit that that¡¯d be. The intrinsic knowledge he¡¯d been given upon manifesting the Lynchpin told him that the card started at ¡®one¡¯ and would double with each death, whatever that esoteric nonsense meant.
Most likely, [Reshuffle] was an inheritance-type that would endow Baethen¡¯s children with his cards upon death, including [Reshuffle]. He¡¯d heard of familial archive cards such as these that let one¡¯s progeny choose from a hand of randomised cards¡ªinstead of having to scrounge-up tokens to buy a spell-card after awakening your Lynchpin, you just got one during your dealing ceremony, wholesale.
The star-rating made sense with that theory as an inheritance card like that one could guarantee that the Locke bloodline rose to prominence; even should an assassin kill a family member, their cards would be drawn into the shared archive rather than be stolen. A card fitting for a dynasty but useless to a single boy.
Baethen didn¡¯t dare utter a thrice-damned word of the card to his parents. They would arrange a marriage in a fortnight and he was tired of his life being decided by others.
As the turns passed and Baethen had time to let his anger settle and cool down, he found out something rather interesting: he didn¡¯t care. A setback like this wouldn¡¯t douse his dream of adventuring into the wilds, to delve into the Evergaols in search of countless treasures and battle against the Gates-of-Gehenna that spawned monsters by the droves.
So what that his Lynchpin was useless? He¡¯d just choose whatever damn cards he wanted instead of building a deck around dead weight. In a way, it was freeing; Baethen could choose whatever he wanted instead of being pigeonholed into an archetype.
He¡¯d eventually told his parents that his Lynchpin was an inheritance type of three stars; it had made them weep in joy. He made them swear on their immortal souls that they¡¯d not arrange a marriage until he became of age at twenty-one turns. Words have weight before the Gods and should they break theirs, Nagalfaram the Merchant-of-Death would reincarnate them into sewer slugs in their next life.
Or so Baethen hoped.
After eight turns of apprenticing in the local steel smithy, Baethen had accumulated the wealth needed to complete his deck¡¯s first set. Every person was limited to a single hand¡ªthree cards, specifically¡ªso to increase the number of cards they could hold in a single day, they had to form a set. Any cards not within a hand were banished to the archive within their Tower-of-Babel and would need to be redrawn during sleep.
Which, speaking of, was where Baethen currently found himself. In the strange space that was the seat of his soul, he read the descriptions of the three cards before him.
Card Bought: [Lesser-Juggler-of-Fire] ¡ï
Draw: [Of-a-Kind]
Drawback: [Running-Water]
Arcana: [The-Juggler], [Fire], [One-of-Staves]
Number: [I//XIX]
Suit: [Sleight-of-Hand]
Portfolio ¦µ: [¡®He who juggles burning staves best be careful¡¯. This {Card} grants the {Player} with {Minor-Dominion} over the {Arcana-of-Fire}, allowing them to {Move} {Fonts-of-Combustion} through {Will-of-Mind} and {Act-of-Body} so long as said {Fonts} are in {Touch} with a {Stave} held in {Thrall-of-Arm}. Should the {Player} {Cross} a {Body-of-Running-Water}, this {Card} is {Discarded} from the {Player}¡¯s {Hand} into their {Archive} until the next {Hand} is {Redrawn}.]
What counted as a ¡®stave¡¯ was rather in dispute. Other nations called them arcane foci, the point in which a magician focuses their will. Baethen had used his trusty hammer¡ªthis had been the only way to hide his adventuring aspersions from his family. They¡¯d thought that he was aiming to become a blacksmith but that couldn¡¯t be further from the truth.
His body was lambent with well-corded muscle and his bones were heavy. Though not all that tall in comparison to a pure-blooded Woedenite, Baethen was a beast of a lad that had hammered iron into steel a thousand-thousand times over.
And, just as he folded metal to grant it strength, he¡¯d done much the same with his body.
Card Bought: [Cinderspark-Spit] ¡ï
Draw: [Of-a-Kind]
Drawback: [Chew-With-Your-Mouth-Closed]
Arcana: [Calumnia], [Fire], [Water]
Number: [XVII//XIX]
Suit: [Sleight-of-Hand]
Portfolio ¦µ: [¡®Serpents are the spawn of dragons¡¯. This {Card} grants the {Player} {Minor-Dominion} over the {Arcana-of-Fire}, allowing them to {Combust} the {Font-of-Water} within their {Phlegm} through {Will-of-Mind} so long as it is in {Touch} with a {Font-of-Air}. {Phlegm} within the {Player}¡¯s mouth or stagnant upon the ground is {Exempt} from the {Dominion} of the {Player}''s {Arcana}.]
Fonts, known commonly as elements, were bodies of a given arcana manifested physically within the world. [Lesser-Juggler-of-Fire] could not make flame from nothing and could only move it around. This is where [Cinderspark-Spit] came in clutch; it allowed Baethen to conjure a font, however small, from thin air. Or, more accurately, by spit in contact with thin air. He had to really pull from his mouth to be able to make anything bigger than a spark but that was where the next card came in.
Card Bought: [Kindlers-Breath] ¡ï¡ï
Draw: [Of-a-Kind]
Drawback: [Lungful-of-Ash]
Arcana: [Fire], [Air], [Death]
Number: [XVII//XIX]
Suit: [Triumph]
Portfolio ¦µ: [¡®Gods gave life through breath, you give death through yours¡¯. This {Card} grants the {Player} {Major-Dominion} over the {Arcana-of-Phlogiston}, allowing them to {Magnify} {Fonts-of-Fire} through {Will-of-Mind} and {Breath-of-Lung}. Once this {Card} is {Brought-Into-Play}, the {Player}¡¯s next {Exhale} will {Magnify} the applicable {Font} it comes in {Touch} with; whilst the next {Inhale} {Draws} {Ash} from {Babylon} into the {Lungs} which is {Banished} to {Whence-It-Came} when the next {Hand} is {Redrawn}.]
Baethen had to juggle his focus and breath and phlegm to cast his sorcery. He¡¯d had ample practice with his cards in the smithy, the spells becoming second nature. It was this intimacy with the hand he dubbed serpent¡¯s-tongue that had allowed him to finally form a set after five whole turns of drudgery.
It was a double entendre¡ªan ode to the epigraphs of his cards and a reference to the charade that Baethen kept up with his family. His Tower-of-Babel, the seat of his soul reaching towards Babylon, agreed with him given the name of the set he had formed.
Set Formed: [Imp-of-Serpents] ¡ï¡ï
Draw: [Three-of-a-Kind]
Drawback: [Burn-with-Shame]
Arcana: [The-Magician], [Fire], [Air]
Number: [I//XIX]
Suit: [Sleight-of-Hand]
Portfolio ¦µ: [¡®Fire may scald but tongues can make even the most impervious of men burn with shame¡¯. This {Set} grants the {Player} {Major-Dominion} over the {Arcana-of-Phlogiston}, allowing them to {Manipulate} the {Heat} within a {Font-of-Fire} through {Word-of-Mouth} and {Breath-of-Lung}. Being {Caught-Red-Handed} in a {Lie} incurs a {Brand-of-Shame}, thus {Sealing} the {Player}¡¯s {Word-of-Mouth} until the next {Hand} is {Redrawn}.]
Meditation on the nature of his cards during a thousand nights of prayer and toiling in the intricacies of their everyday use in the smithy had aligned them such that they became but one within the realm of his soul.
This was it. Just another turn of practice and a few more lesser cards to see him through the wilds and Baethen would achieve his childhood dream. This was the cumulation of a decade of hard work, planning, and dogged persistence.
Had Baethen¡¯s Lynchpin been anything other than the useless piece of dragon-dung that it was, he¡¯d not have achieved this much. For that he was grateful and, at the same time, bitter. Just because things had turned out alright didn¡¯t erase the heartache of the hand that life had dealt him.
I - With Fever
Today was the day that his parents would give him his inheritance at twenty-one turns of age. A single card from their archives. Though this wasn¡¯t a product of an inheritance-type proper, it was the closest thing that most commoners had access to, allowing a person to store six cards total within their soul but not within their hand.
Tomorrow was the day that Baethen would disappoint and worry his parents at the same time because he¡¯d run away to join an expedition into the Evergaol of Rimare-Tul. Just as the Red-Dragon spewed Her devils from the Gates-of-Gehenna, the House-of-the-Gods descended upon the earth with their splendours and surprisingly-blood-thirsty angels. These towers dwarfed even the tallest of mountains, hewn of marble and blackest alabaster and within whose hearts lay an archd?mon imprisoned for aeons; hence, Evergaol.
¡°Son, are you with fever? You seem awfully glum for a day that¡¯ll see you with a card of three stars.¡±
With a fake smile on his lying, two-faced mug, Baethen shook his head and bumped his shoulder against Mother¡¯s. He hated himself for what he was about to do but the guilt wasn¡¯t near enough to stop him from going through with it in the first place.
When his mother touched her breastbone and removed a shimmering-bright transparent-black card, Baethen¡¯s breath caught in his throat, burning something fierce. He read it and each word brought tears to his eyes.
At the sight, his parents smiled, twisting the knife that Baethen had buried into his own heart. They thought he cried of joy but it was the opposite. Their perception couldn¡¯t be further away from the truth, from the falsehood that their one-and-only son had kept up for a decade.
Card Given: [Celestial-Dew] ¡ï¡ï¡ï
Draw: [One-of-a-Kind]
Drawback: [Don¡¯t-Cry-Over-Spilt-Milk]
Arcana: [The-Chalice], [The-High-Priestess], [Water]
Number: [III//II]
Suit: [One-at-Dice]
Portfolio ¦µ: [¡®The first bead of dew that fell from the sky became the seas, the last tear of the Weeping-God-of-Sorrows¡¯. This {Card} grants the {Player} {Complete-Dominion} over the {Arcana-of-Water}, allowing them to {Revivify} themselves via {Expenditure} of a {Font-of-Water} through an {Act-of-Libation}. After this {Card} is {Brought-Into-Play}, it is {Discarded} from the {Player}¡¯s {Hand} and {Archive}, thus {Banished} to {Babylon}.]
If Baethen hadn¡¯t loathed himself before, he did so now. His family had kept this life-saving card for generations¡ªthis could return an elder to the peak of health, granting a person twice the normal lifespan of a mortal or thereabouts. [Celestial-Dew] could mend back a person from the brink of death, a panacea in the palm of his hand.
¡°I-I can¡¯t. This is too much. I¡ª¡±
Mother folded his outstretched hand, bending his fingers around the three-star card with her own. ¡°It¡¯s yours son, not simply by right but freely given. You owe nothing and are beyond both reproach and expectation. This is yours to do with as you see fit. Just as I got this card from my mother and my mother got it from hers, I now give this to you.¡±
Baethen understood now why his mother hadn¡¯t used it on herself. She had become his mother and no parent wants to bury their children. They¡¯d much rather die before it came to that and this card guaranteed the rightful order of things, as it were.
He imagined that it must¡¯ve been quite the sight seeing a beast of a man, wide as an ox and with just as much muscle, weeping into the embrace of his mother. Gods, how he¡¯d miss her. When even his curmudgeon and ever-stoic father joined in, the already-broken floodgates turned to dust.
In another life, his parents would jest that the neighbours thought they were slaughtering a particularly woeful donkey.
For the hundredth time, Baethen scratched at the corner of his jaw, pulling a few errant strands from his beard so that he might ignore the boiling, turbid cauldron that was his skull.
Baethen did not let himself think because if he did, he¡¯d never leave the walls of Reordranhall. His better sense would get the better of him and the guilt would bind him to a fate that would strangle his soul from within. Always wondering what his life would be like if he wasn¡¯t such a coward and had instead ventured forth into the unknown.
Ironically, even after he left the walls of Reordranhall behind him, he was a lying, two-faced coward all the same. He¡¯d never again see either his mother or his father; he¡¯d die of blood loss with a shank to the kidneys, dead in a ditch like the thousand-thousand other fools that thought themselves invincible. Though he did not know this then, he felt the premonition of his death like a sliver of iron drawn to a lodestone, walking towards the compass of his doom: Rimare-Tul.
The age-old adage of ¡®damned-if-you-do and damned-if-you-don¡¯t¡¯ never felt so right than today.
Having grown up within the rough-hewn stone of a city, the Azure Forest was an alien place to Baethen, just as foreign as any nation that spoke a strange tongue even though this forest was well within the borders of Woeden.
Marching along the Kingsroad with the expedition¡¯s train of wagons and carts, Baethen spotted mushrooms taller than most men and vegetation that moved before his eyes, roots strangling each other at the behest of their respective sovereigns. The barks of the trees were black, the canopy casting a sempiternal penumbra that had the expedition lightning hallow-lanterns to ward-off the encroaching whispers. Darkness of any kind beyond the consecrated grounds of a city was prone to spontaneous generation of monsters; wherever humanity dared tread, their fears were not far behind. First was the chittering, then the gibbering, then the unintelligible words and then, finally an apparition would materialise from the ether and waylay them.
Baethen was both dreading and chomping at the bit at the thought of his first fight. He¡¯d come prepared, clad in full-if-shoddy plate he¡¯d forged himself. It was ugly and piecemeal because he just did not have the dexterity to articulate the joints. Nonetheless, it would see him through a fight with devil-spawn. He had a scrap-metal club belted to his hip and a waterskin resting on his lower back, satchels taking the rest of the space on his sash, filled with bandages and flint and what-have-yous that were needed to survive in the wilds.
Most of the other fighters were Nezarri-blooded like him as the soldier¡¯s trade was the last choice for those that have none left. When you¡¯re piss-poor, selling it to the tanner to stave off starvation for another day, you¡¯d rather take your chances with an imp than piss in a bucket in front of a man for a measly ten tokens.
Whores were paid better but Baethen did not have the disposition for peddling flesh.
He settled into the slow march through the forest quickly enough. Having a mind to check and an old habit to boot, Baethen brought up his Hand while he walked. He could still see inside his mind¡¯s eye with his real ones open after having practised it for long enough. The skill wasn¡¯t all that uncommon though most didn¡¯t care enough to cultivate it.
({Archetype}: [Prime]) Selected; {Player}¡¯s ({Hand}: [3//3]) {Drawn} as follows:
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[Celestial-Dew] ¡ï¡ï¡ï ({Single-Card} - {Unlinked})
[Imp-of-Serpents] ¡ï¡ï ({Three-Card-Set} - {Unlinked})
[Strike-While-the-Iron-is-Hot] ¡ï ({Two-Card-Set} - {Unlinked})
Once a set was formed, it couldn¡¯t be broken without risking the loss of the constituent cards¡ªthe process was known as rivening and it left just as many men broken as it did cards. To remedy this, those who had the tokens to do so formulated a wide-range of archetypes they could swap out with based on the day¡¯s need. A sort of pseudo-set, as it were, that did not fuse together to offer any sort of benefit.
Baethen was not one of those lucky-and-wealthy few, so he had only his prime archetype. The rest of his cards were tucked away safely in his archive.
{Player}¡¯s ({Archive}: [2//6]) {Read} as:
[Leaden-Stomach] ¡ï ({Single-Card} - {Unlinked})
[Bloodfly-Husk] ¡ï ({Single-Card} - {Unlinked})
[Empty-Slot]
[Empty-Slot]
[Empty-Slot]
[Empty-Slot]
He¡¯d bought both [Bloodfly-Husk] and [Leaden-Stomach] in preparation for the expedition. The former could cure most poisons, recover lost blood, and mend superficial wounds into scar-tissue within stunds¡ªa one-at-dice, or ace-type, that could only be brought into play once before the card disintegrated. Baethen would use it in place of [Celestial-Dew] if he could. The latter was a backup plan in the slim chance of either getting split up from the rest of the expedition and thus without his rations or the expedition¡¯s rations just drying up for whatever reason. A lifeline, as it were.
Next, Baethen idly read his latest set [Strike-While-the-Iron-is-Hot] while he kept an eye on his surroundings. Babylon-script, afterall, was read by will alone, not sight. Even a soulless, thrice-dumb devil-spawn from the ether could read the Language.
Card Bought: [Slag-and-Scale] ¡ï
Draw: [Of-a-Kind]
Drawback: [Red-Hot-Iron]
Arcana: [The-Crucible], [Mercury], [One-of-Sceptres]
Number: [IV//XIX]
Suit: [Sleight-of-Hand]
Portfolio ¦µ: [¡®Shed the worthless scale and draw a pure core¡¯. This {Card} grants the {Player} {Minor-Dominion} over the {Arcana-of-the-Crucible}, allowing them to {Manipulate} a {Font-of-Mercury} through {Act-of-Body} via {Expenditure} of said {Font} so long as it is {Red-Hot} and in {Touch} with a {Sceptre} held in {Thrall-of-Arm}. Once this {Card} is {Brought-Into-Play}, {Fonts-of-Mercury} in {Touch} with the {Player} through a {Medium} thereof held in {Thrall-of-Arm}, will begin to rapidly cool through {Dissolution}.]
The scrap-metal club was awfully big to wield by human strength alone, especially through a protracted battle. Once Baethen warmed-up, both figuratively and literally, he could swing it with both his force of arm and force of will. It would eat away at the club¡¯s metal but that was fine because he¡¯d brought a heap of scrap from the smithy with him.
Sceptres were similar enough to staves that Baethen did not have much difficulty transforming his club into both. An arcane focus required intimacy of use and emotional resonance, channelling one¡¯s spirit through it whereas a martial focus, a sceptre, conducted might via movement. Staves did not require much in the manner of physical exertion whereas sceptres needed them. Though the nomenclature was sceptre, it could also include swords and other bladed weapons.
All-together, his hand allowed Baethen to fight on the front-lines while also offering a ranged-option before entering close combat. Within twenty blinks, he could rain down bolts of fire and bullets of molten slag in a large cone before him. Short as casting times go¡ªthere were decks that took a whole lot longer to set up to do as much damage. The material consumption was the price he¡¯d paid, efficiency exchanged for speed.
Card Bought: [Run-Like-the-Wind] ¡ï
Draw: [Of-a-Kind]
Drawback: [Bellows-Out-of-Breath]
Arcana: [The-Dog-Star], [Consumption], [Desolation]
Number: [XVII//III]
Suit: [Sleight-of-Hand]
Portfolio ¦µ: [¡®The wind runs from Death for it fears stillness¡¯. This {Card} grants the {Player} {Minor-Dominion} over the {Arcana-of-Air}, allowing them to {Clad} their {Steps} in {Wind} through {Will-of-Mind} and {Expenditure} of a {Font-of-Phlogiston} in {Touch} with a {Stave}. Once this {Card} is {Brought-Into-Play}, the {Player} incurs a {Brand-of-Fear} which will {Halve} their {Breath-of-Lung} until the next {Hand} is {Redrawn}.]
The cards were of-a-kind which meant there were others like them¡ªa known quantity. Though there were a thousand-thousand variants of [Run-Like-the-Wind], this one was unique to Baethen. He¡¯d scoured the card markets and when those turned out deadends, he commissioned a card-smith to modify the next-best thing, inserting words from the [Torchbearer] card¡ªspecifically the phlogiston expenditure clause¡ªso that it would better synergize with his hand. Beyond this, Baethen hadn¡¯t needed to pay extra to strike the {Thrall-of-Arm} clause from the card given that removing was easier than adding.
Counter-intuitively, it was best to stack cards of the same resource pool; that way, you¡¯d have to manage less moving parts in the middle of battle. Cards had a tendency to bleed into one another as the mind unconsciously drew from what it had available, including drawbacks. If Baethen called upon [Imp-of-Serpents] he was also likely to invoke [Kindlers-Breath], especially so because it was a constituent card in the set.
Moving away from that ill-gotten set, Baethen had focused heavily on fusing [Slag-and-Scale] with [Run-Like-the-Wind], devoting most of his nightly meditations. It had taken a whole lot of dogged persistence to fuse the two cards into a set but it had been worth it. He hadn¡¯t had enough time to buy and add another card that resonated with the other two so this was the best that Baethen could do with what he had.
He wasn¡¯t disappointed even if it was only one-star.
Set Formed: [Strike-While-the-Iron-is-Hot] ¡ï
Draw: [Of-a-Kind]
Drawback: [Come-Undone]
Arcana: [The-Crucible], [The-Dog-Star], [Strength]
Number: [XVII//XIX]
Suit: [Triumph]
Portfolio ¦µ: [¡®Cold metal knows no master; to beat it, you must be faster¡¯. This {Set} grants the {Player} {Complete-Dominion} over the {Arcana-of-the-Crucible}, allowing them to {Concentrate} a {Font-of-Fire} and a {Font-of-Mercury} and a {Font-of-Air} within a {Single-Strike} of a {Sceptre} {Once} per {Hand} via {Expenditure} of said {Confluence-of-Fonts}. Should the {Player} {Misstrike}, this {Card} is {Discarded} from their {Hand} into their {Archive} and their {Sceptre}¡¯s {Dominion} over the {Arcana-of-Mercury} is {Sealed} until the next {Hand} is {Redrawn}.]
The drawback was that it was an all-or-nothing type of deal. [Come-Undone] consumed any contiguous font of arcana invested into it and required both mercury and fire which meant that, afterwards, Baethen would have to go through the laborious process of binding more scrap to the club¡¯s petrified wood hilt and warming it up with his [Imp-of-Serpents] set.
A coup de grace; a fight-ender. Once it was used, that was it for the day.
Once true night had fallen, the train made camp, setting the wagons around them as a makeshift wall with a hallow-pyre at the centre. The pure, white fire gave off no heat and would require actual kindling and lumber to do so; the warmth wasn¡¯t needed in the deep summer that Woeden was currently experiencing.
The Azure Forest was thrice-damned humid, a tundra-jungle that felt worse than the swelter of the Nezarri desert though Baethen was going by word of mouth as he¡¯d never stepped foot on the White-Sands of the Continent proper. Though the Dreadsea was located in the southernmost point of the Kataban continent, its climate ranged the gamut from temperate to tropical, especially that of the Isle-of-Woeden and its cerulean vegetation that was wont to trap moisture beneath the canopy.
Baethen took first watch, looking into the darkness with his back to the fire to preserve his night vision. He spooked at every shadow which made his compatriots snicker in Nezarri. He did not need to speak the tongue to know they made fun of him. He just smiled and shook his head because nothing could douse his spirits.
This was it¡ªhis dream.
If only he¡¯d known that dreams spoil quickly into nightmares and that Death and Fate laugh in the face of even the most prepared. First he¡¯d thought it was the wind, what with the gales that howled through the boughs and canopy. Then, he¡¯d thought it a birdsong of some sort¡ªperhaps a nightingale.
When the first pair of red eyes opened up in the black like cinders amid soot, Baethen knew that the Devil was about them. With a piercing and shrill whistle, he along with three others alerted the rest of the expedition of the Gehennic conjunction upon them that was about to burst.
II - Querent
¡°To arms!¡±
¡°Devils come a-knocking better be prepared to eat the door they¡¯ve opened!¡±
A hundred other such war calls and shouts and jibes reported through the night.
Baethen started by casting the first lot of his hand, spitting a glob of phlegm onto his gargantuan club. Without wasting a second, he exhaled, kindling the cinder into a blazing torch.
¡°[Burn].¡± He spoke in the Language, his lungs filling with ash as [Kindlers-Breath] bledover into [Imp-of-Serpents]. Every Word would worsen his cough until he choked to death inside-out. The club¡¯s outer-surface turned into red-hot quicksilver in an instant as his cards stacked atop one another, their effects meshing together to form something greater than the sum of their parts, an indistinguishable whole.
With a swing, Baethen sent the tongues of flame forth with [Juggler-of-Lesser-Fire], his club in place of stave. Once the first apparitions appeared, he played the card [Slag-and-Scale], converting the next strikes¡¯ projectiles¡¯ mass into momentum, ripping apart the newborn phantoms and those still-gestating into being with razor-sharp and red-hot iron shavings. Force of will became exertion of physical effort, knitting might and magic into a singular cloth rather than simple and disparate threads.
The spell-strikes bought the expedition time to rouse. From then on, Baethen was careful to only use his breath to kindle his stave lest he over-draw and drown in ash. [Kindlers-Breath]¡¯s drawback could worm its way into him should he not be careful¡ªexpending fonts had become second nature, especially so with the set [Imp-of-Serpents]. He did not call down fire as that cost too much metal and he¡¯d already burnt half of his mercury font in his opening move.
The first apparitions were insubstantial phantoms with a mass of claw-tipped arms. Most of these had fallen as their constitutions were all attack and no defence; expendable front-line infantry, in essence. The second wave of devil-spawn were skeletal, having possessed the bones of the nearby wildlife and rearranged them in a simulacra of the human form. These did not possess the recklessness and abandon of the first and were more cunning to boot.
Baethen, like the rest of the defenders, fought two shadow-clad skeletons at a time, breaking their frail bones with his club when the opportunity to do so arose during the flurry. After the first one scored a deep gash on his forearm even through the plate, Baethen began to tap into the heat of his mace and the breath of his lungs to esquive the nastier lunges from the monsters. [Run-like-the-Wind] eschewed raw power and offence for dexterity and defence; a worthwhile trade to live to fight another day, in Baethen¡¯s very much unbiased opinion
Leaden weight pressed upon lungs as if the world bore down upon Baethen¡¯s very soul, fear and terror and exhilaration taking root and blossoming like a wild-fire. His wage was a cowl of wind that wrapped around his ankles and calves, granting Baethen near-preternatural speed and grace. Just as his chest felt heavy, his feet were light.
He¡¯d split open a skull when the last wave began to fester into being. His breathing was turbid, having been overtaxed by a variety of cards and his iron had gone entirely cold. Even after turns of practice, efficiency had been forgotten amid all the chaos, the fog-of-war blinding.
With nothing for it, Baethen spoke once again a Word in the Tongue-of-the-Gods.
¡°[Burn].¡±
The last of the metal of his club grew incandescent from cold-grey to white-hot in a flash. Tongues of flame licked at his armour, Baethen¡¯s will having slipped and caught some of the plate. This was his second-to-last Word for the fight. He¡¯d only use one more should he need it and then he¡¯d be coughing-up dust for the whole night.
First shadow, then bone, had been impregnated by the will of the Red-Dragon. Now, unholy flesh traversed the great divide of the ether from Gehenna to Eot, baying and howling in its quest to snuff out the light. From the penumbra, desiccated, timeless horrors clad in ebon chitin and umber scale charged the front-lines.
The scriptures of the Twenty-One knew these as the Forsworn. Human souls, one and all, twisted beyond recognition in service of She-That-Broke-the-Tower. Such was the fate for those that took upon the arcana of wyrms; that trafficked with the agents of the Twelve-Hels; that played with forbidden cards. To accept the Fifteenth¡¯s power was to cast away one¡¯s humanity; the only vestige that could mark them as once being children of Leizuziel were their passing resemblance to a featherless biped.
In response to the newest cadre of d?mons, Baethen did not cast, keeping his spells to himself lest he become dead weight or just plain-old dead. Others threw magic in his place, spears of wood growing from seeds sown about the air to impale devil-spawn and sand becoming flesh-scouring whirlwinds that kept the enemy on the back foot, disoriented.
By the time that the last wave reached the line, they were down to three champions of Gehenna. Large and brutish, the ogres tracked them by some esoteric means because they had no eyes, only mouths and gaping holes in place of noses with ears like those of bats.
Unfortunately, that was not where the abominations¡¯ horrifying visage ended.
Exoskeletons, thick as a man¡¯s wrist, protected their bodies no different than armour though these were wrought of a callus-like, waxy substance rather than steel.
In the d?mons¡¯ mangled hands were swords of ancient stone, the slabs carved with fell glyphs that were an affront to the eyes as if not meant to be seen¡ªthe markings, a dark reflection of the Language¡¯s divinity; black where it was meant to be white, sullied where it was meant to be pure.
Misshapen draconic wings grew from their backs like malformed foetuses, far too small and weak to sustain flight. Spiralform, keratinous horns erupted from their skulls only to twist backwards and ingrow into the bone.
¡°Scaduphomet¡¯s wrinkled, hairy arse-cunt,¡± Baethen heard someone curse. Though he¡¯d like to agree, he thought it better to remain silent. Best conserve his breath and not poke the Beast-Herself. Besides, Mother taught him better than to swear.
Ow! Hels¡¯ bells, that stung. Reshing piece of dragon-shite.
Aloud, that is. Baethen uttered all manner of profanity in the privacy of his own mind where no one but himself and perhaps some omniscient-and-voyeuristic god could judge.
The rear-guard had set bonfires to blazing to supply elemental fonts of fire; this was Baethen¡¯s second wind as he dipped his club into the conflagration¡¯s heart and brought most of it with him. There was an ephemeral beauty to the dense swelter that assailed him through the helmet, choking the life out of him. Curlicues of smoke and tongues of flame and stars of cinders, all dancing to some faraway song that could just barely be heard so long as he did not pay direct attention to it.
The lack of air was doing strange tricks to his mind. Of that, Baethen was now certain.
With a group of front-line combatants holding back the tide, he stepped forward to engage with one of the ogres. Baethen drew deeply of the well of phlogiston atop his club, juggling it with his mind and then transmuting it to wind along the sails of his limbs. The pyre dimmed to half of what it once was.
For a beautiful seven blinks, Baethen became a dervish, a warrior-priest of Rephatamon the Chariot. He¡¯d never drawn so deeply and would regret doing so in the morning. Will-power was the muscle of the soul and it got sore quite easily and recovered slow as can be.
Baethen smacked the ogre from so many different angles so many times that his left shoulder popped out of its socket¡ªboth his and that of the dread-thing. There was no pain in the immediate. Waxen, callus-wrought chitin cracked, then wended, then shattered to bear the grotesqueness of the preserved corpse-flesh beneath. With a final blow, employing [Strike-While-the-Iron-is-Hot], he relieved the ogre of the burden of its ancient blade.
The overdraw and backlash hit Baethen all at once, staggering him such that he fell to his knees and had to be dragged behind the wagons. A diminutive old lady chided him for his stupidity and recklessness¡ªexpeditions like theirs drew a lot of attention from the Devil which meant that there was more of this coming for them in the following nights.
He should¡¯ve coordinated with the other fighters and not finished the monster by himself. They¡¯d not distribute tokens by contribution but rather equally, independent of heroics. Cards coalesced from the Gehenna-spawn were doled out by basis of need and seniority.
Giving the nice old lady a promise that he¡¯d be careful the next time that d?mons appeared from thin, night air, Baethen wandered towards the man that was currently popping joints back into place. A whole lot of people had bent fingers and dislocated shoulders; the expedition had brought on greenhorns which was how Baethen had hopped onto its coattails to begin with. The cheap pay was immaterial¡ªha-ha¡ªin comparison to the opportunity to explore.
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With a scream, Baethen lost consciousness for a blink as his arm was put back into its rightful place. A swig of a sleep-draught he¡¯d been given by the caravan¡¯s mender and the pain went away along with his awareness of the outside world.
He, in the manner of all {Players}, dreamt of his arcana and his cards. The dominions to which he¡¯d belonged to and the arcana which he possessed, borne before him in the Language atop the black-alabaster mirror of his immortal soul. There was a great deal of symbolism to be read within the sleeping world of Babylon though he¡¯d forget most of it once the dawn broke.
{Player}s {Arcanum} {Read} as follows:
[Arcana-of-Fire]
?[Minor] II (Allows {Player} to {Manifest} a {Font-of-Fire} in the {Form} of {Cinders} {Twice} per {Hand}.)
[Arcana-of-Air]
?[Minor] I (Allows {Player} to {Manifest} a {Font-of-Air} in the {Form} of {Drafts} {Once} per {Hand}.)
[Arcana-of-Water]
?[Complete] I (Allows {Player} to {Refund} a {Spent} {Font-of-Water} {Once} per {Hand}.)
[Arcana-of-Phlogiston]
?[Major] II (Allows {Player} to {Expend} a {Font-of-Air} to {Empower} a {Font-of-Fire} or vice-versa {Twice} per {Hand}.)
[Arcana-of-the-Crucible]
?[Minor] I (Allows {Player} to {Convert} a {Font-of-Mercury} into a {Font-of-Fire} or vice-versa {Once} per {Hand}.)
?[Complete] I (Allows {Player} to {Refund} a {Spent} {Font-of-Mercury} or {Font-of-Fire} {Once} per {Hand}.)
When next Baethen awoke, the sun was beginning to crown through the canopy, its rays tinged a cerulean-blue from the vegetation. Though it trapped moisture well enough, there was still a slight chill in the air from the antecedent summer night.
Mouth dry, Baethen didn¡¯t really want to play [Cinderspark-Spit]; instead, he used one of his two minor arcana charges to manifest a tiny mote of cinders. He kindled it with his breath, barely registering the ash beyond the scent of smoke given how lightly he drew of the card¡¯s power. Cards, though largely legalese in nature and seemingly writ and set in stone, were far more subtle than people gave them credit for; with the right amount of interpretation and practice, you could play a card in a dozen different ways.
Case in point was a arcanum-cast cantrip done through one¡¯s arcana rather than through a card proper. Everyone had potential access to cantrips though many did not live up to said potential power. These spells were far too nebulous for most to use when they could just play a card instead which was plain easier without having to learn a whole new skill.
As another example, [Kindlers-Breath] had done more than its portfolio described yesternight; {Clad} was usually a fixed clause that did not allow a player to keep converting fonts into more instances. With enough practice, the limitation could be overcome through sheer force of will alone though this was not always guaranteed nor even recommended as it could scar the soul. Limits were put in place by the Gods for a reason, the Deific Tarot kept in balance by the divine foresight of the Twenty-One.
A smattering of lesser spells and dominion-charges later, Baethen was warmed-up, having stretched and gone through most of his morning ablutions. As always, he took to a random caravan member, asking anything and everything about the trade and the forest itself; nothing much to do but speak and fraternise, afterall.
The beasts that called the Azure Forest home were some breed of dragon-spawn or another; this meant thick, scaled hides and a surplus of chitin and horn which was readily harvested. Baethen had taken up a tentative friendship with one of the older Nezarri men; a scarred and old brute, Ahedemir was alright once you got past his rough exterior. Though the veteran adventurer was bordering forty¡ªretirement age for this line of work¡ªhe had a handsome ruggedness to him that Baethen kept to himself.
Nearly twice his age Ahedemir might be but muscles were muscles and he did not lack them. Not. At. All. Gods, Baethen had broken his fast no more than a notch ago but he hungered something fierce just now. He could barely remember the last time he¡¯d bedded a man. His last lay had been a bar wench by the name of Ryrcene, a woman of the same age of twenty-one turns as him and just as drunk during the Festival-of-One-Thousand-Lights.
¡°Ye listenin¡¯, runt?¡± That was tall coming from him. Ahedemir was a good head-and-a-half shorter than Baethen given his thicker Nezarri blood.
With a none-too-well-hidden smirk, Baethen shook away his daydreaming and said: ¡°Sorry, you were explaining how to keep the hide beneath the exoskeleton intact¡¡±
Seeing that his font of mercury would not last with the coming fights, Baethen took to fashioning plates of umber exoskeleton to his chest and shoulders, stashing away the salvaged metal for later use¡ªhe could weld it to his club when the need arose. He¡¯d worked with chitin before though never skinned it himself. Him and Ahedemir were going through the finer intricacies of monster harvesting when the train stopped for midday break.
The expedition had a dowsing-priest with them, a disciple of the Weeping-God-of-Sorrow of Morophesh. She was the nice old lady that had rightfully chided Baethen for his foolishness, responsible for conjuring fonts of water so the caravan did not risk thirst. The Azure Forest, though humid, lacked bodies of water as the thick strangler-roots drank them before they could even form.
Lazarra¡¯s wrinkles spoke of her age and her whiteshorn braids spoke of her status as one given to the God-of-Waters, black ferrous pearls bound within the locks of hair. Curious and a bit dim that he was, Baethen asked her what she had to expend to bring forth matter from the ether. That earned him a smack to the hand from her ivory stave though, in the end, she did indeed tell him.
¡°To cry one must be either sad, happy or insane. Though I suppose the latter counts as all three. I must give up joy to Morophesh so the lot of you don¡¯t drink the poison water that surrounds Woeden. The Dreadsea has its namesake for a reason; any sip brings but ever-increasing thirst and fear. Imbibing, fully, of dreadwater drowns the mind in visions of torment and hallucination.¡±
Baethen received his waterskin back with reverence, thanking Mother Lazarra and trying his damndest not to pat her head. The diminutive dowsing-priest reminded him of a cranky lizard-dog, a kalegor; all bark, a tiny bit of bite, but still cute in that ugly sort of way.
Thank the Gods she was chosen by Morophesh and not Psychopomp the God-of-Dreams which was said to peek into the minds of men and read their thoughts so as to weave the waters of Hypnagogia that connected one to Babylon when asleep.
The afternoon was spent, you guessed it, marching. The excitement slowly died, giving way to content boredom. Baethen took to practising his cards to stave-off the encroaching ennui, channelling short, wordless spells and strikes. He spat globs of burning slag onto the ground, extinguishing them with his other cards just as fast lest he risk a wildfire, unlikely as those were with the loamy, bare earth of the Azure Forest; leaves here did not fall all at once like on the other side of Woeden, instead piling slowly atop one another and then decaying into mulch.
The ground squelched slightly but did not have enough give to be called a mire much less a swamp though it almost got to the status of bog and some could argue it a marsh rather than a forest. How such things were measured, Baethen did not know, he¡¯d just thought it strange how many words there were in the Woedenite tongue for places such as this.
¡°How¡¯s yer grasp on yer arcana?¡± Ahedemir¡ªBaethen had taken to calling him Miro¡ªasked him while fiddling with the paper-sword belted at his hip.
¡°I¡¯ve invested deeply into the elements of fire, earth, and air, branching out to connect it with others through some second-order intermediaries¡ªphlogiston, mercury, that sort of thing. Mostly Magus with a slight skew towards Tower, what with my use of sceptres. How ¡®bout you?¡±
Miro tapped his sheathed blade.
¡°Took to the arcana of severance, I did, building all me other fonts to reach it rather than taking the roundabout route ye¡¯ve walked. Invested mostly into tower, strength and sovereign in that right-specific order. Trying for executioner as me fighting style tends to end fights quick.¡± Miro punctuated his words by forming a peak with his finger and then splaying them horizontally¡ªspecialisation versus versatility; Baethen could still find work as a blacksmith once this was over and done with but Miro could only ever be a swordsman with his deck. As the Woedenite saying goes, you do not trust a barber that wields a big sword in stead of a small razor. Woeden tended to discriminate one¡¯s status according to their cards, even those no longer present within one¡¯s soul.
¡°Paper-swords work best with severance as them can be sharpened to an edge that beggars even the finest steel. Though, they ain¡¯t all that durable as ye might imagine. Can¡¯t enter a clinch or blade-bind with a material as flimsy as godsleaf.¡±
Baethen, impressed, asked if he could take a swing of the man¡¯s sword. Yes, he did think of it in that other sort of way but hadn¡¯t voiced it as such. Gods Asleep, older men are the bane to my peace of mind.
¡°Careful¡ªthe thing can take a finger so fast ye¡¯¡¯ll only know it when it''s fallen to the dirt.¡±
With that morbid image in mind, Baethen did a few good swipes and then handed the card-blade back to Miro. The sword was constructed of the same paper as a carte-blanche; tarrocht, which is made from Yggrdrazil leaf-pulp pressed into shape and then fired within a kiln of black-alabaster; hence, godsleaf. The World-Tree was said to shed Her leaves only once every millennium to mark the beginning of a new age¡ªwhether there was truth to that aspect of the Twelfth God, Baethen did not know.
Each Major Arcana had their own set of masks or faces, reflected across the many cultures of the world. The Merchant-of-Death Nagalfaram was known as Acheron the Judgement in the City-of-Mirrors and as the Godhead-of-Dumat in the Alabaster-Desert of Nezarrem, though all peoples, through some great act of serendipity, knew the god¡¯s number as twenty. This did not diverge across the many tongues of Man.
¡°What sort of strikes can you do?¡± Baethen asked Miro.
In response, the man unsheathed his blade just a notch, not fully drawing it and a branch was cut perpendicular to its direction, falling to the loamy earth. Baethen whistled at the display and, uncaring of the rudeness, asked the man what his sacrifice was¡ªto tell another of the particulars of their soul-deck was an act of utmost trust or utmost folly. Most times, it was both.
¡°For that little trick, I had to play a whole chain of cards across two four-card sets. The playing cost wasn¡¯t upfront¡ªhad to bank it beforehand; back-pocket suites tend to do that. See all the scars? Well, most of ¡®em I did meself. I can only conjure cuts that I¡¯ve suffered meself.¡±
Baethen¡¯s horrified expression got a chuckle out of Miro.
¡°Relax¡ªthey don¡¯t hurt none. I do ¡®em a round in advance of an expedition and with a mender by me side to boot so the wounds don¡¯t go sour on me. Makes the men and women alike swoon at the sight of a rugged, handsome bastard like meself.¡±
A shameless braggart, this one. And, unfortunately, it¡¯s working.
Miro tapped a scar on his finger and repeated the half-draw of his tarrocht-blade then another branch fell; when Baethen looked back at it, the scar was gone.
¡°See? I¡¯m safest when I look the ugliest. Some of the bigger scars I¡¯m loath to part with given thems also influence the shape of me phantom strikes. Kind of how the amount of metal ye got on yer club limits yer damage potential.¡±
With that they settled into companionable silence, the march taking hold as their eyes scanned the Azure Forest in search of threats.
III - Night
Days passed them by as did the many nights filled with strife. By the second notch, Baethen had learned how to better conserve his resources, leaning on the tips and tricks that Miro gave him¡ªpractice playing a card-chain as efficiently as possible; don¡¯t blow all the dragon-powder for one glorious shot; lone heroes die in ditches while armies survive with scars. The last one did not rhyme but that was on purpose.
Not everything fit perfectly together. Some things were brutally mismatched and uncaring to any rhyme or reason. Okay, maybe Miro was a bit of a poet but back to fighting devil-spawn: card-chains were more effective in that, with practice, they could negate bleedover between a set¡¯s many drawbacks. This was especially useful against a variety monsters that would otherwise bleed you to death through a prolonged fight.
Take the insubstantial, hundred-armed spectres, for example. They were known as night-wraiths, or simply wraiths, and embodied the fear of the dark and unseen predators. They were quick but many and forced Baethen to truly dig in, so to speak, lest he waste too much breath so early in the fight; he couldn¡¯t be too passive either as letting wraiths accumulate was a good way to get a shanked in the back.
For these, Baethen had perfected a card-chain he called rain-of-fire; he spat on a few bullets of metal, no larger than a wad each and then combusted them with the minimum amount of will possible before welding them to his club and then launching them at the incoming host of wraiths through a particularly strong swing.
Once the bullets hit the bastards, he took back the newly-made font of phlogiston¡ªthe arcana of air and fire conjoined¡ªon top of his club to fuel [Run-like-the-Wind]. This completed what Miro called a ¡®cycle¡¯ or card-chain. These were more resource-efficient than simply playing cards at random as they had somewhat defined effects once the user practised with them enough.
The shadow-clad skeletons were simply called bone-walkers and embodied the fear of the dead, the grotesque, and of revenant spirits. They didn¡¯t need to be taken out first thing in the fight like wraiths and couldn¡¯t without paying an untenable amount of resources that would see them in debt. The taxman that came to collect was none too kind either.
For the amalgamations of animal carcasses, Baethen had devised the cycle of snuff-out-the-lights. These required a specialised resource he took to calling ¡®iron-candles¡¯; long, thin stakes of rusted metal taken from the ancient weapons that the devil-spawn wielded. He always had a few in hand and was ready to stake them near the bonfire so they¡¯d accumulate fonts of phlogiston and mercury¡ªa third-order arcana that could be reached through a handful of ways from iron and fire, moon and water or as a variant of [The-Lovers].
With a flick of his will, Baethen could kindle and then snuff out an iron-candle to achieve a burst of phantom speed, catching bonewalkers off-guard and pummeling them back into the grave. Once a candle was extinguished of its phlogiston, it would begin again to accumulate said font; this way, Baethen didn¡¯t have to douse the fire of his club to play [Run-like-the-Wind]. The card did not have a {Thrall-of-Arm} clause and so did not require being held¡ªthe player could only keep so many staves within their mind¡¯s eye at once so the boundary was one of spirit rather than flesh. Baethen¡¯s limit was, currently, three.
The real dangerous foes were the chitin-clad ogres known as dread-knights which embodied the fear of Gehenna, teratophobia made flesh, champions of the terror of terror itself. These fell horrors had all the cunning of a bonewalker but twice as much durability. Whole teams had to coordinate to take one down though thankfully only three-to-five of them spawned during each Gehennic conjunction.
Baethen hadn¡¯t come up with a resource-effective card-chain for dread-knights yet, instead using [Strike-While-the-Iron-is-Hot] to remove an ogre from the board early on. Iron-candles, once welded to the club, could be shot forth like crossbow bolts so long as they were launched as one ¡®strike.¡¯
Were it not for the ogres¡¯ ancient-stone blades, Baethen would¡¯ve long run out of fonts of mercury. There were veins of wrought-iron among other low metals laced throughout the leftover slabs of sharpened rock; these armaments were all that were left in the wake of dread-nights¡ªbarring cards that is¡ªas their bodies decayed at an obscene rate into smoke and nothingness, especially so under the canopy¡¯s shade.
Though there was a general taboo around interacting with devil-touched objects, spoils gained fighting Scaduphomet¡¯s spawn, or in service of doing so, were exempt. So long as it wasn¡¯t a cursed artefact or a forbidden card, it was fair game. The expedition didn¡¯t care that Baethen was scavenging metal from the infernal swords as he was destroying them in the process. As long as Baethen didn¡¯t wield an intact ancient-stone blade, he was left to his own devices.
Which, speaking of, did not last long. The lad was sitting down near the dwindling bonfire, unscathed if winded from the latest fight, when Miro approached him, a rare smile on the curmudgeon¡¯s lips.
Baethen was so out of his wits that it took him a moment to realise that Miro held out a spell card before him, transparent-black with shimmering lines of water like the pattern-weld of a damascene blade.
¡°Up and at ¡®em, runt. Yer the first greenhorn to get a card. Read it and weep.¡±
After doing so, Baethen couldn¡¯t help but comment on its synergy with his deck.
¡°Well, o¡¯ course it fits in nicely¡ªwe distribute cards based on affinity and arcana. D?mons tend to coalesce cards according to their core-fear; got that one from a pack of night-wraiths. In a flick, I¡¯ll be handing out another card to Tratvgar so take it before I get second thoughts and slot it in my deck.¡±
Baethen swiped the card, thanked Miro with a tired-if-elated smile and then laid down on his cot, slotting the card through his breast so that it¡¯d fall into his soul. He¡¯d never slept so soundly before the night after he almost died twice.
Card Given: [Lesser-Narguile-of-Night] ¡ï
Draw: [Of-a-Kind]
Drawback: [Shadow-Burn]
Arcana: [The-Puppeteer], [Night], [One-of-Staves]
Number: [VII//II]
Suit: [Sleight-of-Hand]
Portfolio ¦µ: [¡®Shadows dance along the wall for the puppeteer makes them all¡¯. This {Card} grants the {Player} {Minor-Dominion} over the {Arcana-of-Smoke}, allowing them to {Move} {Fonts-of-Smoke} through {Will-of-Mind} so long as said {Fonts} are in {Touch} with the {Cast-Shadows} of a {Stave} held in {Thrall-of-Arm}. So long as this {Card} is {Brought-Into-Play}, the {Player}¡¯s {Cast-Shadows} incur a {Brand-of-Shame} which will {Burn} the aforementioned {Cast-Shadows}; once the {Player}''s {Cast-Shadows} are {Absent} through {Brand-of-Shame}, they remain so until the next {Hand} is {Redrawn}.]
By morn¡¯, the kinks in Baethen¡¯s back had knotted up something fierce, muscle not so much as tied but contorted. The ground that the train made camp by was always a rock of some sort and thus bad for the health of the spine among other bones most likely. Though he wasn¡¯t a mender, Baethen knew enough to buy a better sleeping cot at the next township.
Though the day¡¯s march was ruthless, Baethen¡¯s spirits remained high¡ªhe¡¯d gotten a card, afterall. It sat in his archive, teasing him to slot it in place of [Celestial-Dew]. The [Imp-of-Serpents] three-card set could also be removed from his hand without incurring a rivening though it¡¯d leave Baethen without most of his magicks. [Strike-While-the-Iron-is-Hot] was a two card set and thus not divisible by three which meant that it might break should it be discarded from his hand. Broken sets sometimes damaged their constituent cards, sometimes cannibalised them to form the singular conflux, sometimes nothing happened at all. Baethen wouldn¡¯t tempt fate by risking a discard of a half-formed set.
It¡¯s best that I wait, he told himself. I¡¯ll consolidate my two sets into one set of five and then I¡¯ll begin to work this one into it, too.
Baethen¡¯s self control did not last long.
I mean, I could just work this card into one of my other sets¡ª[Strike-While-the-Iron-is-Hot] has been resonating for an awfully long time, waiting for something compatible. It should be faster than attempting to condense two sets into one.
Though a hand was usually set while asleep, it could be done while awake so long as it hadn''t been changed recently. For this, Baethen told the rest of the lot that he¡¯d take a leak. He needed to close his eyes for it and then, a literal blink later, it was done.
No {Archetype} Selected; {Player}¡¯s ({Hand}: [3//3]) {Drawn} as follows:
[Imp-of-Serpents] ¡ï¡ï ({Three-Card-Set} - {Unlinked})
Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.
[Strike-While-the-Iron-is-Hot] ¡ï ({Two-Card-Set} - {Unlinked})
[Lesser-Narguile-of-Night] ¡ï ({Single-Card} - {Unlinked})
He spat a glob of fire on the ground, letting it sizzle and then puppeteered his club¡¯s shadow to catch its smoke in its thrall. The little strand of grey was easily caught and trailed after the club¡¯s shadow-puppet. As always, cards were usually weak on their own and required a set to function at an acceptable level or an appropriate card-chain.
But, even just by itself, [Lesser-Narguile-of-Night] could do some incredible things, so long as Baethen had time to prepare. With this in mind, he returned to the train of wagons and practised with the card. The single arcanum-casting didn¡¯t amount to much given its weak strength, accumulation, and Baethen¡¯s general inexperience with the new-fangled arcana.
Curious as to what effect it would give him, Baethen called upon Babylon.
{Player}¡¯s {Arcanum} {Read} as follows:
[Arcana-of-Fire]
?[Minor] II (Allows {Player} to {Manifest} a {Font-of-Fire} in the {Form} of {Cinders} {Twice} per {Hand}.)
[Arcana-of-Air]
?[Minor] I (Allows {Player} to {Manifest} a {Font-of-Air} in the {Form} of {Drafts} {Once} per {Hand}.)
[Arcana-of-Smoke]
?[Minor] I - [Resonant] III (Allows {Player} to {Manifest} a {Font-of-Smoke} in the {Form} of {Curlicues} {Once} per {Hand}; as the first contra, allows {Player} to {Convert} a {Font-of-Fire} into a {Font-of-Smoke} or vice-versa {Once} per {Hand}; as the second contra, allows {Player} to {Convert} a {Font-of-Water} into a {Font-of-Smoke} so long as it is in {Touch} with a {Font-of-Fire} but not vice-versa {Once} per {Hand}; as the third and final contra, allows {Player} to {Convert} a {Font-of-Air} into a {Font-of-Smoke} or vice-versa {Once} per {Hand}.)
[Arcana-of-Phlogiston]
?[Major] II (Allows {Player} to {Expend} a {Font-of-Air} to {Empower} a {Font-of-Fire} or vice-versa {Twice} per {Hand}.)
[Arcana-of-the-Crucible]
?[Minor] I (Allows {Player} to {Convert} a {Font-of-Mercury} into a {Font-of-Fire} or vice-versa {Once} per {Hand}.)
?[Complete] I (Allows {Player} to {Refund} a {Spent} {Font-of-Mercury} or {Font-of-Fire} {Once} per {Hand}.)
A dominion¡¯s magnitude¡ªfrom one to three¡ªdictated the number of charges per hand. From four to six, it dictated a font¡¯s manifestation form. And, lastly, seven to nine dictated font intensity and concentration parameters; think of these as enhancements to how hot a card-cast flame could be rather than its general presentation. Anything beyond a magnitude of nine went towards enhancing a {Player}¡¯s ability to form sets, wield arcana in general, and bending the rules of cards to their whim. It was rumoured that should a person complete a given arcana, they earned an esoteric-card that was somewhere between the effects of an arcanum and a Lynchpin, not taking up space within a player¡¯s hand and permanent such that the effects remained even without the contribution of arcana from a handful of cards.
A dominion¡¯s prefix¡ªminor, major, complete and the like¡ªdictated the expenditure clause in the following order: {Manifestation} in the case of first-order arcana; {Conversion} in the case of second-order arcana; {Empowerment} in the case of major dominion; and {Refunding} in the case of complete dominion. Cards of utter-dominion had more unique effects according to their arcana, becoming ever more granular.
Resonance was a clause formed of a conflux of arcana that shared the same constituent first-orders. Smoke beget connections to basic elements such as fire, water, and air; and more complex ones such as phlogiston. Given smoke¡¯s ever-shifting nature, it probably resonated with mercury as well though not nearly enough to appear explicitly as a clause within Baethen¡¯s arcanum.
Resonant dominions within one¡¯s arcanum had contras, expanding the options available and commensurate with the resonance magnitude up until the maximum of nine. Anything beyond that spilled over into subtler influences that were not so easily quantified.
When night ate away at the last of the day¡¯s light, Baethen was ready. Gehennic conjunctions did not happen every night, coming in irregular intervals that ranged from one every notch to one every three days to one every fortnight¡ªdepended on the Devil¡¯s mood on any given night.
Instead of dread, Baethen felt exhilaration when the whispers began to caress the edge of his ears. He spat on his club, igniting one side but leaving the other clad in darkness. Smoke was held in thrall so long as it was in contact with his staves¡¯ shadow which counted for objects he held. The drawback was that Baethen¡¯s shadow felt pain; the longer he held the spell, the more it burned away at him.
Once the first wraith manifested, blood-rush banished away the pain but Baethen was no fool¡ªhe could feel his shadow withering away into nothingness. It had become a resource just as his breath or phlegm and thus needed to be conserved, weighed for reward against risk of life and limb.
The arcana of smoke was the reverse of phlogiston, formed primarily of fire and water rather than fire and air. This meant that it could be tapped into to draw a font that would otherwise be wasted such as fire¡ªBaethen generated a good deal of smoke during a protracted battle and generally couldn¡¯t exploit it. Instead of the heat evaporating away into the smoke, Baethen trapped it within his club, a dark cloud wrapped tight around the unlit side of the weapon.
Rain-of-fire decimated the wave of wraiths, other spells contributing so that the dread-things were beaten back to more manageable numbers. When the bonewalkers rose from the darkness, Baethen was chomping at the bit to test out a few techniques he¡¯d been working on.
Turning around his club so that the dark-side and light-side were reversed, Baethen waited until a bonewalker neared and then he played three cards simultaneously. First, [Slag-and-Scale] propelled his club forth. Second, [Kindlers-Breath] fed the first. Third, [Lesser-Narguile-of-Night] let go of the tight-packed smoke.
When Baethen connected his club with the bonewalker, the card-chain came into effect all at once, kicking at his shoulder with recoil. He obliterated the dread-thing¡¯s skull¡ªthat of a kalegor-dog¡ªwith a single well-placed strike, sending shards into the night. Smoke burst along with wind and cracked bone fell to the ground, lifeless. The effect was nearing the same potency of [Strike-While-the-Iron-is-Hot] but not limited to once a day as with the [Come-Undone] drawback.
Taking a quick look at his tattered shadow, Baethen reckoned he had two more of those strikes in him tonight. He saved them for when the ogres decided to show their ugly faces, otherwise fighting as he normally did. The only difference was that Baethen was accumulating smoke along the dark side of the club.
When the last bonewalker fell, Baethen could feel the ground begin to rumble under the weight of not three, not four, but five dread-knights. Chitin-clad and rust-wielding, they charged out from the darkness of the ether, silent if but for their hulking steps.
He did not engage immediately, letting his teammates employ their ranged options. When the first ogre reached Baethen, he had set himself at the middle of the makeshift formation, Miro to his left and Tratvgar to his right; both more forward than he but otherwise letting Baethen take line of sight so that they could waylay the stupid brute that charged him.
A single smoke-burst wasn¡¯t enough to take a dread-knight out of the fight but it did daze the beast long enough for Miro to decapitate it with a half-unsheathed sword. Baethen had yet to see the man fully draw the paper-sword in battle and he both dreaded and anticipated the day that he did.
Baethen expended the last smoke-burst of the night to sweep an ogre¡¯s legs out from under it, setting it up to be pummelled by Tratvgar¡¯s root-wrought quarter-stave. Tendrils and thorns held the dread-thing in place long enough to finish it but by then they had to arrange a new formation further into the front as the corpse made the ground precarious. A single misstep could mean a fall and then, all it took was the slippery slope of death doing what it did best.
Maybe it was bad luck or maybe it was because the beast had seen two of its brethren felled in quick succession but the last and final ogre rushed them mid-reshuffle, catching them flat-footed. There were a handful of wraiths left in play and two bonewalkers. Should they break rank, those stragglers would flood past the wagons and into the camp itself, tearing apart the weak and wounded.
Thankfully, Baethen still had one more ace up his sleeve. To set it up, he spoke three Words-of-Power¡ªhis safe daily limit¡ªeach one filling his lungs with a handful of ash as bleedover from [Kindlers-Breath] into [Imp-of-Serpents].
¡°[Burn. Smolder. Blaze.]¡±
He played [Strike-While-the-Iron-is-Hot], feeding the card the remnant font of smoke¡ªhalf of it was fire after all. Baethen missed the ogre¡¯s head, clipping its shoulder instead. His club immediately lost its ability to be used as a sceptre for the night, thus removing [Slag-and-Scale] from play which was Baethen¡¯s major damage-dealing card. The dread-thing¡¯s sword-arm was crippled but it still had a good ten stone more than him. Cold panic took root in his gut.
Pulling at the last of his iron-candles, Baethen girded his loins and began to dance. Were it not for [Run-like-the-Wind] being a magus-card, requiring a stave rather than a sceptre, Baethen would¡¯ve died then and there¡ªsceptres were suites of prestige and visage, requiring sight by both the player and their opponent whilst staves took after witchery and chicanery, allowing one to play spells via will of thought alone.
The dread-knight attempted to claw and to tackle him but caught only empty air and frustration. This gave Miro time to dispatch the incoming stragglers and Tratvgar opportunity to strike at the ogre¡¯s unguarded back, slaying it.
Breathing heavily, hands on his knees, Baethen pondered on his life choices.
Had he not slotted in the new card he would¡¯ve died tonight. [Celestial-Dew] would not have kept him alive as it lacked any offence whatsoever¡ªit couldn¡¯t put down an ogre. He would keep it in his archive from then on and would only draw it to his hand when needed. [Lesser-Narguile-of-Night] was just too good to pass up on.
¡°Come here, you beautiful bastard.¡±
Miro was confused as all Twelve-Hels-of-Gehenna as Baethen tackled the man with a hug.
Pulling back for a breath and holding him at shoulder length, Baethen told him: ¡°The card you picked saved my rump.¡±
With a grunt and a none-too-pleased expression, Miro said: ¡°Ain¡¯t that just dandy. Now, could ye please release me?¡±
Maybe it was the blood-rush or the close brush with death or even just Baethen¡¯s impulsiveness but he planted his lips around Miro¡¯s before he disentangled himself. That did not help the veteran adventurer¡¯s present state of confusion¡ªthe bemused knot of his brow could contend with the Seas-of-Conundrum.
IV - The Cubic Stone
With his back to the rest of the camp, no one else had seen Baethen steal a kiss.
¡°Sorry ¡®bout that.¡± He said to the rapidly-blinking adventurer. The man hadn¡¯t baulked at risking life and limb against the Red-Dragon¡¯s spawn but now he¡¯d been downright thunderstruck by something simple as a kiss. ¡°Got caught up on it all.¡±
With that, Baethen gave Miro a pat on the back and then he stumbled to his cot and let the tiredness take him away into sweet oblivion where his cheeks didn¡¯t burn something fierce.
When Baethen awoke, for a moment he¡¯d thought it had been just a dream wrought of being bereft of sex for so long¡ªa round and half was an eternity for Baethen¡¯s sensibilities¡ªbut no. He¡¯d really kissed him.
For his part, Miro said nothing of yesternight. He played the role of mentor without comment as if it had really just been a figment of the imagination but Baethen knew better. He also knew worse because Baethen felt a tad disappointed that it hadn¡¯t led to anything more.
The march took hold and Baethen practised again and again with his card-chains, loosening and tightening his grasp on his arcana.
His highest investiture was in Magus¡ªinvestitures were the four major archetypes in which a card could fall into. These were human constructs based around the minor arcana or suites rather than actual descriptive categories. Cards could designate parameters such as staves, sceptres, chalices and pentacles but you wouldn¡¯t find clauses regarding investitures; at least, so far as Baethen knew.
The four major investitures were Magus, Tower, Communion and Chariot with a fifth and unnumbered minor investiture of the Excuse¡ªthe last one was a deck of wildcards that didn¡¯t quite fit in with the rest, being the domain of Unnumbered Loken God-of-Fools and Fata-Morgana the Tenth Lady-of-Fate-and-Draw. Magus required staves and will, erring towards high-brow artisans and magicians and performers and the like. Tower required sceptres and effort, erring towards warriors and guardsmen and blacksmiths and the like. Communion required chalices and clout, erring towards priests and magistrates and officials and the like. Chariot required pentacles and trespass, erring towards warlocks and witches and sanctioned sorcerers proper that had a Church-signed dispensation to traffic with the darker side of sorcery; these were fewer than few and farther than far between.
Even though Baethen had a card with the arcana of [Death] which fell under the purview of the Chariot investiture, he was not considered a warlock due to his deck skewing towards fire and air without breaking any of the Four Accords. The Hermit and Hangman also weren¡¯t necessarily forbidden arcana either though the Devil, the Beast, and the Red-Dragon always were, independent of card portfolio. [Kindlers-Breath] had a permutation that allowed the card to steal another player¡¯s breath and, in that case, it was a banned card that would get you excommunicated from the Church and branded a heretic should the truth spread.
The Black Legion, specifically the Inquisition, would chase Baethen to the ends of the Dreadsea should he be found out to possess such a card. Any card that sacrificed something of someone else was intrinsically considered evil as it violated the Four Accords which were Taboo, Thievery, Murder, and Pox. Should a card trespass upon any of these four cardinal sins, then it was banned and put on the Black List which all cathedrals and holy cartomancers were versed in.
Had Baethen been saddled with [The-Devil] card when his [Lynchpin] formed, he would¡¯ve been sent to the Legion then and there at just barely twelve-turns-old, to fight as fodder on the frontlines against the Nezarrem. Unlike with a normal card that could be removed from one¡¯s soul-deck, a Lynchpin was intrinsically tied to, and irrevocably part of, one¡¯s Babel. Twenty-one¡ªwhich also happened to be Baethen¡¯s number of turns as of now¡ªwas the minimum age that soldiers were sent to war but warlocks were no longer considered human, having sold their souls to the Fifteenth.
How could a card make a child into a man before the law, responsible for his sins? Or, better yet, how could a card make a man into a monster?
Digressing from such a morbid topic, Baethen¡¯s thoughts turned towards his ever-mysterious lynchpin-card. It was collecting cobwebs in his soul-deck, dormant all his life ever since his twelfth Turn. Here and there he found himself guessing at the card¡¯s effects as the portfolio amounted to just three obtuse words and a singular arcana.
A card never had a singular arcana¡ªthe Rule-of-Three forbade it. A hand must have three cards, a set must be divisible by three before it can be removed from the hand without rivening, and a card must have three arcana.
[The-Fool] and [The-Jester] were similar in scope and authority but not entirely the same. Where the Fool took to complete and utter chaos, the Jester was a trump-card that flipped the table, so to speak, in the favour of the player. It added chaos, yes, but it was controlled rather than unleashed like with the Loken aspect of the Unnumbered-God.
Zeroth also had another name, one ill spoken of even in the light of day. Manus, God-of-Nothing. But, that way lay madness so Baethen did his best not to contemplate that aspect of Zeroth.
Like so, with thoughts racing and tumbling inside his skull, Baethen marched towards the Evergaol of Rimare-Tul.
Sometimes, all it takes is a stroke of luck. An epiphany at the right moment when all pieces click into place and the cards fall into a set.
Throughout the many nights travelling the Azure Forest, Baethen had fought and bled to better understand the [Lesser-Narguile-of-Night]. It could be channelled through his scrap-metal club but it could also be evoked by a common wood pipe. Tratvgar had shared his own to test which had given him no end of trouble in the form of teasing¡ªgiving someone like Baethen anything even barely phallic was like giving a fox the run of the henhouse.
Strangely, it wasn¡¯t in a pitched battle that Baethen merged the card into a set. The event that triggered it was a simple walk through the woods, remembering fondly his time apprenticing under Big Yldira; she was a mountain of a woman, through and through. Easy to make laugh and easier to make you laugh, she¡¯d taught Baethen all he knew of both smithing and the arcana that went with it.
The dense smoke of the smithy, the heat of the forge, the mastery that a smith must have to knead a lump of iron into a weapon that could kill a man. The hacking cough of a long day¡¯s work. You would¡¯ve thought [Strike-While-the-Iron-is-Hot] would be set that the card would fall under and you would be just as wrong as Baethen.
Cerulean blue leaves descended from above as a draft cut through the veil of the canopy, the azure falling stars turning over themselves and each other to reach the loam beneath all the faster. Rays of sunlight graced Baethen as he let it play across and between his splayed fingers. He stood there, under the shadows, grasping at something he could not touch and wanting nothing more than to be able to.
All at once, he felt as if struck by lightning and divinely inspired, everything in the world suddenly making sense in a way it never had before. And just a moment later, he fell out from the world to emerge atop the waters of Babylon.
Eternities traversed forward and back from one all-encompassing horizon to the next. Two reflections trapped above and beneath a mirror of blackest alabaster wondered who was the real Baethen and which was the pale shadow.
Babylon-script etched itself between them, beautiful and terrifying; the underlying divinity of reality itself made manifest from the ephemera in which it usually dwelt. Like the last two times, a set formation was a momentous occasion.
Mother and Father had celebrated with him then and he somehow knew, down to the marrow of his bones, that he¡¯d never get the chance to do so again in this life. Were it not for the letters before him, Baethen¡¯s reflections would¡¯ve wept as one.
Harken, the [Dealer-of-Fate] stirs awake! As {Eldest}, [Fata-Morgana] takes {Rearhand} as {Dealer}.
Scouring [Akashic-Archive] for compatible {Arcanum-Deck} [¡]
Compatible {Arcanum-Deck} found; shuffling probabilities set to base one over mean [¡]
Shuffle complete, [Three-of-a-Kind] {Sets} {Drawn}; please select {Three} {Cards} to form a {Set}.
This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.
*Selections are final; results are blind; only {One} {Card} of each {Set} may be selected. Should a {Set} not be formed in the {Allotted-Time} of {Ten-Licks}, a {Set} will be selected at random.
? Set I: [Stay-the-Course], [Covet-the-Red-Dragon], [Renounce-the-Devil]
? Set II: , [The-Crucible], [Ardour], [Enlightenment]
? Set III: [Night], [The-Charlatan], [The-Hangman]
Unlike with the [Lynchpin] ceremony, Baethen did not need to play against a divinity to decide his future. The only other occasion he¡¯d need to do that was within the Evergaol proper but that was for a later time and a later Baethen.
As far as the breadth of choices was concerned, Baethen had lucked out. He could cultivate this set in a variety of different branches¡ªfrom an illusionist to a forge-blade to even a warlock should he pay the miniscule price of selling his soul to Scaduphomet.
Given that Baethen didn¡¯t want to be hunted to the ends of the earth or become one of the Forsworn, he decided to pick [Stay-the-Course] from the first, a card which influenced the burgeoning set to remain true to its previous arcana.
For the second, Baethen debated whether he wanted to invest into a sub-aspect of fire or whether he wanted to form an arcana sourced from mercury and fire. [Ardour] was prized by many priests, be they wandering exorcists or just plain-old parish-watchers, as it allowed them to channel their faith into blazing tongues of holy flame. Baethen wasn¡¯t much of a zealot so that choice was out. [Enlightenment] was somewhat similar to [Ardour] in that it was a sub-aspect of fire but it was aligned purely to the Magus-Investiture rather than the Communion¡ªmost assuredly, it¡¯d use a stave rather than a chalice. Its name gave it away, really, allowing a magi to manipulate light.
So the choice was between adding another font to juggle with the rest or take one that already made use of what Baethen had. [The-Crucible] it was then.
The last one really made Baethen think¡ª[Night] dealt with darkness among other arcana and just wasn¡¯t a right fit for him. He already had to contend with [Shadow-Burn] and he did not like the thought of having to deal with another drawback or expenditure that drew on that same resource.
Hangman or charlatan both dealt with the arcana of deceit and betrayal and could both make or break a set. A banned card could be dealt with by undergoing a sanctioned rivening before a cartomancer but it ran the risk of destroying a lot of effort. Charlatan had a lesser risk of manifesting a forbidden arcana than Hangman as it was borne of the Hermit; though, as always, Lady-Luck might think differently. Fata-Morgana the Tenth was a sister to Unnumbered Loken, afterall¡ªone, a dealer of fate or and the other the shuffler of the very deck from which Fate Herself drew.
So, either Baethen took up [Night] or [The-Charlatan].
Rather than taking the would-be loss wholesale, Baethen¡ªfool that he was¡ªgambled.
{Hand} chosen as follows:
? [Stay-the-Course]
? [The-Crucible]
? [The-Charlatan]
Fusing {Arcanum} into {Set}; please wait [...]
Set Fused: [Imp-of-Serpents] ¡ï¡ï (Four Card Set)
[Lesser-Juggler-of-Fire] ¡ï ({Single-Card} - {Linked} [Parlour-Tricks] ¡ï)
[Lesser-Narguile-of-Night] ¡ï ({Single-Card} - {Linked} [Parlour-Tricks] ¡ï)
[Cinderspark-Spit] ¡ï ({Single-Card} - {Linked} [Forge-Maw] ¡ï¡ï)
[Kindlers-Breath] ¡ï¡ï ({Single-Card} - {Linked} [Forge-Maw] ¡ï¡ï)
Though not always guaranteed, cards could sometimes link by themselves within a set to produce an apropos card link. Somewhere just below an actual set, card links¡ªalso known as confluxes¡ªwere metamagicks that influenced their linked cards and//or were influenced by them. Baethen¡¯s first two set formations hadn¡¯t brought on a single conflux given he¡¯d been in a comparatively sheltered and stable environment then.
Conflux Linked: [Parlour-Tricks] ¡ï
Draw: [Twofold]
Drawback: [Smoke-and-Mirrors]
Arcana: [The-Charlatan], [The-Stave], [Night]
Number: [I//IX]
Suit: [Sleight-of-Hand]
Portfolio ¦µ: [¡®The best magicians never reveal their secrets¡¯. This {Conflux} grants the {Player} {Intermediate-Dominion} over the {Arcana-of-Deceit}, allowing them to {Manifest} {Fonts-of-Illusory-Flame} through {Will-of-Mind} via {Expenditure} of {Fonts-of-Smoke} so long as said {Fonts} are in {Touch} with their {Stave}. {Fonts-of-Illusory-Flame} are {Reverted} into {Fonts-of-Smoke} should their {Reflection} be {Caught-Within-a-Mirror}; should the {Player}¡¯s {Fonts-of-Illusory-Flame} be caught within a {Reflection} {Thrice} within the same {Hand}, their {Stave}¡¯s {Dominion} over the {Arcana-of-Fire} is {Sealed} until the next {Hand} is {Redrawn}.]
[Parlour-Tricks] was a twofold link, meaning it required the two linked cards under it to be drawn upon to be brought into play. Baethen had to invoke both [Lesser-Juggler-of-Fire] and [Lesser-Narguile-of-Night] on the same stave.
Illusory fonts didn¡¯t do direct damage but could be used to bluff opponents readily. The only exceptions were phantasmal entities such as night-wraiths as those were semi-physicalised manifestations of humanity''s fear of the dark; for these, illusory fonts of fire worked just as well as the real thing.
Conflux Linked: [Forge-Maw] ¡ï¡ï
Draw: [Twofold]
Drawback: [The-Serpent-Covets-and-Thirsts]
Arcana: [The-Serpent], [The-Crucible], [Consumption]
Number: [XV//XIX]
Suit: [Triumph]
Portfolio ¦µ: [¡®The Wyrm Alheadra, Great-and-Baleful, hungered for every root beneath the earth and in so doing starved to death for never could He choose but one¡¯. This {Conflux} grants the {Player} {Intermediate-Dominion} over the {Arcana-of-the-Crucible}, allowing them to {Manifest} a {Font-of-Fiery-Mercury} from their {Mouth} through {Act-of-Body} and {Breath-of-Lung}. {Player} may {Consume} {Tokens} to {Empower} this {Conflux} and its constituent {Cards}. Every time this {Conflux} is {Brought-Into-Play}, the {Player} incurs {Brand-of-Thirst} which will {Halve} their {Phlegm}.]
The next time that Baethen fused a set, he¡¯d have to pay special attention to the other arcana. He was treading the knife¡¯s edge with [The-Serpent]; it was three orders removed from the forbidden [Red-Dragon] and [The-Devil]. From the Fifteenth came first the wyrms which in turn gave birth to the wyverns and then the drakes, and finally the serpents were spawned from the afterbirth thereof. There was no worse insult in Woeden than calling someone a snake for this very reason.
Mayhaps, Baethen could get special dispensation should the card be more related to fire than to the Serpent-Cast-Out. Those were known well enough as many pyromancers and mercurial magi alike brushed upon Scaduphomet¡¯s arcana by happenstance. The investitures were a human construct, first and foremost, meaning that even though fire lay under the sphere of the Sun and thus the Magus, it could still bind to the Enemy¡¯s arcana. There were cards of the thrice-damned Hierophant that also concurrently drew upon the Devil.
So long as it wasn¡¯t the sacrifice-virgins-type of card, the Church¡¯s cartomancer might write him a seal of sanctioned-authority-for-the-trafficking-of-fell-powers.
¡°Somehow, the bureaucracy of it all scares me more than the possibility of death by the stake.¡± One reflection told the other, both snickering.
Seemingly knowing that he¡¯d read over everything he needed to, the waking dream drew to a halt, the waters of Babylon consuming themselves into oblivion. Baethen opened his eyes to his surroundings, not a moment having passed. The blue leaves fell to the black earth as did two drops of sorrow.
Thereafter, Baethen put most of his efforts into getting acquainted with his newly-minted confluxes. He kept his illusions hidden, seeing as a secret could only be kept by two people if one of them was in the grave. Even then, that wasn¡¯t a guarantee if a necromancer happened upon the grave and the Black-Legion did not lack their holy confessors which roamed after corpses so that they might hear their sins.
[Forge-Maw] was a weapon of last resort, Baethen found out rather quick. Given that it inflicted thirst, he had used it once to get a hang of the process and then one more time to save his hide from a dread-knight.
The interesting thing about twofold confluxes was that they required bringing into play both their constituent cards. They couldn¡¯t be evoked by themselves given they weren¡¯t ¡°real¡± spell-cards nor could they be removed from a soul-deck as confluxes could not survive by themselves, making the process of doing so both prohibitively expensive and prohibitively dumb. Cartomancers attempting to transplant a conflux into a carte-blanche most often destroyed sets and the godsleaf twain, fool¡¯s errand that it was.
What Baethen hadn¡¯t expected was his arcanum¡¯s dominions catching up to him. The sheer complexity of their interactions made spell-casting of any kind all that easier as he could {Refund}, {Convert}, {Empower}, and {Manifest} fonts interchangeably. The increased endurance alone was worth it; though fights tend to end fast so does one¡¯s stamina, be it mental or physical.
This was it¡ªpower. Baethen could have never reached this level this fast without the dangers he was exposed to, sequestered within the suffocating walls of Reordranhall. The pressure of life-and-death battles had tempered him in body and spirit, making the set formation both faster and easier. His first two formations hadn¡¯t borne confluxes at all, in comparison.
But, he¡¯d learn soon enough why most but the most desperate took to climbing the Evergaols. It would be his last and harshest lesson in this life. That trust could easily sour into betrayal, that the world is not cruel but rather simply uncaring.
That human lives can be measured in tokens by both gods and men.
V - Pontifex
The expedition had been charted to reach the Evergaol on the eve of the Seventh Day of the Round-of-Ragnvald Turn 8067 After Reshuffle, Fourth-Game-of-the-Deific-Tarot. A journey of three rounds along the southernmost edge of the Isle of Woeden, from Reordranhall all the way to Deadman¡¯s point to the south-east; they¡¯d passed by two middling townships, nary enough to contend with the daily upkeep of thirty-something-odd men and women.
It took the caravan three days shy of four rounds to reach the tower. By then, the rations were beginning to thin and more and more members of the expedition had to resort to hunting and foraging lest they starve¡ªwild kalegor dog was not pleasant in the least; gamey, stringy, lacking fat and uncomfortably chewy even in a stew. Lazarra had gone from grumpy to downright despair-stricken as she fed more and more of her spirit to Morophesh so that the train did not drink of the poison-water of the Dreadsea.
The Azure Forest did not thin slowly but rather all at once. The ground thereon became bare and scourge-stricken in a twenty league radius as the touch-down point of Rimare-Tul¡ªDeadman¡¯s point in more modern parlance. The tower was a great, big thing, reaching down from the heavens to just graze the earth with its inverted spire; it was as if a great divine spear had been thrown from on high to smite a wicked devil.
The tip of the inverted tower balanced upon a large, cubic stone replete with gnositc-glyphs and cartomantic imagery. These divine altars were the conduit which would carry a man to the interior of an Evergaol, the entrance to Babylon where the Twenty-One Gods dwelt from Unnumbered Loken all the way to Eot the Twenty-First; barring, of course, the Fifteenth, Scaduphomet which had been outcast from the heavens into Gehenna.
After so long and weary from road and war alike, the train celebrated that night around the Evergaol. They feared no monster as Gehenna does not trespass against Babylon, the presence of the House-of-Gods their bulwark against the Forsworn.
¡°Alright. You¡¯ve stuck with us so far so a reward¡¯s in order. Each and every contractor will be given a two-star card tonight. Leasee¡¯s don¡¯t grumble¡ªy¡¯know that we take care of our own.¡±
The captain of the merry band of bastards was a native Woedenite, salt of skin and saffron of hair. He was a big ol¡¯ bastard himself, son of a prostitute that was now the madame of some house of pleasure or another; Baethen did not know which one.
Okay, Baethen did know which one.
Now, back to the cap¡¯n¡ªHaviershan Bjoren was tall as he was wide, with a thickly-braided and downright-thick beard in the tradition of the pyrate. Clad in plate branded with Woedenite runework that sure-as-Nagalfaram did not come cheap, Bjoren struck an imposing and larger-than-life figure. That esoteric markings on his armour bound a card or two to it, arcana and all, functioning as a secondary deck; those were as expensive as they were dangerous as cards not anchored to the soul did not enjoy the same protection nor effectiveness nor efficiency.
Given that it wasn¡¯t an artefact proper, a living weapon endowed with a card-spirit, Baethen doubted he¡¯d ever use such a thing. It struck him as more liability than help, more crutch than stave¡ªcards of the Hangman arcana could steal the runebranded armour¡¯s bound card right quick and without much, if any, resistance.
¡°We¡¯ll be making camp here and begin preparations for a curtain-wall. Towers¡¯re rich in magic knicknacks of all kinds¡ªblack-alabaster ore, fallen Yggrdrazil leaves, ancient relic-cards and the like. We¡¯ll plunder this beaut¡¯ of everything she¡¯s worth. Of that I am certain.
¡°Dismissed. Go an¡¯ drink yer sorry selves stupid.¡±
After what Baethen had done, he¡¯d never¡¯ve thought that Miro would be the one to bring him his card-wage this time around but he was wrong. The veteran adventurer sauntered up to him, hung an arm around his neck and handed Baethen a card.
His eyes bulged when he read it.
¡°Morophesh wept.¡±
And so nearly did Baethen.
Card Given: [Mercurial-Inksmith] ¡ï¡ï
Draw: [Three-of-a-Kind]
Drawback: [Riven-Asunder]
Arcana: [Night], [Mercury], [The-Sceptre]
Number: [IV//VIII]
Suit: [Sleight-of-Hand]
Portfolio ¦µ: [¡®In the beginning, there was only a mirror of blackest alabaster, reflecting what could be if only it were riven asunder to free a world imprisoned within¡¯. This {Card} grants the {Player} {Major-Dominion} over the {Arcana-of-Mercury}, allowing them to {Seal} a {Sceptre} into a {Font-of-Mercurial-Shadow}. {Sceptre} must {Possess} the {Player}¡¯s {Mark} to be {Sealed}; {Sceptre} {Sealed} within a {Font-of-Mercurial-Shadow} incurs a {Brand-of-Sloth} upon itself which will {Stagnate} the aforementioned {Sceptre}. Once this {Card} is {Brought-Into-Play} to {Unseal} a {Sealed} {Sceptre} from a {Font-of-Mercurial-Shadow}, it is {Discarded} from the {Player}¡¯s {Hand} into their {Archive} until the next {Hand} is {Redrawn}.]
Baethen recognized the card as a fusion from the mercurial and inksmith sets¡ªthe former was the cornerstone of many blacksmithing and metallurgic decks whereas the latter was geared towards the arcane art of card-smithing. The thing about fusions was that, once they were formed, they could not be unformed without help of a cartomancer; easier to just rend asunder the set and hope that most of the cards came out at some semblance of functioning than pay a cartomancer¡¯s steep price. Card shards, though useless to most, were the important raw material for token-minters and card-smiths; Baethen¡¯s own [Run-like-the-Wind] had been implanted with a shard from [Torch-Bearer]. Clauses were easier to edit than, say, arcana, drawback, suite, or number, in that specific order of difficulty. Botched edits were little more than fodder for apprentices to get a handle on the basics¡ªMother, an assistant card-painter, worked with them to test various dyes and inks.
[Mercurial-Inksmith] was a card that had once been in someone¡¯s soul, formed from three other cards given its three-of-a-kind draw. Taxman¡¯s card, perhaps? Surrendered just before death to pay off a debt that would otherwise fall on the debtor¡¯s next of kin. Either that or it had been taken from a corpse.
Given that this expedition had already seen the death of five people already, it was a grave-robbed card. No doubt about it.
¡°Wait, how¡¯s this work?¡± Baethen asked. ¡°How do you produce a font of mercurial shadow? I¡¯ve never even heard of it.¡±
¡°Tis a confluence of shadow and mercury manifested through a rather specific lineage of arcana. Mercury as a copulation of water and silver which is a second-order of moon and war. Shadow, in this case, births from moon and night; both are aspects of the Eighteenth, Morophesh Weeping-God-of-Sorrow. I reckon that there be other ways to reach it that aren¡¯t so convoluted though I¡¯ve yet to happen upon it meself in either sight of eye or word o¡¯ mouth.¡±
Baethen looked Miro up and down.
¡°Who are you and what have you done with my dear friend the obstinate country bumpkin? I¡¯ve never heard Ahedmir utter so many syllables. Unhand him, O fell doppelganger or woe unto you until you shall rue the day in which¡ª.¡±
Miro gave him an unimpressed look and began to walk away, muttering curses that would make a sailor blush under his breath.
¡°Oh no, whatever shall I do with a card such as this without guidance? To hold a gold chip but be destined to never buy with it, oh the humanity!¡±
A begrudging sigh later and Miro turned around and walked back.
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¡°Luckily for ye, I happen to know how to make the font. All ye need is a spell reagent¡ªa single drop of pure, alchemical mercury placed in yer shadow. That way, it sticks with ye until ye¡¯ve redrawn your hand. This card has no expenditure clause so it¡¯ll be a relatively cheap way to carry a redundant sceptre fat on scrap metal.¡±
¡°Huh. I hadn''t thought of that. I was going for throwing my club, catching it in its own shadow and then returning it to me. That way I could layer spell-cards and strike-cards together and make it into a masterstroke that would utterly annihilate anything three-stars or lower. While {Sealed} the stave will be, effectively, frozen like a winter river.¡±
Miro¡¯s eyes widened as he looked around the devastation that the Evergaol had wrought and most likely imagined how said masterstroke would compare; the sheer destruction that a few Words from Baethen could reap wasn¡¯t near enough to contend against the ruination of an Evergaol but it was more than enough to kill vast swathes of devil-spawn. Miro could, at most, kill one or two at a time whereas Baethen rained down fire.
Baethen having a fully ensorcelled sceptre ready to use at a moment¡¯s notice was like him having a couple of dragon-powder bombs. It would be marvellous though perhaps that was the arsonist within Baethen speaking.
When next the adventurer spoke, he seemed all too content to skip over that moment of silence.
¡°The arcana yer dealing with, though heavily tilted toward the Tower-investiture, has clauses more fit for magicking and whatnot. Which makes it all the more baffling as to how it was fused to make use of a martial focus.
¡°First; because Tower will err towards the arcana of strength, justice, and judgement, and its corollaries, rarely taking mercury as a consort. Before ye go yapping on smith¡¯s decks¡ªaye, it¡¯s common enough in many cards¡¯ portfolios as a counterpart to iron or mars but as to actually appearing within their trinity? Not unheard of but neither is it common either.
¡°Second; when slotted as a card¡¯s arcane trinity, mercury, generally, produces a communion-or-magus-card, what with it always having, at the very least, a magi¡¯s element and sphere in its lineage; usually a number set of eleven and eighteen. The poor sap that formed it should¡¯ve gone after a stave rather than a sceptre. It wouldn¡¯t have such a strict {Brought-Into-Play} clause, otherwise.¡±
Baethen scrunched his brows and shook his head in dissent.
¡°I don¡¯t think so¡ªthere¡¯s something special about this card. Sceptres require action so most mundane blacksmiths will go after them whereas staves don¡¯t and remain a card-forging staple. [Mercurial-Inksmith]¡¯s previous owner was attempting to marry the two disciplines into one. Perhaps he was going for a rune-brander¡¯s kit or even an actual, Gods-be-damned word-forger deck? It¡¯d explain his choices so far and his unorthodox focus.¡±
That got Miro thinking but before the man could further entrap him in discussions over card lore, Baethen gave Miro an arm around the neck and then a pat on the back.
¡°Thanks, you old shite. That was mighty kind of you.¡±
¡°I ain¡¯t even greying yet. I ain¡¯t no codger.¡±
¡°Anyone nearing forty has a foot in the grave already in my book.¡±
¡°I am thirty turns of age, I¡¯ll have ye know. I ain¡¯t no old bones yet.¡±
That surprised Baethen for a moment until he realised that a mixture of Nezarri blood, the constant stress of the sellsword life, the self-inflicted scars and plain old sun exposure had made estimating Miro¡¯s age more difficult than it should¡¯ve been. Plus, the beard¡ªNezarri grew only mutton chops with a tendency to appear wan in comparison to a Woedenite¡¯s black scruff. Nezzari hair was white at birth, darkening with age whereas Woedenite locks did much the opposite.
It didn¡¯t help either that the man had a thick and downright-ancient sea accent¡
¡°Wait a thrice-damned lick! You¡¯re a py¡ª¡±
Before Baethen could finish the sentence, Miro had a hand behind his head and another on his mouth. There were a whole lot of things that could be said on how Baethen felt then but four words were enough to express them all: rock-hard and confused.
¡°Don¡¯t go around calling me a pyrate.¡± Miro said as he looked around to see if anyone heard. ¡°They¡¯ll hang, draw, and quarter me.¡±
After Miro let go of his stranglehold on Baethen¡¯s mouth, he gave the man a solemn nod and then with his best, most charming lop-sided grin before he whispered: ¡°No wonder I stole a kiss from you. Always had a thing for ¡®sailors¡¯.¡±
Miro choked on thin air and Baethen was far too amused at how easily he could get under the older man¡¯s skin and rile him up. There was a certain satisfaction in knowing you could make another person speechless through sheer shamelessness.
Composing himself, with a dark blush on his ashen cheeks, Miro asked: ¡°Ye want another one?¡±
¡°Wouldn¡¯t mind one, no. You¡¯ve a lot to make up for and I, man of the law that I am, shall take up the wages of your sins so that you may rest sound of soul and¡ª.¡±
¡°Shut up and kiss me already, fool.¡±
After having absconded away for a quick tryst in the forest, Baethen lay on a blanket on the limb of a great far? tree by Miro¡¯s side. The branch was twice as thick as Baethen was wide such that not even holding hands could both men hug its circumference.
Ahedmir snored, fast asleep face-down and Baethen could not help but give his naked, meaty rump a good smack. It jiggled like freshly-baked regalf-custard.
¡°Ow! What in Scaduphomet¡¯s arse-cunt was that for.¡±
¡°I cannot abide by with such a smackable derriere before me.¡±
¡°Ye already got into me pants¡ªstop speakin¡¯ like yer a bard or somesuch.¡±
¡°Technically, I got you out of your pants. With my teeth if I recall correctly.¡±
With a few more grumbles, Miro sat up as Baethen took to the edge of the branch and sat down, having long since put back on his breeches.
With a quick flick of thought, Baethen brought up his Hand.
({Archetype}: [Prime]) Selected; {Player}¡¯s ({Hand}: [3//3]) {Drawn} as follows:
[Imp-of-Serpents] ¡ï¡ï ({Four-Card-Set} - {Unlinked})
[Strike-While-the-Iron-is-Hot] ¡ï ({Two-Card-Set} - {Unlinked})
[Mercurial-Inksmith] ¡ï ({Single-Card} - {Unlinked})
There was, currently, no way for him to play [Mercurial-Inksmith] without a spell-reagent. Or so Miro had told him. Baethen, ever the sore-loser, had other thoughts as to how to play the card without needing a drop of pure, alchemical quicksilver.
Alchemical elements differed from arcane ones in that they were physicalised without the use of a card, already present within the world. Fonts were the shadows of things, cast by the light of the soul and like puppet strings to that which they belonged. Move the body of darkness and the body of flesh responded in sympathy¡ªas below, so above and all that.
The arcana of quicksilver embodied all metals as alchemical mercury could assimilate, amalgamate, all manner of minerals; blacksmiths, though lowly before alchemists, had use for that sort of knowledge. The temper of steels and alloys, alliage-ratios, melting points, weld-patterns and the like.
There were arcana of steel, silver, bronze, gold and probably even more but quicksilver held dominion over them all; this had been why it was a staple in most blacksmiths¡¯ decks. Or, at least, the good ones, that is.
Where iron could only call to iron, mercury was a universal lodestone, born of Leizuziel, the Many-Faced God whose Divine-Number was Six. The metaphysics that underpinned the arcana was one of universal atavism, a return to the source.
The trick, Baethen intuited, was to use his arcanum to fabricate a font of mercurial-shadow¡ªas above, so below and all that.
First, he manifested cinders atop his palm, casting the backside of his hand in shadow. With a twist of will, he converted those embers into molten wads of mercury, sizzling against his calluses. The transmutation was not completely efficient so it had generated smoke, metallic and sparkling vapour emanating from the font.
Secondly, Baethen expended all the superfluous fonts within the confluence he beheld to purify it and empower the resultant product¡ªair became smoke, smoke became fire, flame turned cold and still. A single drop of living, liquid metal was all that was left, so miniscule it might have been the tear of a quicksilver-fish.
Thirdly, finally, this he did let spill into his shadow.
The dew was swallowed by the darkness and Baethen knew down to the marrow of his bones that there was a change about him. [Lesser-Narguile-of-Night], like all cards, endowed the player with intrinsic knowledge of its inner-workings, and through this, Baethen could tell that his cast-shadows were different than before. They¡¯d still work for the card as mercurial-shadow, by namesake, held a constituent font of shadow.
Baethen rummaged around his pack that lay against the crook where the branch and trunk of the tree met. He took out a rough ingot of amalgamated scrap-metal and, using his cards, shaped it into a smith¡¯s hammer. Then, he simply let go of the hammer from high above in the canopy.
It spun end over end, falling to the earth below where Baethen¡¯s shadow lay. There was no dull thump of a heavy object impacting the loam. The hammer dove into the darkness like a quicksilver-fish into metal, the surface of the cast-shadow rippling as does a pool of stillwater being disturbed by a single drop of dew.
By Baethen¡¯s side, a hammer arose from the tar-like coagulated shadows and he gripped it by the haft with a lopsided grin on his face. Miro clapped him on the back in impressed surprise.
¡°There¡¯s a jest about being happy about shafts that I just can¡¯t quite articulate.¡±
VI - Interstice
The first night at the Evergaol was one of far too much drink. Last that Baethen remembered he¡¯d taken the umpteenth swig of some hooch or another; the expedition had been a dry one until now given alcohol¡¯s propensity for dehydration and adverse effect on vigilance and general ratiocination
Baethen awoke in a stranger¡¯s bed and it wasn¡¯t Miro¡¯s. He looked around the tent, realisation dawning on him that it was the captain¡¯s.
¡°Finally, awake, greenhorn? Good.¡±
¡°How¡¯d I get here? We didn''t¡?¡±
Haviershan¡¯s expression stilled for a breath as the cogs and gears turned inside head and then he barked out peals upon peals of laughter. Drying a tear at the corner of his eye, he said: ¡°Numbered-Gods, that was a good one. Nay. Didn¡¯t plough your field. Nor did anyone else for that matter; wouldn¡¯t be right in your sorry state of yesternight. You couldn¡¯t string together a sentence without speaking in tongues. Probably don¡¯t even remember that you took a bet against Tratvgar to see who could drink the other under the table.
¡°Long story made short: you both lost, you fools. Tratvgar¡¯s on bed rest on account of having attempted to wrestle you¡ªnever seen a lad actually knock himself out before but there¡¯s a first for everything. Oh to be young again in the liver, but I digress.¡± He chuckled before continuing: ¡°After you drank enough swill to drown a sea-serpent, we thought it best to put you somewhere safe; namely, in the care of an insomniac in case you choked on your own vomit.¡±
Haviershan really did not mince words though that was probably because he quite liked the sound of his own, admittingly-smooth, voice.
¡°Now that you¡¯ve your wits about you, go on and get out of here before they begin to call you Sleeping-Beauty; it¡¯s noon already and this band is far too old to go around telling feyry-tales. Go on, git.¡±
Baethen¡¯s belongings were by the foot of the bed and undisturbed. He took them, thanked the captain and then went on his not-so-merry way. The sunlight hit him in the temples like a sceptre to a church¡¯s bell. Hungover as he was, he¡¯d need a draught of hair-o¡¯-the-dragon from Lazarra lest he keel over and die.
Those tasted worse than Scaduphomet¡¯s taint but better momentary discomfort than one that lasted a whole thrice-damned day.
({Archetype}: [Prime]) Selected; {Player}¡¯s ({Hand}: [3//3]) {Drawn} as follows:
[Imp-of-Serpents] ¡ï¡ï ({Four-Card-Set} - {Unlinked})
[Strike-While-the-Iron-is-Hot] ¡ï ({Two-Card-Set} - {Unlinked})
[Mercurial-Inksmith] ¡ï ({Single-Card} - {Unlinked})
{Player}s {Arcanum} {Read} as follows:
[Arcana-of-Fire]
?[Minor] II (Allows {Player} to {Manifest} a {Font-of-Fire} in the {Form} of {Cinders} {Twice} per {Hand}.)
[Arcana-of-Air]
?[Minor] I (Allows {Player} to {Manifest} a {Font-of-Air} in the {Form} of {Drafts} {Once} per {Hand}.)
[Arcana-of-Mercury]
?[Major] I (Allows {Player} to {Expend} a {Metallic-Font} to {Empower} a {Font-of-Mercury} or vice-versa {Once} per {Hand}.)
[Arcana-of-Smoke]
?[Minor] I - [Resonant] IV (Allows {Player} to {Manifest} a {Font-of-Smoke} in the {Form} of {Curlicues} {Once} per {Hand}; as the first contra, allows {Player} to {Convert} a {Font-of-Fire} into a {Font-of-Smoke} or vice-versa {Once} per {Hand}; as the second contra, allows {Player} to {Convert} a {Font-of-Water} into a {Font-of-Smoke} so long as it is in {Touch} with a {Font-of-Fire} but not vice-versa {Once} per {Hand}; as the third contra, allows {Player} to {Convert} a {Font-of-Air} into a {Font-of-Smoke} or vice-versa {Once} per {Hand}; as the fourth and final contra, allows {Player} to {Convert} a {Font-of-Illusion} into a {Font-of-Smoke} or vice-versa {Once} per {Hand}.)
[Arcana-of-Phlogiston]
?[Major] II (Allows {Player} to {Expend} a {Font-of-Air} to {Empower} a {Font-of-Fire} or vice-versa {Twice} per {Hand}.)
[Arcana-of-the-Crucible]
?[Minor] I (Allows {Player} to {Convert} a {Font-of-Mercury} into a {Font-of-Fire} or vice-versa {Once} per {Hand}.)
?[Intermediate] I - [Resonant] I (Allows {Player} to {Magnify} a {Font-of-Mercury} or {Font-of-Fire} {Once} per {Hand}; as a contra, allows {Player} to {Expend} all but one {Font} within a {Confluence-of-Fonts} so long as it possesses a {Font-of-Mercury} to {Empower} the one that remains {Once} per {Hand}.)
?[Complete] I (Allows {Player} to {Refund} a {Spent} {Font-of-Mercury} or {Font-of-Fire} {Once} per {Hand}.)
[Arcana-of-Deceit]
?[Intermediate] I - [Resonant] I (Allows {Player} to {Magnify} a {Font-of-Illusion} or a {Font-of-Smoke} {Once} per {Hand}; as a contra, allows {Player} to {Magnify} a {Font-of-Night} {Once} per {Hand}.)
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A visit to Lazarra later in her mender¡¯s wagon and Baethen was ready to begin his morning practise; he¡¯d begun to focus on his arcanum rather than the cards themselves as those were the interstice that bound a deck together. In praxis, the more resonant or complete an arcanum¡¯s dominion was, the higher the chance to incur a fusion be it sets, confluxes, or decks themselves so long as they were of compatible arcana.
Baethen sat by a felled tree at the border of the Evergaol¡¯s clearing, going through his once-per-hand casts like they¡¯d burn a hole in his purse. The metaphor almost turned to reality as Baethen accidentally played [Cinderspark-Spit] when he attempted to spit out the bad taste in his mouth from the hair-o¡¯-the-dragon draught.
By the end of the stund, Baethen had wrung his arcanum dry of its petty magicks. Seeing as he still had a whole new font source to practise with, he spat some sparks into his palm, kindling them with his breath and then expending them just as fast so that they¡¯d become vapour.
By then, the arcana of smoke held sway, so Baethen played the conflux [Parlour-Tricks], transforming the smoke back into flame. He held onto the wisp until his mind began to grow numb and his hold over the arcana slipped under his grasp from sheer exhaustion.
Just as acts of body put pressure upon the flesh, willpower sapped the spirit; overdraw could inflict a whole host of maladies of the soul including melancholy, mirror-hunger, madness, and lunacy.
Probably gave some people the conniptions as well though that was just as likely being Baethen¡¯s errant thoughts than stone-etched fact.
Seeing as Baethen was itching for something to do, he found a way to lure Tratvgar out from the cot for a quick spar. He¡¯d never been able to sit still as a lad much less now that he was a man full-grown.
¡°First-blood or a score-game?¡± Baethen asked.
¡°First-blood. Can¡¯t focus enough to begin to count scored points.¡± Tratvgar responded.
The lanky man was a turn younger than Baethen, washed-up from some farmer¡¯s guild or another. Scapegoat for petty politics, Tratvgar had decided he preferred braving the wilds and contending against beasts than residing amongst the cities of men. The former, at least, did not hide behind the guise of civility so as to justify wanton exploitation.
Tratvgar was tall and slim, a long stave of living wood held in his right. Stillborn fruits and seeds hung from the stave¡¯s head, the wood at that end knotted up something fierce such that a blow from it felt more like that of steel than bark.
Baethen knew as much from their many friendly mock-fights between Reordran and Rimare-Tul. Rung his bell as if to summon the faithful to mass, Tratvgar did.
The game began abruptly as Tratvgar pointed his stave at Baethen and launched a salvo of seeds forth. Mid-flight, they germinated into roots which weaved themselves into needle-thin darts.
Unlike Baethen, Tratvgar erred towards missiles rather than melee, his cards purpose-made for ranged combat; {Touch} clauses exchanged for clauses of {Line-of-Sight}, {Eye-of-the-Beholder}, and {Thrall-of-Gaze}. The ultimate article replaced {Thrall-of-Arm}, the penultimate stipulation negated cover so long as the object beheld conformed to the {Player}¡¯s prejudices and the antecedent clause was there to activate the card-chain and make seeds sprout.
Bone-haft in front of him, Baethen twisted his wrist, forging the font of mercury into a shield with the haft as a handle. The needles, though ravenous against bare flesh, did not have enough mass to penetrate liquid steel. He spun the stave, layering cards into the chain so that he had fonts of fire and smoke to work with.
¡°[Exhale. Smolder. Darken.]¡±
A thick smog quickly coalesced around him, obscuring Tratvgar¡¯s line of sight and incurring his deck¡¯s many drawbacks. He could manifest root-spears and curve their trajectory but only so long as he knew where Baethen was¡ª{Eye-of-the-Beholder} worked wonders against foliage and partial sight but still required the player to know where his foe lay. Normally, the card [Sow-the-Fields] was used for its namesake, needing the user to be able to see the soil upon which they wanted to sow. Here, though, it was used to devastating effect as a weapon of war, a scythe modified to reap souls rather than wheat.
Given there was dense mist between Tratvgar and the earth, he could not designate a field and thus could not sow.
A massive shadow waylaid the green-magician from his left but he was no fool and called the bluff for what it was. He simply brought up a wave of roiling substrate from his feet to dispel most of the fog around him, catching sight of an umbilical-cord of smoke unravelling as its bound apparition did much the same.
Tratvgar followed its path and then launched first a wave of roiling roots to snuff out the fog and then a salvo of sower¡¯s spears just after it.
Caught in the double-bluff, Tratvgar had only a blink to react to Baethen ambushing him from the direction of the apparition. He¡¯d woven a circle of string-smoke all the way around Tratvgar, tightening the noose around his metaphorical foot now that he¡¯d gotten him right where he wanted.
Chicanery was the way of [The-Charlatan], child of Unnumbered Loken and Yurnmagog the Hanged-God, blessed by Balphas the Magus for the working of spells and welcomed by Scaduphomet for cunning and loved by Alunariat for the employ of secrets and omission. The arcana was one that required great wit and greater conniving.
The strike stopped just a knuckle from caving in Tratvgar¡¯s skull. A third bluff as Baethen scored a shallow cut against his foe¡¯s bicep, thus incurring first-blood. The metal shiv in his hand was quickly welded back into Baethen¡¯s hammer-head.
¡°Gehenna¡¯s Twelve-Hels, that was a devious one. Didnae think ya¡¯d master that arcana quick enough for it to matter. My head¡¯s all full o¡¯ cotton which didnae help either.¡±
The Woedenite accent was thick about him given Tratvgar was born a field-tender in the outer ring of Reordran¡¯s walls where travellers made themselves sparse. Baethen himself had lived in the middle-rung though he was closer to the outer than the inner ring; Mother was a dye-mistress while Father was a card-tender¡ªthese were people who were loaned guilder decks to form sets and links within them.
¡°Gotta always have a couple tricks up your sleeve.¡± Baethen told him. ¡°Always practise and make up new card-chains so that you¡¯re quick on your feet and have sharp wits about you.¡±
The shield-disk card-chain was one that Baethen had to devise in response to Tratvgar¡¯s reach whereas the bound-apparition chain was one that he¡¯d simply conjured up through experimentation and boredom. Lastly, the fog-o¡¯-war chain was the second one he¡¯d made just after he¡¯d gotten the [Lesser-Narguile-of-Night] card, the first being smoke-burst.
¡°I¡¯m all but dead on my feet, Baethe. I¡¯m putting up my hands and goin¡¯ back to my cot. Didnae want to spoil your fun but I gotta do what I gotta do and I gotta do nothing but close my eyes right about now.¡±
With that, Tratvgar gave Baethen a nod and off he went into Babylon the land of dreams.
VII - Dissension
Over the coming days after setting up a preliminary camp around the Evergaol of Rimare-Tul, Baethen took to hunting and foraging to bolster the expedition¡¯s rations and whatnot. Walls wouldn¡¯t be put up until at least a good three-or-four notches or so had passed while everyone settled down and convalesced from the Rounds-long trek. A small cadre were sent to the townships to bring a smattering of supplies in the immediate and, in the distant, give word so that the merchants that waited within Reordran could begin their trek. By then, the burgeoning settlement would reach a state of equilibrium.
It was during one of his many outings into the cerulean wilds beyond the Evergaol that Baethen happened upon a downright strange sight: in a clearing, the canopy wan such that the veil parted to let in the light from above, lay the carcass of a great beast.
Rot hadn¡¯t set in yet and, from afar, there was no sign of illness or disease with pristine scarlet-dark fur that would make great bedding. Its head was in the likeness of a kalegor dog but twelve times as big with tusks jutting out from under its jaw.
A Gods-be-damned huronth. Sure, it was a juvenile but still! Baethen had stumbled on a three-star beast of the behemoth bloodline¡ªthese were sure to have a card or two of the same parity. And the tokens, the thrice-damned tokens. Baethen was salivating at just the thought of how much wealth was in the monster¡¯s flesh and bones.
Its ebon blood and internal organs could be used as alchemical reagents, its hide could be treated to become as strong as plate and pliable as silk, its fangs and claws could be carved into spear-heads fit for the highest nobles of Reordran.
Slowly but surely, Baethen made his way towards the carcass, eyes and ears open for threats. The huronth had died of something as these sorts of predators did not fall prey to old age but rather others of their kind. Most likely, its slayer was fighting off the would-be scavengers which meant that Baethen couldn¡¯t linger.
Iron to lodestone, head on a swivel, closer and closer he went til he realised that no wound marred the huronth. No black blood on its rust-red mane or jet-black pelage. Its thick and densely muscled neck was still attached to its shoulders¡ªit was as if the thing had just keeled over and died on the spot.
Looking around, Baethen saw that the huronth had depressed the earth around it. It was outlined by furrows that conformed to its shape; the body itself limbless in the sense that each member was sprawled out this way and that. Almost like it had fallen from a great height.
With a sinking feeling in his gut, Baethen looked up into the canopy.
The blue vault above him opened a single eye. It had no sclera, just one gargantuan sulphur-coloured iris with a bifurcated pupil. It was like a portal into Gehenna, a yawning, churning inferno spiralling into the abyss, whispering sweet, horrid nothings into his mind¡¯s eye.
Mother, O Mother Mine; the flesh burns black under the midnight sabbath; seven mouths sing the lament of Azabre-Dul; death to the Gods, death to the Gods, thrice, We say, death to the Gods; Mother, O Mother Mine.
Gibbering insanity crawled its way into him, sinking roots of all-consuming terror and delirium. Paralysis gripped his spine and held him in place before that terribly-still eye, devoid of saccades and utterly insensate; only the fires of its iris moved, tongues licking at its cornea as if to reach out and devour all those that it beheld. The pupil alone could swallow him whole.
The sky fell on top of Baethen in a blink of its great, baleful eye, blackness enveloping him like a second skin. Suffocating warmth surrounded him, heavy with the shadow of the beast. Its gullet was backwards-barbed, long spines excoriating him as Baethen attempted to claw his way out though there was no way to measure direction inside the belly of the beast. The creature, thankfully, did not have teeth, instead seeming to prefer to asphyxiate its prey after having devoured them whole.
Baethen spat out an ember but it was for nought as it quickly sizzled out; he couldn¡¯t breathe. There was no air inside the creature¡¯s stomach and thus the arcana of fire could not take hold. His first instinct was to call upon his {Sealed} stave but he doubted it could, by itself, carve its way through a monster that had taken down a huronth.
He was going to die here, wasn¡¯t he?
The impending doom gave way to the utter calm that comes with certain death. No longer under the monster¡¯s soul-piercing and body-pinning gaze, Baethen recovered but a semblance of rationality. Meticulously, with the remaining breath in his lungs, he plotted his next set of actions, the course a complicated gambit of many moving parts.
Baethen cupped his hands around his mouth with his sceptre jutting into the cavity he had formed in between his palms. First, he manifested a font of air and then spat into it, able to finally gestate a spark. His one and only arcanum-charge that could give him breathable air was spent.
¡°[Kindle. Become.]¡±
The sceptre began to glow dully as Baethen expended all the metallic fonts of iron and steel that were layered into its head¡¯s amalgam. Though he could not see the weapon, he knew so by the heat searing into his lips and the red shining through his fingers. The expended fonts empowered the now-pure, leftover mercury.
With [Parlour-Tricks] he continuously transformed the smoke that would snuff out the growing fire into illusory tongues. To further embolden it, Baethen manifested cinders along the sceptre until that arcanum was wrung dry.
The next actions came simultaneously, a masterstroke born of desperation and single-minded determination. Baethen played [Lesser-Juggler-of-Fire], [Lesser-Narguile-of-Night], and [Slag-and-Scale] to bind the confluence of fonts tight around his weapon; [Kindlers-Breath], [Imp-of-Serpents], and [Forge-Maw] to breathe over the sceptre and transform the red-hot metal into a miniature sun.
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¡°[Smolder. Blaze.]¡±
The arcanums of mercury and smoke wove together to bind any errant fonts into the building sacrificial pyre. Nothing, nothing would escape or be wasted. Even [Mercurial-Inksmith] provided its own offering: a stave just on the brink of explosion, seeded with a bonfire¡¯s worth of flame.
Lastly came his final Word and then Baethen striked while the iron was hot, stave against sceptre. His rage and terror and panic and madness and black hope gave him the strength needed to bring the hammer down with all that he was and could have been.
¡°[Sunder.]¡±
The world went white and then black.
Babylon, Babylon.
The Land-of-Dreams lay in direct opposition to the waking world, both spinning along the same axis but equidistant from both the axis and each other. Men spoke of lands where the dead and the sleeping roamed, cavorting along the shores of nameless Death and they were right; a tower arose from the Hypnagogia¡¯s waters, broken as it reached for the moon that lay above.
Just as the moon was silver in the world above; here, below, it was alabaster-black. The sky, in contrast, a white so dark it may as well have been atramentum. Paradox was to Babylon what truth was to Eot¡ªunreality not so much shifting sand but curling incense smoke that devoured its own tail like a serpent.
Baethen dreamt of a gargantuan shadow reaching from the depths of the waters upon which Nagalfaram sailed, resolving into a mask of resplendent gold, crystals of pyrite erupting along the god¡¯s head in corruscating patterns of wax and wane, mend and wend, ebb and flow, tithe and take.
Reaching towards the mask proved utterly meaningless for when his fingers touched the waters, Baethen knew it to be a reflection. The mask was not within the darkness, had not arisen from it, but instead originated from his own face. Where the mask below was fool¡¯s gold, the one affixed to him was blackest alabaster, refreshingly-cold to the touch.
And when he attempted to pry it off the face of his own soul, he came to know terror. It would not come off, melded inextricably to his very being; roots against roots, water amid waters, threads within the tapestry. When next he surfaced from Babylon, Baethen ¡®Sore-Loser¡¯ Locke would not remember a single thing for dreams remained here as reflections remained within the mirror.
Baethen awoke in another person¡¯s bed and, again, it wasn¡¯t Miro¡¯s.
He¡¯d complain about this becoming a habit but given he couldn¡¯t move his tongue and his lips seared nearly shut, well¡
Just about every part of his body hurt. His bones ached, fractured but still in the right places. His limbs had been splinted with wood and bound in rope. His left side was numb, the pain burnt away by fire. He could still somehow move his neck at least, so he gave his arm a good look.
It was a long and thin piece of charcoal below the elbow. Baethen still felt as if his hand was still there, a phantom remaining even after the flesh was long gone and turned to ash. They hadn¡¯t amputated it yet probably because of his dire condition¡ªhe shouldn¡¯t even be alive.
His right hand was the only thing that hadn¡¯t been thoroughly broken. Two fingers were splinted, aye, but there were two others that he could use. The pinky wasn¡¯t his favourite digit so its loss wasn¡¯t much to him. Baethen was just glad he had enough fingers to wank.
Curious as to the damage to his lips and face, Baethen ran his hand gently along it, noting that he still had his beard, somehow. [Forge-Maw] had something to do with it, he reckoned. Cards tended not to hurt their players and thus endowed them with resistance in so far as it concerned their effects.
His tongue, on the other hand, was gone. Which, now that he thought of it, was also gone. [Imp-of-Serpents] had backlashed from the confluence of energies and cards and the like, incinerating Baethen¡¯s tongue down to its root from the sheer amount of magicks that had been channelled through it.
Well, that made things a bit worse. Taste, as far as senses went, gave him a good deal of pleasure. Black rage crept up on Baethen as he realised that he¡¯d never taste his mother¡¯s cooking ever again.
Without meaning to, smoke wafted from his nostrils as if he were a dragon, his cards played without his meaning to. He wanted to scream but knew better than to burn down the tent he found himself in. Should he open his lips, he¡¯d spit out vitriol.
The tent¡¯s flap opened a flick or two later.
¡°Morophesh wept! You¡¯re awake!¡±
Lazarra waddled as fast as she could, somehow weeping openly and berating him at the same time as she carried her bucket of water with her. ¡°Quickly, place this card in your Hand. It¡¯s a transfiguration type that¡¯ll stabilise your organs.¡±
He did as he was told, letting Lazarra place the card atop his sternum and accepting it into his soul. With half a foot within Babylon and another in Eot, lightning struck Baethen¡¯s spine, epiphany seeming to thunder in the space between his ears. He awoke from the land of dreams and pointed towards the bucket that Lazarra held and gestured frantically as he could¡ªwhich wasn¡¯t much given his current state of weakness.
Lazarra complied, chiding him for this and that as she poured sips from a ladle into his mouth.
Baethen redrew his Hand and played [Celestial-Dew].
The water inside him grew resplendent in the merciful power of the God-of-All-Sorrows, a great presence of empathy falling upon him as tears fell down his cheeks. They continued, uncaring of how water usually flowed as divinity carried them throughout Baethen¡¯s body within and without. Wherever the celestial dew touched, life blossomed, flesh reknitting and bone regrowing and skin regenerating, unblemished by scar.
By the end of the miracle, there was only a single thing to remind Baethen of his brush with death: his left arm, from the elbow below, was black as soot as if he¡¯d been in the smithy a whole day. No water could clean it nor did it mar anything that it touched. Even the fingernails had been tanned an umber that was like tar. When the light shined just right about his changed limb, Baethen swore he saw the vague outline of scales.
Lazarra prayed and chanted mores to Morophesh throughout it all, thanking the Eighteenth God for His mercy. Baethen, though never much a devout, offered his thanks as well.
The relief only lasted until Lazarra had time to observe Baethen¡¯s changed arm.
¡°Morophesh wept.¡±
VIII - Strengthe
¡°No. This can¡¯t be.¡± Lazarra sussured, grave and unbelieving. ¡°I won¡¯t accept it.¡±
Baethen didn¡¯t quite understand why the priestess was so stricken. He attempted to put both hands on her shoulders but she recoiled from his touch as if leper.
That did not help his confusion.
Seemingly to come awake from herself, Lazarra shook her head one last time and then spoke, slowly and carefully. ¡°Lad, did you enter Babylon in your dreams?¡±
¡°No?¡±
¡°No gnostic-glyphs or the like? No hearkening from the Deific-Tarot? Did you choose a set-of-three to form an arcanum?¡±
Baethen shook his head in the negative.
¡°Steel yourself, Baethen Locke, and read the words within your soul.¡±
With that ominous warning and curious as to what card that Lazarra had given him, Baethen called upon Babylon, Sixteenth-of-the-Major-Arcana, the Broken-God.
({Archetype}: [Prime]) Selected; {Player}¡¯s ({Hand}: [2//3]) {Drawn} as follows:
[Strike-While-the-Iron-is-Hot] ¡ï ({Three-Card-Set} - {Unlinked})
[Empty-Slot]
[Empty-Slot]
That was strange. He was sure that he¡¯d slotted the card into his hand¡ªthere should only be one empty slot from [Celestial-Dew] having been discarded entirely. He felt a burden within his being; which was counter-intuitive seeing as he had played a three-star card and thrown it into the ether. He was supposed to be light as a feather, metaphysically-speaking.
It was only in re-reading his Hand that he realised that his [Strike-While-the-Iron-is-Hot] now had three cards instead of two.
[Strike-While-the-Iron-is-Hot] ¡ï ({Three-Card-Set} - {Unlinked})
[Slag-and-Scale] ¡ï¡ï ({Single-Card} - {Linked} [Lesser-Wormhide] ¡ï¡ï)
[Flawed-Steelheart] ¡ï ({Single-Card} - {Linked} [Lesser-Wormhide] ¡ï¡ï)
[Run-Like-the-Wind] ¡ï ({Single-Card} - {Unlinked})
Card Given: [Flawed-Steelheart] ¡ï
Draw: [Of-a-Kind]
Drawback: [Irrevocable-Binding]
Arcana: [Iron], [Consumption], [One-of-Hearts]
Number: [XV//XXI]
Suit: [Face]
Portfolio ¦µ: [¡®Iron must be bent, broken, and burnt to become steel¡¯. This {Card} grants the {Player} {Major-Dominion} over the {Arcana-of-the-Crucible}, {Metamorphosing} their {Heart} into a {Living-Font-of-Iron} and {Imbuing} their {Blood} with the {Arcana-of-Amalgam}. {Player} must {Consume} {Metallic-Fonts} to {Sustain} the {Living-Font-of-Iron}. This {Card} is {Always-In-Play} and cannot be {Discarded} from the {Player}¡¯s {Hand} or {Archive}; should this {Card}, through {Exemption}, be {Discarded}, the {Player} incurs {Brand-of-Death}.]
Face cards were always in play by their very nature, the opposite of aces, sleights, and, especially, back-pockets¡ªthey weren¡¯t necessarily binding-cards so long as they did not have [Flawed-Steelheart]¡¯s drawback.
Bound cards of low star-parity were known as deadcards for their inability to be removed from one¡¯s hand or were otherwise unplayable for some stringent bring-into-play clause or somesuch¡ªthe latter usually fell under the back-pocket suite of Baethen¡¯s Lynchpin. Though outlawed in Woeden, there were kingdoms that employed binding cards as spiritual shackles for bondsmen, be they a criminal with a blood-price or a debtor whose wages did not meet the arbitrary fine print, hence the name¡ªbondsmen.
Woeden had Blacklisted such cards for they were considered progeny of the Devil. The arcana of chains and the arcana of subjugation fell under purview of strife, suffering, and terror; and thus, the tools of warlocks and fell sorcerers. The Twenty-One Churches were always on the lookout for lords employing such cards for their propensity of engendering rancour, resentment, and despair¡ªemotions that, once accumulated, could provoke Gehennic-conjunctions or manifest wholesale heart-d?mons of all kinds. Soul-devourers could spell the doom of an entire city and were walking calamities of terror-made-flesh.
Baethen shivered at the thought, lost in the many stories of spiritual leeches eating away at a society from the inside-out until all that remained were empty husks, domiciles devoid of humanity and strangely, eerily silent in the wake of the conjunction.
With a shake of his head, Baethen reoriented to the card at hand.
[Flawed-Steelheart] was known as a metamorphosis or flesh-warping card as well. These were oft banned for their propensity for changing one¡¯s nature, usually for the worst. Where bound cards could spawn devils from the spirit, flesh cards did so by moulding a person into the shape thereof. There were cards that could make men into beasts and now, as Baethen read the meld¡¯s portfolio, he understood how a card could make a man into a monster.
Card-Meld Linked: [Lesser-Wormhide] ¡ï¡ï
Draw: [Twofold]
Drawback: [The-Beast-Within]
Arcana: [The-Worm], [Strength], [Night]
Number: [XV//I]
Suit: [Triumph]
Portfolio ¦µ: [¡®Men since time immemorial have assumed the mantle of the Beast. They realise the depths of their folly only once they can¡¯t take off skin that has become theirs¡¯. This {Meld} grants the {Player} {Major-Dominion} over the {Arcana-of-Worms}, allowing them to {Metamorphose} their {Skin} into {Wormscale} which {Resists} the bite of {Blades} and the licks of {Fire}. Once this {Meld} is {Brought-Into-Play}, the {Player} incurs a {Brand-of-Wrath} which {Empowers} {Fiery-Arcana} but {Enrages} them until the next {Hand} is {Redrawn}.]
That much power within a two-star card was unheard of.
Unheard of, that is, from any card not on the Blacklist.
This was one step removed from Scaduphomet Herself¡ªone step from Gehenna and eternal damnation from the cycle of souls as one of the Forsworn. Unlike most other cards, this one¡¯s script was ashen; not quite the black of something marred with soot but no longer the purest white of Babylon either. Somewhere in between the Seven-Heavens and the Twelve-Hels.
Baethen met Lazarra¡¯s waiting gaze with his own wide-open and terror-stricken eyes.
Slowly, he explained the meld and how he had no recollection of forming such a thing or choosing an arcanum at all. Perhaps it had been chosen for him as with his [Lynchpin].
¡°It has to be that.¡± He told himself, assuring his conscience that this wasn¡¯t him, wasn¡¯t his choice.
Seeing as Lazarra already knew of a dire secret that could spell Baethen¡¯s demise, he spilt another one. He told her of his carte-blanche ceremony and the strange circumstances that surrounded it. How the card had only one arcana, how it had just three words in its portfolio, how he hadn¡¯t had time to choose¡ªit was happening again, his agency taken away by forces beyond his ken.
If she hadn¡¯t already gone pale, Lazarra would¡¯ve gone on to the other side of the pale as she bore witness to Baethen¡¯s confession.
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With the utter calm that only the deadmen-walking could assume, she brought out a divination tablet of black-alabaster from her robes and handed it to Baethen without a word.
Knowing what to do, he barely touched the surface before Lazarra swiped the tablet from his hands and scoured over it with her maddened eyes. She was somehow more terrified than Baethen which only made him more terrified.
Honestly, Baethen began to wish he¡¯d just died in the belly of that beast. At least then, his soul would re-enter the cycle to be reborn. Now, Nagalfaram the Merchant-of-Death would do worse than reject his death-obol. Instead of simply having to brave the waters of Hypnagogia that lay around the shores of Babylon and lose all his memories like most common folk, Baethen would be consigned to the depths where the Amygdala slept; leviathans one and all, they waited for lost souls to steal away into the Inverted-Spire-of-Gehenna, to the Damnation-of-the-Twelve-Hels.
Scaduphomet had been cast out for having slain Babylon, having taken with Her the Broken-God¡¯s shadow so that She might make for Herself a refuge of terror where the darkest fears dwelt¡ªhence, Inverted-Spire, for Gehenna was the black reflection of Heaven, of the Broken-House-of-the-Gods.
Baethen hadn¡¯t felt this much panic from being inside the stomach of a Gods-be-damned monster. It was too much. It was far too much. The walls were closing in, his world was ending, the Devil had Her roots in his soul¡ª
¡°Breathe, lad. Breathe. Slowly. In and out. In and out. Out and in.¡±
Lazarra put the tablet down by the mender¡¯s table and led Baethen through the fear, each inhale like that of a drowning man having broken the surface of the waters and each exhale like a dead man¡¯s last.
Once Baethen had recovered his wits enough that he wasn¡¯t a prisoner to the darkness of his own mind, Lazarra handed him the ladle and bade him to drink.
¡°I won¡¯t lie, lad. This isn¡¯t good but it isn¡¯t a done deal or anything of the sort. Not nearly enough for Gehenna to claim you, fully. Be careful with what cards you accept in your soul from now on.¡±
Lazarra unbound and unsealed Baethen¡¯s now-hale-and-hearty limbs as he told her of his inheritance and the circumstances that surrounded it. Of course, the worm-touched arm was left hidden beneath the linen wraps. Best that he not announce his allegiance to the Devil like a leper¡¯s spots.
¡°When you return to the City, lad, you better apologise to your parents. That card saved your rump. Without it, you¡¯d¡¯ve been a cripple for the rest of your life.¡±
He¡¯d need some way to hide the metaphysical taint of [The-Worm] arcana before even thinking of crossing Reordran¡¯s threshold. The inquisitors would sniff him out rather quick and though he¡¯d survive the stake, Baethen had yet to devise a way to outlast the gallows.
A few more chidings later and Baethen was off. How strange it was, to be whole after being so thoroughly broken. He wanted to limp or to stoop, stepping about gingerly but no pain came. His flesh might have mended but he could feel that his spirit would not so easily forget.
There was a dread-seed planted within his very being and if Baethen wasn¡¯t careful, it would bloom into an accursed husk-tree. He¡¯d become one of the Forsworn, a hollow shell puppeted to strike terror and strife upon mankind.
It wasn¡¯t long after, ten or so hugs later from his bedfellows and comrades, that Miro returned from the wilds, questing after Baethen as soon as he¡¯d heard the news of his awakening.
Baethen had slept for three days, near-half of a seven-day notch. Ahedmir ¡®Whisper-Blade¡¯ Jazeeram had been by his bedside for the first day but had been quickly shooed away by Lazarra¡ªdown a hunter already, they¡¯d starve without several someones bringing a steady supply of game.
Still a little out of his wits about him, Baethen hadn¡¯t caught glimpse of Miro before the nine-turn-older man wrapped those tree-trunk biceps around him. Baethen, not one to surrender so easily, did much the same, straining at his muscles as if Miro would disappear if he let go.
¡°Y¡¯know if you don¡¯t loosen that grip of yours I might end up burning a hole in my breeches.¡±
Miro laughed and sobbed at the same time as he did as he was bid, not quite crying but not quite full of breath either. It was that disbelieving sort of feeling, one of bewilderment.
¡°Yer cock¡¯s far too easily awoken.¡±
¡°Older men are my weakness.¡±
Miro slapped the nape of Baethen¡¯s neck, friendly-like and promising.
¡°I¡¯m glad yer alright, lad¡ªwas the one that found ye. Thought ye were dead then, every single bone broken or near to it. Gods.¡±
Miro wasn¡¯t one for sentimentality but Baethen could taste the horror in the ensuing silence.
¡°Did¡¯ya find the huronth?¡±
¡°The what?¡±
¡°Let me start from the beginning¡¡±
A good ten licks or so later, of both the clock and the tongue, and Baethen had described what monster had waylaid him. He didn¡¯t know it himself but Miro did, his grey complexion all pale about him.
¡°That was a sky-gorger, Baethe. Yer lucky to be alive. They¡¯re all, at least, four stars. They take down high-star prey and use them to lure in others before devouring them whole. By them words of yer¡¯s, I reckon it was a juvenile, not an adult or, Gods¡¯-forbid an elder. Thems are a type of worm, above wyverns and drakes and the like. The devil-blood in them is near-pure enough to be considered a dragon proper rather than a draconid.¡±
Apparently, there was no trace of hide nor hair of either the huronth or the sky-gorger. The wormling had absconded with the behemoth-spawn¡¯s carcass after that, having left Baethen behind as it considered him not worth it as prey¡ªtoo difficult for too little reward.
¡°Wait a lick, lad, did ya check yer archive yet?¡±
Baethen shook his head, confused as to what Miro was getting at.
¡°Call it an old man¡¯s intuition, but call upon Babylon and see what the Gods ordain.¡±
He didn¡¯t like it when Miro called himself old, only when he did it for him.
¡°Oh stop that, you¡¯ve nary a wrinkle on that smackable face o¡¯ yours. Or rump for that matter¡¡±
Hearken, the [Dealer-of-Fate] stirs awake at the {Player}¡¯s {Victory} over an {Implacable-Foe}! As {Eldest}, [Fata-Morgana] takes {Rearhand} as {Dealer}.
Scouring [Akashic-Archive] for compatible {Cards} [¡]
Compatible {Cards} found; shuffling probabilities set to base one over mean [¡]
Shuffle complete, {Card: [Gullet-of-the-Sky-Gorger] ¡ï¡ï¡ï} {Drawn} and {Dealt} to {Player}; {Card} put into {Player}¡¯s {Archive} .
{Player}¡¯s ({Archive}: [3//6]) {Read} as:
[Leaden-Stomach] ¡ï ({Single-Card} - {Unlinked})
[Bloodfly-Husk] ¡ï ({Single-Card} - {Unlinked})
[Gullet-of-the-Sky-Gorger] ¡ï¡ï¡ï ({Single-Card} - {Unlinked})
[Empty-Slot]
[Empty-Slot]
[Empty-Slot]
Card Won: [Gullet-of-the-Sky-Gorger] ¡ï¡ï¡ï
Draw: [Seven-of-a-Kind]
Drawback: [Brought-Low]
Arcana: [Air], [The-Sky], [Consumption]
Number: [XVII//XXI]
Suit: [Triumph]
Portfolio ¦µ: [¡®Leviathans swim not only beneath the lowest tides but also atop the highest skies¡¯. This {Card} grants the {Player} {Utter-Dominion} over the {Arcana-of-the-Sky}, allowing them to {Metamorphose} {Once} per {Hand} their {Throat} into that of a {Blue-Worm}; {Metamorphosis} allows {Player} to {Manifest} a {Font-of-Akasha} within their {Mouth} through {Breath-of-Lung}. For this {Card} to be {Brought-Into-Play}, the {Player} must not be in {Touch} with the {Earth} below; should the {Player} {Touch} the {Earth} below whilst this {Card} is in {Play}, the {Player}¡¯s {Metamorphosis} and {Dominion} over the {Arcana-of-the-Sky} is {Dispelled} until the next {Hand} is {Redrawn}.]
Baethen was heavily conflicted about winning the card. An achievement such as this warranted a death-obol of remembrance that would allow Baethen to keep not just a single memory into his next life but a whole chain of them; the rest would shed from him during the swim within the waters of Hypnagogia. Accolades were difficult to come by given their very nature¡ªan achievement is something achieved with great difficulty by few people.
The draw of a card was its rarity to be drawn from the {Akashic-Archive}, the Library-of-the-Gods within Babylon. This was where the memories of the unworthy dead were stored, the gnostic-glyphs¡ªBabylon-script¡ªwithin mortal souls repurposed so that new cards could be drawn from humanity¡¯s collective conscience or some such theological nonsense.
If you couldn¡¯t tell, Baethe had never quite been a fan of metaphysics.
Softly, Baethen told Miro his card¡¯s portfolio, each word seeming more quiet than the last and twice as grave.
¡°Sybil¡¯s alabaster arse-cheeks, that¡¯s a card if I¡¯ve ever heard one.¡±
As far as arcana went, akasha had no equal within the auspices of the Tower¡ªa prime manifestation of Babylon, akasha embodied the aspect of manifestation itself; akash means ¡®to be¡¯ in Godspeak, the first word spoken in all of Creation that bore the sky from the formless All-Nothing. Whenever a player manifested a font by playing a card, they drew upon this aspect albeit indirectly.
The crux of the card lay in that it was related to the worm arcana¡ªnot directly, mind, but he imagined that the Twenty-One Churches wouldn¡¯t see it that way. And Baethen already walked the knife¡¯s edge with the [Lesser-Wormhide] meld. It didn¡¯t matter if the Lady-o-Luck favoured him with such a card by surviving a sky-gorger; if it risked consigning his very soul to Gehenna, then it couldn¡¯t be worth it, right?
Power always came at a price and absolute power demanded an absolute sacrifice.
Was a life of luxury and prestige worth an afterlife of torment?
Miro could not answer that for Baethen and neither could Baethen ask. He could trust the man with the intimacy of his body but not that of his immortal soul.
Baethen would soon learn that he couldn¡¯t trust himself in that last regard either.
IX - The Veiled Lamp
Baethen, after that close brush with death, took to smithing once again in the following notch. He¡¯d had enough excitement for the Round, keeping to less dangerous pursuits.
Like a conscript coming back from war, he transformed his weapon from an implement of violence into one better suited for a decidedly less-vicious craft. Though, he supposed, that swordsmiths also bore responsibility for giving shape to death within steel flesh.
He moulded a smithman¡¯s hammer atop his trusty ivory haft to cast his magicks through¡ªsceptres combined the martial and imperial aspect of swords with the performative qualities of wands and staves, granting a player greater versatility at the cost of proficiency that a specialised focus provided. The good thing about having a band of bastards around you was that they wagged their tongues rather liberally, spilling secrets and advice so long as you didn¡¯t step on anyone¡¯s or become too greedy.
Most of the smithing was making nails, repairing horse-shoes and the like, and fixing workers¡¯ tools. And, yes, a whole lotta sword-polishing. Edged weapons tended to accumulate nicks that needed to be ground out; and, though it was better for a fighter to maintain keep of his own steel, there was only so many
All throughout the notch, day by day and night by night, Baethen¡¯s self-control waxed and waned with a slow but inexorable skew towards the latter; at times, he straddled a precarious ledge of justifications and at others, he held himself to an unmaintainable, if na?vely noble, height of incorruptibility.
Baethen was a fool he knew¡ªGods, how he knew. He couldn¡¯t resist slotting a one-star card into his hand, much less a three-star; even if it did risk his immortal soul. It was during a quiet reprieve from work, staring out at the Evergaol¡¯s imposing presence, that he gave in.
Within the heart of every akashic tower was an archd?mon, a coalesced, physical representation of humanity¡¯s deficiencies¡ªfear, insecurity, calumnia, envy, hubris, blackest rage; every single dark desire you could think of, draped over with flesh. Within this devil¡¯s heart was a relic-card that would be granted to whoever dealt the final, killing blow; a gift from Fata-Morgana Herself, not some random card dealt from the Records but a reward from a god. The best part of it was that these relic-cards, like the arcanum-derived esoteric-cards, did not take up space within a hand. For this very reason, they were considered the same parity as five stars even if a given card was but one.
And Baethen¡¯s heart ached with dragon-greed to possess such a power. With even his paltry two-star cards he felt nigh-invincible; how would it feel to hold in the palm of his hand a five-star card? One that functioned, that is. One that had more than three, thrice-damned words.
He hungered for more, for better, for control, for power.
And what more fitting a card for a greedy sore-loser like Baethen Locke than [Gullet-of-the-Sky-Gorger]? A card that was won not by winning but by merely surviving, by flipping the table, as it were. For having lost and torn a semblance of victory from the, quite literal, jaws of defeat.
Baethen switched out [Mercurial-Inksmith] for [Gullet-of-the-Sky-Gorger], salivating at the thought of a god¡¯s reward and ignoring that he¡¯d already taken within his soul a dread-seed of the Devil. It was easy to disregard eternal damnation when immediate and intense gratification was in his Hand¡¯s reach.
He¡¯d only ever appreciate the irony of it all after he died at the heart of Rimare-Tul.
It would not be a servant of the Worm-God that struck the killing blow.
({Archetype}: [Prime]) Selected; {Player}¡¯s ({Hand}: [3//3]) {Drawn} as follows:
[Imp-of-Serpents] ¡ï¡ï ({Four-Card-Set} - {Unlinked})
[Strike-While-the-Iron-is-Hot] ¡ï ({Three-Card-Set} - {Unlinked})
[Gullet-of-the-Sky-Gorger] ¡ï¡ï¡ï ({Single-Card} - {Unlinked})
{Player}s {Arcanum} {Read} as follows:
[Arcana-of-Fire]
?[Minor] II (Allows {Player} to {Manifest} a {Font-of-Fire} in the {Form} of {Cinders} {Twice} per {Hand}.)
[Arcana-of-Air]
?[Minor] I (Allows {Player} to {Manifest} a {Font-of-Air} in the {Form} of {Drafts} {Once} per {Hand}.)
[Arcana-of-Smoke]
?[Minor] I - [Resonant] IV (Allows {Player} to {Manifest} a {Font-of-Smoke} in the {Form} of {Curlicues} {Once} per {Hand}; as the first contra, allows {Player} to {Convert} a {Font-of-Fire} into a {Font-of-Smoke} or vice-versa {Once} per {Hand}; as the second contra, allows {Player} to {Convert} a {Font-of-Water} into a {Font-of-Smoke} so long as it is in {Touch} with a {Font-of-Fire} but not vice-versa {Once} per {Hand}; as the third contra, allows {Player} to {Convert} a {Font-of-Air} into a {Font-of-Smoke} or vice-versa {Once} per {Hand}; as the fourth and final contra, allows {Player} to {Convert} a {Font-of-Illusion} into a {Font-of-Smoke} or vice-versa {Once} per {Hand}.)
[Arcana-of-Phlogiston]
?[Major] II (Allows {Player} to {Expend} a {Font-of-Air} to {Empower} a {Font-of-Fire} or vice-versa {Twice} per {Hand}.)
[Arcana-of-the-Crucible]
?[Minor] I (Allows {Player} to {Convert} a {Font-of-Mercury} into a {Font-of-Fire} or vice-versa {Once} per {Hand}.)
?[Intermediate] I - [Resonant] I (Allows {Player} to {Magnify} a {Font-of-Mercury} or {Font-of-Fire} {Once} per {Hand}; as a contra, allows {Player} to {Expend} all but one {Font} within a {Confluence-of-Fonts} so long as it possesses a {Font-of-Mercury} to {Empower} the one that remains {Once} per {Hand}.)
?[Complete] I (Allows {Player} to {Refund} a {Spent} {Font-of-Mercury} or {Font-of-Fire} {Once} per {Hand}.)
[Arcana-of-Deceit]
?[Intermediate] I - [Resonant] I (Allows {Player} to {Magnify} a {Font-of-Illusion} or a {Font-of-Smoke} {Once} per {Hand}; as a contra, allows {Player} to {Magnify} a {Font-of-Night} {Once} per {Hand}.)
[Arcana-of-Worms]
The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.
?[Major] I - [Resonant] III - [Dissonant] II (Allows {Player} to {Steal} a {Font} from under another {Player}¡¯s {Dominion} and {Expend} it to {Empower} a {Card} with the {Arcana-of-Worms} {Once} per {Hand} so long as both {Players} are in {Touch} with the other¡¯s {Cast-Shadows}; as the first contra, allows {Player} to {Incur} a {Brand-of-Fear} upon another {Player} {Once} per {Hand} which {Seals} a {Random-Card} so long as the latter is held in {Thrall-of-Gaze} by the former; as the second contra, allows {Player} to {Burn} their {Cast-Shadows} to {Magnify} {Fonts-of-Shadow} they are not in {Touch} with; as the third and final contra, allows {Player} to {Convert} a {Font-of-Shadow} into a {Font-of-True-Darkness} {Once} per {Hand}.)
[Arcana-of-the-Sky]
?[Utter] I - [Dissonant] I (Allows {Player} to {Clad} a {Medium} in a {Veil} of {Firmament}, so long as the {Medium} is not in {Touch} with the {Earth} below, {Once} per {Hand}; {Veil} lasts until the {Medium} {Touches} the {Earth} below or the next {Hand} is {Redrawn}.)
Where resonant dominions within one¡¯s arcanum had contras, dissonant dominions had {Bring-Into-Play} clauses or other such restrictions of that nature. Too many to speak about in general terms. There were libraries¡ªnot books but libraries¡ªon such a topic, afterall. Most players were not as laissez-faire as Baethen in slotting in cards into their soul and so took ample time to research and build their decks.
¡°Fools, the lot of them.¡± Baethen self-deprecated under his breath.
{Veils} differed from {Cloaks} in that the latter was weaker but covered more area and allowed for better weight and permeability, metaphysically-speaking. A veil was less likely to be perceived, for example, by a spirit-sight card or similar. The {Clad} clause was one that Baethen was well-versed in given his [Run-like-the-Wind] card; a little bit of will was all it took to cast the card into play.
With a moulinet flourish, Baethen choked his grip on his hammer, rendering it invisible as if dipping it into dye just the same colour as the air. Next, when he pounded rough metal into shape, it seemed as if he was doing so by strength of arm though he did so far and away from any that could witness it¡ªsome cards were better kept up your sleeve as tricks tend to work only once.
He could see the utility in a weapon that couldn¡¯t be seen and thus parried.
After most of the day¡¯s work was done, Baethen retreated to the edges of the camp, taking to padfooting about the place to preserve his privacy. He¡¯d told Miro of his newest card but kept it secret from the rest of his comrades.
Flesh-warping cards trespassed upon Taboo for taking upon yourself a visage different from that which the Gods had given you was tantamount to blasphemy¡ªnotwithstanding the contradiction that all cards were manifestations of the divine, even those heavy with the forbidden arcana of the Worm-God. Though Scaduphomet was banished from the Twenty-One, She was still a deity in Her own right.
As far as Blacklisting went, the flesh-warping sort of card didn¡¯t quite warrant interrogation from the Black-Justiciar¡¯s so long as you didn¡¯t flaunt it in polite society. Thievery was somewhat similar though generally worse depending on the card¡¯s propensity for spiritual theft¡ªonly thing worse than horse-thieves were card-thieves. The former got the gallows while the latter were hung, drawn, quartered, and posthumously excommunicated for whatever good that did.
Pox and Murder had no exceptions whatsoever.
Wyrd-plagues from previous Games abounded till this day, still-kicking long-since after their players had become but dust and their ensouled within new flesh. Choreomania could sweep into a village and decimate its inhabitants in a fortnight, culling those too young or too old to survive the dancing-fever.
There were cards that gave power from killing, sure, but those did not necessarily fall under the umbrella of Murder so long as they did not have a {Child-of-Leizuziel} clause. Those targeted all humans as Man was wrought from the rivening of the Many-Faced God, each soul a mask taken from manifold Leizuziel¡ªthe Sixth-Major-Arcana known as Union, the Lovers, Dodecam¨n, the Marriage and a thousand-thousand-thousand other epithets across the Board.
The native Woedenite name for the Sixth Arcana was Eir¨² the World-Bearer which birthed Eot the World and Yurnmagog the World-Shadow in Woeden cosmogony. The Gods were born from one another starting from Unnumbered Loken all the way to the Twenty-First and then, the Major Arcana birthed the lesser races in contrary order. From Eot, the Eoten whose brood numbered the brutish trulls and titanic giants and stout dwarves; from the Nameless-God the reviled lemures, locusts with the faces of men that sought to sow but the pestilence of death and from Nagalfaram came vultures with the heads and necks of maggots, the blessed psychopomps which carried the souls of the dead into Babylon; so on and so forth unto the Gilded-God-of-Fools whose children were so named the mascaracsam, masquerades for short¡ªthis last divine brood, none knew their purpose which hearkened unto them the other title of apophon; unnamed Those-Which-We-do-Not-Know, the masked strangers.
Loken the Faceless, Masked-God was not a god to be trifled with, mercurial and unknowable and capricious and terrible and prone to fits of pique, having taken the name of the Thirteenth Arcana for Its trespass against Zeroth, having stricken from all memory the name of Death Itself.
Once far enough away, Baethen let slip his own mask of humanity and assumed the form of something not of this world. The transformation was limited to his throat and he had to climb up a tree and hang from the limb to bring the card into play but even with these limitations, [Gullet-of-the-Sky-Gorger] was not to be underestimated.
Though Baethen could not see himself, he knew, down to the letters of his soul, the changes he¡¯d wrought. Babylon endowed all with intrinsic knowledge, with instinct, in regards to the cards in their hand¡ªthis went beyond conscious use of Omniglot, woven within Baethen¡¯s very being.
The card was within his Hand and he knew.
His throat had split in the middle, growing cerulean-scaled lips along the seams and gaping to show a space that was bigger on the inside like the belly of a great beast. Which was less of a comparison and more of an apt description. Sky-gorgers did not have digestive tracts but rather were cavernous stomachs wholesale. They were gluttony incarnate with toothless maws and gullets filled with backwards-facing barbs.
With a cinch of some imaginary muscle, Baethen brought forth a font of Akasha into being¡ªit was like a portal into some vast, sunless noon-day sky. Where Babylon¡¯s ether was a black eternity, Akasha was a blue abyss equal parts desolate and enrapturing.
Air was sucked into Baethen¡¯s worm-mouth, his labyrinthine entrails knowing no bounds and no restraint. Though it seemed to be an inhale, Baethen was actually expending his breath to bear a font of Akasha. This font was similar to that of fire which meant that it¡¯d dissipate without constantly being manifested, without a source of fuel.
At the current moment, the card could do nothing else; not without use of another card that is. First came a shower of tiny, miniscule cinders from [Cinderspark-Spit], then a steady stream of subliminal tongues of near-invisible flame from [Kindlers-Breath].
Finally, Baethen played the meld [Forge-Maw] in tandem with its constituent cards and a great gout white-hot fire poured from him, endless as the sky. He quickly discarded all his cards from the Board back into his Hand lest he end up over-drawing and dying of dehydration and suffocation but it was too late.
The world went black and when Baethen opened his eyes he was on his back on the ground below the tree he¡¯d hung from. The trunk opposite him had been so badly burnt that it¡¯d been rendered directly into alabaster ash and spread no flame.
Fire so hot that it burnt itself out and left not even a cinder behind.
The confoundment did not help the dull ache of Baethen¡¯s head having hit the ground.
¡°That¡¯s gonna leave a mark.¡± Someone said, voice distant and like that of Father¡¯s. A giggle or twelve later and Baethen realised that he¡¯d been the one to say that.
Interlude - Woodwose
Tents did not work well with the marshland of Deadman¡¯s point, worse than simply braving the cold, hard ground.
Vicious winds scoured the tower¡¯s clearing and fragile cloth could not contend against either tooth or claw. To remedy this, those with experience and affinity with the earth element of the Magus investiture, or a close enough permutation thereof, were given the temporary deck of [Earthblood-King] which allowed for terraforming under very specific circumstances that were somehow more restrictive than those of [Gullet-of-the-Sky-Gorger]. There was only one deck that was passed around the camp, rotating hands on the basis of spiritual strain.
The expedition would not delve into the Evergaol until they settled around it with walls to protect from the area¡¯s natural predators. Though Scaduphomet wouldn¡¯t waylay the tower, Her offspring most certainly would. Gehennic conjunctions didn¡¯t manifest but beasts of all kinds, monsters in their own right, called this place home long before the caravan did. Case in point: the sky-gorger, a devolved subspecies of blue-worm, had been skulking around not too long ago.
The city of Reordranhall, like all true metropolises of the Fourth Turn, had the remnant carcass of a tower long-since-plundered at their hearts. These veritable arteries of divinity warded mass Gehennic manifestations, disregarding the errant devil-cult popping up here and there, of course. A single worm in an apple spoils the bunch often enough.
Baethen got conscripted into the building efforts, taking up the [Earthblood-King] deck in his hand once a notch. Thankfully, the deck left a slot open for [Strike-While-the-Iron-is-Hot]¡¯s deadcard [Flawed-Steelheart] so Baethen wouldn¡¯t have to have a right awkward talk with the Capt¡¯n. This wasn¡¯t a ¡®true¡¯ deck as it didn¡¯t have three sets with which to condense into a singular Hand slot. Though considered lesser than a true deck, it still provided a cornerstone meld that could make or break a player¡¯s Hand.
The [Imp-of-Serpents] set, though not divisible by three, was stable enough that Baethen could discard it into his Archive without much anxiety. Card links gave a set or deck stability functioning much as would actual bindings. For every rule there was an exception, the Rule-of-Three no different.
The terraforming deck, [Earthblood-King], was worth a pretty chip in and of itself; formed of nine cards total though most were only one-stars, only the meld or fusion-card proving to be made of rarer stuff, metaphysically speaking.
({Archetype}: [Prime]) Selected; {Player}¡¯s ({Hand}: [3//3]) {Drawn} as follows:
[Bones-of-the-Earth] ¡ï¡ï¡ï ({Six-Card-Set} - {Linked} [Earthblood-King] ¡ï¡ï¡ï - {Loaned})
[Wake-the-Stones] ¡ï¡ï ({Three-Card-Set} - {Linked} [Earthblood-King] ¡ï¡ï¡ï - {Loaned})
[Strike-While-the-Iron-is-Hot] ¡ï ({Three-Card-Set} - {Unlinked})
Archive:
[Imp-of-Serpents] ¡ï¡ï ({Four-Card-Set} - {Unlinked})
[Gullet-of-the-Sky-Gorger] ¡ï¡ï¡ï ({Single Card} - {Unlinked})
[Leaden-Stomach] ¡ï ({Single Card} - {Unlinked})
[Bloodfly-Husk] ¡ï ({Single Card} - {Unlinked})
[Empty-Slot]
[Empty-Slot]
The sets were a fortune to a commoner like Baethen, though he didn¡¯t even think of absconding away with them given they were property of one Captain Haviershan Bjoren. Baethen had a preference for keeping his stones still between his legs.
Which, speaking of, Baethen currently sat cross-legged with a stiff spine, stones between his legs. Though these were actual stones not testicles, though, technically¡ªwait, where was he?
Oh yeah, Baethen breathed in and then out and spoke a Word-of-Power.
¡°[Rise.]¡±
A single pillar of unbroken stone did as he told it, uplifting from the earth under the influence of the [Earthblood-King] deck. Just as quickly as it had come, the pillar cracked and fell to the dust. This little show was the first step of the deck which focused on pulling up fonts of earth. Baethen was familiarising himself with the card-chain that had been explained to him by the captain himself.
Across his lap lay a rod of dense titan-bone known as a [Petty-Femur-of-the-Eoten], a sceptre-and-stave hybrid crafted for this very deck and bound to it by a card-smith and a cartomancer to boot. Just as a card could be anchored through rune-brands to armour so could a card be given physical form so long as there was an appropriate vessel.
The mechanics of card-smithing and deck-building were rather complex, to say the least¡ given that Baethen lost himself for a moment which card he should play next.
He brought up his Tower-of-Babel within his mind¡¯s eye, the inner archive of his soul coming alive in the ideographs of Babylon-script. The strokes of each gnostic rune were ever-changing, never-still and utterly meaningless to a mortal yet conveying a deep truth of the universe all the same.
Set Loaned: [Wake-the-Stones] ¡ï¡ï
Draw: [Of-a-Kind]
Drawback: [Choke-on-Thin-Air]
Arcana: [The-Magus], [Walls], [Earth]
Number: [II//XXI]
Suit: [Triumph]
Portfolio ¦µ: [¡®Within the heart of every hillock is a bezoar, the soul of a titan long since dead so that its children may walk above the waters, undrowning¡¯. This {Card} grants the {Player} {Complete-Dominion} over the {Arcana-of-Walls}, allowing them to {Uplift} {Fonts-of-Earth} into the {Form} of {Walls} through {Word-of-Mouth} and {Blood-of-Vein}. Should the {Player} {Deal} the {Killing-Blow} to a {Child-of-Eot}, they {Incur} a {Brand-of-Shame}, thus {Sealing} the {Player}¡¯s {Word-of-Mouth}.]
[Wake-the-Stones] ¡ï¡ï ({Three-Card-Set} - {Linked} [Earthblood-King] ¡ï¡ï¡ï - {Loaned})
[The-Ground-Trembles-Underfoot] ¡ï¡ï ({Single-Card} - {Linked} [Shudderstone] ¡ï)
[Petty-Rumbling-Bezoar] ¡ï ({Single-Card} - {Linked} [Shudderstone] ¡ï¡ï)
[Lesser-Sceptre-of-Earth] ¡ï ({Single-Card} - {Linked} [Worldshatter-Scion] ¡ï¡ï)
There were far too many moving parts to the [Earthblood-King] deck.
The first part of it was the three card set [Wake-the-Stones]; [Petty-Rumbling-Bezoar] transformed a locus of earth into one of earth-blood which generated said font. Then [The-Ground-Trembles-Underfoot] allowed Baethen to loosen soil to make it easier to manipulate. Lastly, [Lesser-Sceptre-of-Earth] was a Tower investiture that was a place-holder card for bolstering arcana dominion and finishing the set as its sceptre clause required, by nature, effort and movement. The [Petty-Femur-of-the-Eoten] was unmoving in Baethen¡¯s lap, useless as a sceptre but invaluable as a magician¡¯s focus because of the next card set.
Set Loaned: [Bones-of-the-Earth] ¡ï¡ï¡ï
Draw: [Of-a-Kind]
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Drawback: [Still-as-Stone]
Arcana: [The-World], [Earth], [The-Cubic-Stone]
Number: [III//XXI]
Suit: [Back-Pocket]
Portfolio ¦µ: [¡®The mountains are the spines of giants, the first children of the Twenty-One Gods.¡¯ This {Card} grants the {Player} {Utter-Dominion} over the {Arcana-of-the-World}, allowing them {Greater-Authority} over {Fonts-of-Earth} so long as said {Fonts} are {Beneath} their {Feet} and {Contiguous}. Once this {Card} is {Brought-into-Play}, the {Player} cannot {Move} from their {Locus} either by their {Will} or that of another and cannot change {Posture} abruptly; should the previous conditions not be met, the {Player}¡¯s {Dominion} over the {Arcana-of-World} and the {Arcana-of-Earth} is {Dispelled} until the next {Hand} is {Redrawn}.]
[Bones-of-the-Earth] ¡ï¡ï¡ï ({Six-Card-Set} - {Linked} [Earthblood-King] ¡ï¡ï¡ï {Loaned})
[Lesser-Sovereign-of-Earth] ¡ï ({Single-Card} - {Linked} [Worldshatter-Scion] ¡ï¡ï)
[Lesser-Crown-of-the-World] ¡ï¡ï ({Single-Card} - {Linked} [Worldshatter-Scion] ¡ï¡ï)
[Inchoate-Giants-Blood] ¡ï ({Single-Card} - {Linked} [Lesser-Trull-Skin] ¡ï)
[Petty-Femur-of-the-Eoten] ¡ï ({Single-Card} - {Linked} [Lesser-Trull-Skin] ¡ï)
[Lesser-Self-Petrification] ¡ï ({Single-Card} - {Linked} [Clouded-Gemstone-Chrysalis] ¡ï¡ï)
[Inferior-Become-One-with-Earth] ¡ï¡ï ({Single-Card} - {Linked} [Clouded-Gemstone-Chrysalis] ¡ï¡ï)
Unlike the last set, this one had linked cards. Just as you could bind together cards to form a set, you could link them within a set¡ªmelds like [Parlour-Tricks] and [Forge-Maw] as prime examples thereof. These were, generally, holdovers from previous sets subsumed into the whole. Were Baethen to spontaneously merge [Imp-of-Serpents] with [Strike-While-the-Iron-is-Hot] into a single set without forming a proper deck, the two antecedent melds would disappear and be replaced with card links as with the case of [Bones-of-the-Earth] myriad melds.
The problem with card links was that they could only be played so long as their two constituent cards were also put into play. To invoke the card link [Clouded-Gemstone-Chrysalis], Baethen had to also do the same to [Inferior-Become-One-with-Earth] and [Lesser-Self-Petrification].
The card names were self-evident. They turned the player into stone to boost their dominion over earth-related arcana. The first merged the body with a compatible earth loci while the second petrified the superficial layer of one¡¯s skin. The card link of [Clouded-Gemstone-Chrysalis] crystalised the heart into a clouded ruby, allowing it to channel earth-blood directly rather than through [Petty-Rumbling-Bezoar] as an intermediary. Though, using both was best.
[Inchoate-Giants-Blood] imbued the body directly with a font of earth-blood and was useless by itself were it not for [Petty-Rumbling-Bezoar] though they weren¡¯t linked. That honour went to [Petty-Femur-of-the-Eoten] to produce the meld [Lesser-Trull-Skin] which protected against wind, cold, and the elements in general. Without it, the deck would suffer greatly as it required long periods of exposure that would otherwise harm the player.
Lastly, [Lesser-Sovereign-of-Earth] and [Lesser-Crown-of-the-World] were the capstones of the deck and allowed it to function without requiring movement or physical effort from the player. Their meld, [Worldshatter-Scion], was of the one-at-dice suite and could essentially strike a clause from a given card under the same set.
Now, you might be thinking: ¡®wait a thrice-damned lick, [Bones-of-the-Earth] and [Wake-the-Stones] are two different sets!¡¯ And they are but, as we¡¯ve already established beforehand, cards can be linked. And so can sets.
Deck Loaned: [Earthblood-King] ¡ï¡ï¡ï
Draw: [Of-a-Kind]
Drawback: [Mountains-Fear-the-Seas]
Arcana: [The-World], [Earth], [The-Emperor]
Number: [III//XXI]
Suit: [Triumph]
Portfolio ¦µ: [¡®After the titans came the lesser giants, first the eoten which feared water, then the trullkin whose bane was fire, second before last were the dwarves which from the sky ran and lastly the betrayer leviathans that within the oceans swam¡¯. This {Deck} grants the {Player} with {Utter-Dominion} over the {Arcana-of-the-Emperor}, allowing them to {Embody} the {Essence} of the {Children-of-Eot} so long as a {Card} of the {Deck} is in {Play}. Should the {Player} come in {Touch} with {Bodies-of-Water}, they will begin to {Dissolve} like {Salt-Thrown-into-the-Sea}.]
A deck can be formed under two conditions and two conditions only: it must either have eight cards and two sets minimum or it must have three sets and six cards minimum. The former was the only way to trump the Rule-of-Three without incurring a rivening. Neither of these conditions guaranteed the formation of a true deck.
[Earthblood-King] was a false or half-step deck formed of only two sets and thus taking up two slots within the hand. Though seemingly worse in all aspects, most players tended to manifest halfborn decks such as these given the price of cards¡ªtokens that could be better spent on drink, tail, food, lodgings and the like for your average commoner.
Once more, Baethen spoke, this time calling upon the capstone namesake of the deck and bringing it into play. His skin became a hide of impervious stone as a crown of topographical horns grew from his skull. His eyes were the lambent red of magma and his lips were sealed together. His bones and veins meshed with the ground beneath him, becoming one with the earth and drawing from it so that he¡¯d a mountain be.
To speak was a gargantuan effort now for the earth only spoke when it shuddered and when it rumbled. But when next Baethen spoke a Word, the very world trembled.
¡°[Rise.]¡±
And the slumbering bones of the giants felled so that this piece of land was risen from the sea, answered, long fingers grasping upwards to become walls twice as tall and twice as wide as Baethen himself.
When Baethen discarded the cards brought into play, he heaved a breathless breath, his lungs burning something fierce and his chest aching as if his heart weighed the same as a millstone. Temporary decks such as these were dangerous for they were not made by the player, not harmonised to the song of the soul and so discordant within one¡¯s fragment of Babylon.
Only after letting go of the deck did Baethen realise: a whole day had passed for mountains kept time at the scale of aeons.
Baethen gave the loaned deck [Earthblood-King] to the schmuck on next watch and retreated to the earth-shod abode he shared with Miro. He did not like the way that the others had begun to treat him once his relationship was found out. They bemoaned that he was getting special treatment as Miro¡¯s lover.
They were only right in so far as it mattered past the house¡¯s threshold. Outside, the rations and rules and work held sway.
Baethen caught Miro by the central fire-pit, journaling. Past a certain point, deck-building became an inner journey of self-discovery. It required stunds upon stunds of introspection and reflection, meditating both on the nature of one¡¯s cards and their place in the world. The arcana were so named for they were arcane¡ªhidden and waiting to be found.
With a pat on the shoulder, Baethen sat down next to Miro.
¡°Ye stink. Take a bath or I¡¯ll throw ye out to the wilds, ye strangely-handsome woodwose.¡±
¡°Har-har. You slept with me for a whole round without either of us having access to regular baths. You¡¯ll survive another stund for me to recover from today.¡±
Miro grumbled, sighed, bound his journal in its leather and then laid next to Baethen on the carpet before the fire-pit.
¡°How¡¯s ye progress with your set fusion?¡± He asked with the nasally-voice of someone pinching their nose.
¡°Terrible. Feels like I¡¯m running in circles. Maybe you were right. [Mercurial-Inksmith] really doesn¡¯t like to play nice with the other cards.¡±
¡°Ye must be the blackest of melancholies to acknowledge the greatness of me never-ending wisdom.¡± The veteran adventurer had taken to Baethen¡¯s particular blend of sardonic-melodramatic humour right quick.
Still looking up at the loft, Baethen grasped towards Miro and smacked him playfully on the belly before laying down his hand and caressing his well-muscled gut.
¡°Shush, you.¡±
A moment of quiet later and Miro said: ¡°Know just what¡¯ll help get yer spirits up.¡±
Just as Miro untied Baethen¡¯s breeches and got them around his ankles, he winced and covered his nose.
¡°Sorry but I ain¡¯t sucking ye off until ye wash. That hide o¡¯ yers smells worse than a trull.¡±
¡°I smell exactly like a trull.¡±
¡°Earthblood?¡±
¡°Earthblood.¡±
Miro got up and drew Baethen a bath which meant lugging buckets from the well to the trough they had at the back of the house. Roughshod as the burgeoning settlement of Deadman¡¯s-Point was, the water was cold as the Devil¡¯s-Tits; the mountain on the west side of the Isle-of-Woeden that rose from the sea and had drowned many a sailor against its rocky shores.
When next Miro returned, Baethen thanked him and went to wash away the day.
X - The Wheel E’er-Turning
Baethen had drawn his Hand, been dealt his cards and not discarded the fruit of the poison tree; and so he toiled in the round afore him and his breached the Evergaol to pillage it of everything it was worth. Afore they did battle with Nine-Alunariat¡¯s angels of darkness and the god-blooded gargantuan spawn of Twenty-One-Eot and other holy horrors beyond human imagination.
It was a dire thing to keep himself from venturing forth alone, a leash around the throat of his reckless spirit, to beat iron into steel when gold and blackest alabaster lay but a span before him within reach.
Dull, repetitive, meditative work consumed him, hearkening back to a time in which Reordran¡¯s walls imprisoned Baethen within the dreary drudgery of a boring life.
His hammer struck the anvil in the staccato rhythm famous to every smithy; the momentum conserved and brought forth to the next. A cycle, on and on, the body in motion and toil but the mind still. He played the cards from his two discrete sets interchangeably and simultaneously.
He didn¡¯t think, didn¡¯t contemplate; tired and numb, fire in his veins and smoke in the bellows of his lungs, dumb and young, sweat on his brow stinging his eyes blind. There was nothing special in that moment other than its utter simplicity. A lifetime later, Baethen would understand that was why it happened¡ªthat in trying too hard at something sometimes undermines your very chance at getting it in the first place. Overcomplication and navel-gazing deluded the mind into thinking that every answer begets complexity and reason.
Sometimes, the world just is and you needn¡¯t trip over yourself to get a chance to see it. The hammer came down and the world disappeared.
Hearken, the [Dealer-of-Fate] stirs awake! As {Eldest}, [Fata-Morgana] takes {Rearhand} as {Dealer}.
Scouring [Akashic-Archive] for compatible {Arcanum-Deck} [¡]
Compatible {Arcanum-Deck} found; shuffling probabilities set to base one over mean [¡]
Shuffle complete, [Three-of-a-Kind] {Sets} {Drawn}; please select {Three} {Cards} to form a {Set}.
*Selections are final; results are blind; only {One} {Card} of each {Set} may be selected. Should a {Set} not be formed in the {Allotted-Time} of {Ten-Licks}, a {Set} will be selected at random.
? Set I: [Stay-the-Course], [Covet-the-Red-Dragon], [Renounce-the-Devil]
? Set II: [The-Crucible], [Justice], [Strength]
? Set III: [Death], [The-Charlatan], [The-Dog-Star]
Starting from the bottom and going up, Baethen first picked [Death]; Nagalfaram, Boatswain-of-the-Gods whose boat Maraflagan was wrought of the toenails of the dead. Crows deposited souls of the departed upon the shores of the ether so that they may be ferried by the Nameless Merchant-of-Death to their next life. Though it might seem that Nagalfaram had a name¡ªnamely, Nagalfaram¡ªthis was merely an anagram of the Boat-of-the-Damned to make it easier for mortals to speak of That-Which-Has-No-Name, the Thirteenth-God.
Technically, Nagalfaram was two entities; the Boat proper fell under the Unnamed Thirteenth while the Boatswain took after the Twentieth-Major-Arcana-of-Judgement¡ªthe Inquisition¡¯s patron-deity, the object of worship for every black justiciar or witch-hunter; the anathema of every worm-tongued warlock, that which even worshippers of fear, in turn, feared.
Cosmogeny and metaphysics was never one of Baethen¡¯s strong suits so he simply ignored the theological connotations of the God-Split-in-Two and focused on the more worldly consequences.
The arcana of the Nameless-God was not forbidden. So long as the card didn¡¯t trespass upon Taboo, Thievery, Murder, or Pox, accepting the arcana of death into your soul was no sin. All mortals were destined to die and this was holy for the cycle of souls was conceived of by the Twenty-One Themselves.
Next, owing to what he happened to be doing at the time, Baethen chose [The-Crucible]; this third-order arcana¡ªwrought of fire, air, earth and mercury¡ªwas of the lineage of the Tower but under the investiture of the Magus. To say the least of it, the relationship of the various arcana was revoltingly complex and granular; less a divine tapestry of so many threads and more a gigantic mess of tangles of Creation¡¯s many parents.
Last and finally, came the first set; it was always bound to be the broad strokes. If Baethen were stupid, he¡¯d pick [Covet-the-Red-Dragon] for a faster taste at real power¡ªit was a close one, too. If he was smart, he¡¯d pick [Renounce-the-Devil] to ward off Scaduphomet¡¯s arcana and most permutations of the Chariot from encroaching on the deck¡ªtoo sensible for a fool.
He wasn¡¯t stupid and he wasn¡¯t smart. Fool that he was, Baethen just couldn¡¯t rightly choose between the two. He did not plan on selling his soul but neither did he want to bend over backwards before the Twenty-One Churches. It wasn¡¯t just defiance or the buckling of authority; it was the discomfort borne of not having choice.
Another leash on the throat of his reckless spirit, choking the life of him from the inside-out; another of a long line of perceived slights that the world had wrought upon him, shackled on the yoke of his fate as ordained by Fata-Morgana the Wheel E¡¯er-Turning.
And when neither choice was right, Baethen picked neither.
{Hand} chosen as follows:
? [Stay-the-Course]
? [The-Crucible]
? [Death]
Fusing {Arcanum} into {Set}; please wait [...]
Deck Formed: [Cycle-of-the-Crucible] ¡ï¡ï
Draw: [Of-a-Kind]
Drawback: [Red-Hot-Iron]
Arcana: [The-Wheel], [The-Crucible], [Death]
Number: [XIII//XVI]
Suit: [Sleight-of-Hand]
Portfolio ¦µ: [¡®The black seed planted within the red earth shall bloom into a flower of resplendent gold¡¯. This {Deck} grants the {Player} {Major-Dominion} over the {Arcana-of-the-Crucible}, allowing them to {Condense}, {Melt}, {Harden}, or {Soften} a {Font-of-Mercury} through {Act-of-Body} via a {Strike} so long as it is {Red-Hot} and in {Touch} with a {Sceptre} held in {Thrall-of-Arm}; as a contra, {Player} may {Convert} {Fonts-of-Mercury} into {Lead-Tokens} or {Vice-Versa} through the aforementioned {Strike}. Once this {Card} is {Brought-Into-Play}, {Fonts-of-Mercury} in {Touch} with the {Player} through a {Medium} thereof held in {Thrall-of-Arm}, will begin to rapidly cool through {Dissolution}.]
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[Imp-of-Serpents] ¡ï¡ï ({Four-Card-Set - {Linked} [Cycle-of-the-Crucible] ¡ï¡ï)
[Lesser-Juggler-of-Fire] ¡ï ({Single-Card} - {Linked} [Parlour-Tricks] ¡ï)
[Lesser-Narguile-of-Night] ¡ï({Single-Card} - {Linked} [Parlour-Tricks]¡ï)
[Cinderspark-Spit] ¡ï ({Single-Card} - {Linked} [Forge-Maw]¡ï¡ï)
[Kindlers-Breath] ¡ï¡ï ({Single-Card} - {Linked} [Forge-Maw]¡ï¡ï)
[Strike-While-the-Iron-is-Hot] ¡ï¡ï ({Four-Card-Set} - {Linked} [Cycle-of-the-Crucible] ¡ï¡ï)
[Slag-and-Scale] ¡ï¡ï ({Single-Card} - {Linked} [Lesser-Wormhide] ¡ï¡ï)
[Flawed-Steelheart] ¡ï ({Single-Card} - {Linked} [Lesser-Wormhide] ¡ï¡ï)
[Run-Like-the-Wind] ¡ï ({Single-Card} - {Linked} [Scarwright] ¡ï¡ï)
[Mercurial-Inksmith] ¡ï¡ï¡ï ({Single-Card} - {Linked} [Scarwright] ¡ï¡ï)
Meld Linked: [Scarwright] ¡ï¡ï
Draw: [Three-of-a-Kind]
Drawback: [Stigmata-Mundi]
Arcana: [The-Hanged-Man], [The-Dog-Star], [The-Reverse-Pillar]
Number: [XIII//XXI]
Suit: [Back-Pocket]
Portfolio ¦µ: [¡®Yurnmagog, World-Shadow, bears the weight of Eot the World through Irmin-S?l the thousand-thousand-thousand-notched World-PIllar¡¯. This {Meld} grants the {Player} {Minor-Dominion} over the {Arcana-of-Scars}, allowing them to {Reverse} their {Scars} into {Fonts-of-Howling-Wind} so long as they are {Struck} upon said {Scars} by that which {Incurred} them in the first place. After this {Meld} is {Brought-Into-Play}, the {Player}¡¯s {Cast-Shadows} {Incur} a {Brand-of-Sloth} which will {Enburden} them for every {Scar} {Reversed} through this {Meld}.]
[Scarwright] was similar to [Flawed-Steelheart], both being considered deadcards due to their strick and downright difficult playability; where they differed was that the newest meld was, specifically, a god-debt or burden card. These could be ameliorated by the clergy, the holy cartomancers of Hsarash the Fourteenth-Major-Arcana-of-Equanimity able to rebalance the scales that such a card weighed upon. A few silver tokens tithed on a
The [Scarwright] meld wasn¡¯t near pernicious enough to be considered a cursed card and Baethen was rather satisfied with the draw. He¡¯d only manifested it through a particular confluence of events¡ªhis living by the burnt skin of his teeth, his mentoring by another player with the arcana of scars, and blind luck courtesy of Fata-Morgana Herself. Fate had seen to deal him this Hand and he was not disappointed.
({Archetype}: [Prime]) Selected; {Player}¡¯s ({Hand}: [3//3]) {Drawn} as follows:
[Imp-of-Serpents] ¡ï¡ï ({Four-Card-Set} - {Linked} [Cycle-of-the-Crucible] ¡ï¡ï)
Strike-While-the-Iron-is-Hot] ¡ï¡ï ({Four-Card-Set} - {Linked} [Cycle-of-the-Crucible] ¡ï¡ï)
[Gullet-of-the-Sky-Gorger] ¡ï¡ï¡ï ({Single-Card} - {Unlinked})
The deck was a bastard one, taking up two slots within the hand for its lack of a third set. Still, the deck link alone had been worth it as it would allow Baethen to stockpile fonts of mercury within his soul¡ªhis Tabula, specifically¡ªin the form of leaden tokens.
{Player}¡¯s {Tabula} {Read} as follows:
{60} ? [Lead-Tokens] ¡ï ({Portent}: [The-Black-Star])
{40} ? [Copper-Tokens] ¡ï ({Portent}: [The-Morning-Star])
{36} ? [Tin-Tokens] ¡ï ({Portent}: [The-Lode-Star])
{22} ? [Bronze-Tokens] ¡ï ({Portent}: [The-Burning-Star])
{13} ? [Iron-Tokens] ¡ï ({Portent}: [The-Cold-Star])
{23} ? [Damascene-Tokens] ¡ï¡ï ({Portent}: [The-Water-Star])
{10} ? [Silver-Tokens] ¡ï¡ï ({Portent}: [The-Weeping-Star])
{0} ? [Gold-Tokens] ¡ï¡ï ({Portent}: [The-Drought-Star])
{0} ? [Electrum-Tokens] ¡ï¡ï¡ï ({Portent}: [The-Dog-Star])
{0} ? [Platinum-Tokens] ¡ï¡ï¡ï ({Portent}: [The-Virgin-Star])
{0} ? [Byzantium-Tokens] ¡ï¡ï¡ï¡ï ({Portent}: [The-Evening-Star])
{0} ? [Black-Alabaster-Tokens] ¡ï¡ï¡ï¡ï¡ï ({Portent}: [The-Halcyon-Star])
Each token had its own cast-metal and portentous star; the former denoted its rank upon the [Tabula] whilst the latter told tale of its birth. Each had an animal of omen and a patron deity; a sign of Earth rather than one of Heaven, a major arcana in the wake of its shadow.
Lead-tokens were found within the mouths of the dead or scattered without the war-barrows of battlefields where forgotten armies had shed blood and life, thus attracting the Nameless Death-God to roost thereupon or the ruins of bygone ages whence men once lived but no longer are.
Every ominous pass of the black-star Cepheus in the firmament of night was a sign that the God-of-Crows-and-Burials either would or already had flown by to repay the death-obols of those that had passed the threshold; just as Nagalfaram took tithes so that souls might remember their past incarnations, the Thirteenth-God gave back in worthless, heavy lead. These tokens were useful in but the construction of aqueducts or as weights for Hsarashian scales that could so weigh other chips of higher denomination. The only true demand for these tokens was for the making of chains and the like¡ªnot even the greediest of merchants accepted them for barter. Smiths might use some for their prentice¡¯s practice.
Which, speak of the Devil and She shall appear, Baethen took a handful of leaden tokens from his empty pockets and laid them atop the anvil. Tokens occupied a strange metaphysical space reminiscent of one¡¯s Hand but nowhere near as personal or even secure¡ªHangman cards could steal chips much easier than, say, cards themselves. To remove a chip from your own Tabula, you needed to use either sleight-of-hand or a coin-purse with which to trick the world so that it may believe in the lie and thus see it as truth. This aspect of the Game-of-the-Gods took after Balphas the Magus and Alunariat the Hermit for trickery applied to both charlatans and magicians.
First, Baethen heated up the pile of tokens with his cards until they glowed a lambent-red and then, with a quick strike of [Cycle-of-the-Crucible], he turned useless lead into a font of mercury. The resultant lump of amalgam was an ugly and wretched thing but it may as well have been a divine idol of beauty because Baethen felt like he could weep.
The conversion rate was twelve tokens for every fist-sized stone of metal. The font was impure, wrought mostly of lead which was actually good for what uses Baethen envisioned. Were the transmuted fonts pure without traces of iron, copper, tin and the like, the arcana of his cards would not have such a tight foothold or perhaps at all¡ªpure, alchemical metal was hard to come by for reason of price as spell reagents did not come cheap.
From what Baethen had been taught, one¡¯s arcana was the intermediary between one¡¯s will and the world. Your soul was the weight put on one side of the lever, the world upon the opposing contra with the arcana as the lever itself. The fulcrum upon which the whole contraption balanced was one¡¯s arcanum and cards, serving as a foundation, so to speak. Willpower could be leveraged to make one¡¯s soul ¡®weigh¡¯ heavier temporarily and thus heighten a card¡¯s effect upon the world while a weak arcana meant a tenuous lever which could not support as much metaphysical weight no matter how much spirit one exerted upon the contraption.
Overuse or straining of low-parity cards could, for example, incur rivening at worst or backlash at best. The last had happened to Baethen, burning his tongue down to its roots. Though cards could be tricked into performing outside of their clauses by reading in between the aforementioned lines, to do so was to tempt Fate, as it were.
The arcana of mercury, by its nature, was one of impurity and amalgamation. It could not interface as readily with metallic fonts of increasing purity when compared to, say, scrap metal. Besides, [Slag-and-Scale] as a card, was quite the spendthrift¡ªits expenditure clause consumed fonts rather quick.
With all this in mind, Baethen returned to his duties at the forge, a legion of ideas, dangerous and bold, fomenting in the back of his skull.
XI - Just Die
Excitement sent Baethen¡¯s little hairs on edge, his heart pounding the steady trot of a horse about to buck and his knuckles white on his weapon¡¯s haft.
There, just within his line of sight, lay Rimare-Tul, indolent and gorged on riches to be taken. Coins to be plundered, cards to be won, and relics to be unearthed. He¡¯d waited and waited with bated breath until all was right in the encampment around the Evergaol, an increasing anticipation building in his gut like lightning about to strike.
It was like a cup of pure, sweetest water being ever so slowly spilled into the dreadsea in front of you while thirst filled your mouth with salted cotton. Maddening, to say the least of it for when the Gods made Baethen They did not deign to put even a lick of patience within him.
To keep his mind from wandering too dangerously into fantasies of rushing alone into the tower, Baethen had reforged himself a new set of platescale with the remnant metal of the old. The armour was wrought of overlapping lamina in the manner of chitin¡ªhe¡¯d made a cast of a dread-knight¡¯s exoskeleton just before it sublimated into noxious fumes and then poured molten amalgam of iron and lead inside. The rest had been carving himself a space to fit within it, then breaking the cast into sections and welding it back together patchwork-like.
Beyond the corruscating growth of scales on the left side, the helmet seemed to look entirely smooth without a single hole with which to see through but that was just on first blush. With a finer and more discerning eye you could spot the darker colour where the eyes, mouth and nose were to be. Baethen had punched through a thousand-thousand little holes with aid of his cards so that it was more akin to a mesh than solid plate.
The act of putting on the helmet was like donning a second skin, the armour fit exactly to his proportions such that he could do it without aid; he¡¯d not told Miro this as any excuse to get him to put his hands all over Baethen so as to ¡®help¡¯ equip the platescale was well worth it.
As the second and last secret, Baethen had nailed hollow spikes of steel into his flesh at regular intervals along his back, connecting himself viscerally to the now-living suit of armour. Though gnarly, the pain had receded right quick; the wounds would not sour nor succumb to mundane rot due to the {Living-Font-of-Iron} in place of his heart.
[Flawed-Steelheart] suckled upon the embedded thorns as his very lifeblood was now imbued with the font of amalgam; a corollary to the arcana of mercury proper. The armour was not merely a second skin in metaphor but also in praxis: man and metal made one.
Baethen could draw from his blood strength to empower his sorceries or feed upon the metallic shell that ensconced him to return strength to himself¡ªthe flesh-warping card fended-off hunger and thirst as well which would do him good should this first foray into the Evergaol prove long.
Beyond the augmented defence, Baethen had also bolstered his offence, modifying his weapon into something more.
The ivory haft was wrought of the bone of a behemoth-blooded beast, given to him by his mentor Big Yldira. It had been passed down for generations through the apprentice-master line though now it was directly responsible for culling devil-spawn rather than indirectly forging that which would fell the forces of Gehenna.
Most often, Baethen had taken to simply wrapping a hammer¡¯s head around the haft and wielding it as a sceptre or stave but he¡¯d realised quick enough that he could do more with the cards in his Hand. He¡¯d used the ivory as the core of his new weapon, forging a second skin around it just like he¡¯d done with himself, moulding it into a long pole tipped with a partisan blade.
The sword-spear was heavy and long but [Flawed-Steelheart] did more than its portfolio foretold. The [Red-Hot] drawback was one that could be fooled¡ªwith his blood red like fresh iron taken from the forge and him hot-blooded and infused with a metallic font, Baethen could well manipulate it no different than a lambent lump of molten slag.
Interpretation of a card¡¯s clauses could transform a dead-card into a trump-card.
Mostly, Baethen was limited to augmenting his strength and the durability of his bones and not much else but it could contend well enough against his sword-spear¡¯s daunting weight. With raw power and brawn taken care of, all that was left was actual skill with the new weapon and that Baethen did lack even after all his sparring with Tratvgar.
He was used to just smacking monsters upside the head¡ªa whole lot easier than worrying about footwork and different cuts and blocks and stances and whatnot. Baethen¡¯s forte had always been brute force and displays of might; he resorted to skullduggery only now and again when the fancy struck him.
At the break of dawn, the expedition congregated in front of the akashic tower like ants around the carcass of a fallen god.
The cubic stone of blackest alabaster at the base of the Evergaol was a divine relic of a bygone age¡ªthe deific dice used by the Gods Themselves so that they might play upon the Board-of-the-World for even gods fear the atrophy of boredom. Cartomantic imagery and gnostic-glyphes cavorted in equal measure, the tip of Rimare-Tul balancing precariously at the centre-point of the cube¡¯s skyward face.
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Baethen, Tratvgar and some other foolish lads had sneaked out in the night to attempt to push the tower over and, thankfully, the stories of eld held true. No matter the strength, the Evergaol could not be tipped over like old oxen.
Those that would assail the tower were as follows in order of seniority and rank: Cap¡¯n Haviershan, Lieutenant Escoriot, Ensign Lacariah, Field-Sergeant Narancan, Footman Baethen, and Footman Tratvgar. Though the last two occupied the same rung, Baethen took the lead, possessing a heavier Hand than Tratvgar and having survived a four-star beast. They¡¯d measured the weight of their souls by using a set of Hsarashian scales, placing their mitts on opposite sides and seeing which went the lowest.
Miro would not be joining them nor would any other budding paramours¡ªTratvgar had courted a markswoman by name of Malandra while the Lieutenant spent his days with Footman Uldryrm and his nights with Footwoman Galthana. Ensign Lacariah and Field-Ser Narancan both had spouses back behind Reordran¡¯s walls. Captain Haviershan himself took no husband nor wife or even bedfellow.
Mixing love and war did not end well.
¡°I¡¯m not one for grandstanding or big words.¡± Said the Cap¡¯n as he stroked his beard, the bluish tint of his runebranded armour porphyric against the morning like one great big bruise. ¡°We¡¯ve gots ourselves a job to do and by the Dice, we¡¯ll do it right and return alive. Should the worst come to happen and we land on snake-eyes, pour out some liquor by the stone in our names.¡±
Haviershan patted the cubic stone as if it were a consternate-but-well-loved field ox.
¡°Then come and kick this place upside its stones and avenge us by getting fat and rich. May the Dice always roll in your favour.¡±
¡°May the die be just and fair.¡± The remaining caravan hearkened back and then Lazarra stepped forward. She placed both hands before the cubic stone, uttered a wordless prayer to the Moon-God and then nodded towards those that would brave the tower.
First when Haviershan, touching a single finger against the black alabaster. Two different realities unravelled before them, simultaneously; one where the Captain¡¯s form became a shallow image like a reflection upon stillwater, subsequently riven into a thousand-thousand-thousand infinitesimal mirror-glass shards that sublimated into nothingness, and another where the Captain was never there at all, evaporated into the ether without even the barest echo of a trace.
The two realities collapsed into one singular fate and Haviershan was gone, stolen away into Babylon. Only his shadow remained, stamped upon one side of the deific die, the gnostic-glyphs retreating so as to limn his silhouette in Omniglot; only six could enter into an Evergaol and no more. Should any of them die, their shadow would disappear from the cubic stone, leaving behind a single card from their decks to remember them by. The rest would be returned to the waters-of-Hypnagogia.
One by one, they entered in order of seniority until only the two footmen were left. Baethen nodded towards the die and let Tratvgar go in his place; though he¡¯d been eager to enter, when his time came, Baethen wanted to savour it.
It was difficult to describe. Fool that he was, Baethen had an instinct to caress the black alabaster like a forgotten memory of something once familiar. He wanted to reminisce about something yet to happen.
The d¨¦j¨¤ vu was the strangest thing he¡¯d ever felt¡ªa word on the tip of his soul¡¯s tongue, a remembrance buried deeper than marrow, a grain amidst the sands heavier than the entire desert.
Black alabaster was cool to the touch but not truly cold nor frigid though it numbed the skin on contact. It did not freeze over with hoarfrost, even exposed to the elements as it was. It did not chip, nor shatter, nor pit through the ?ons though its texture was a sempiternal of rough-hewn stone. Stricken with striations of shimmering ivory drowning in a sea of ebony, this was the very fundament that held up existence from the waters of the all-nothing.
Irmin-S?l, the World-Pillar was wrought of it, Eot¡¯s very bones; the Hangman Yurnmagog dwelt in its shadow while Gwynedd-Sol drank of its light, Hsarash born of the equanimity between both.
Baethen laid his palm flat against the gargantuan knuckle-bones, the deific die. The lines of script bending in ways beyond mortal ken, a doorway opened before him like serpents fearing the wrath of the Mother.
Once the entire face of the die was black with nought even a single damascene vein of white, Baethen stared into the void. His reflection stared back, alone in the dark ether of Babylon. His hand gripped his own and pulled him into the House-of-the-Gods.
Baethen fell and fell and fell until he didn¡¯t.
Suddenly, like Gwynedd speaking light into being with the Second Word, Baethen found himself on his feet, staring out into a world both so much like his own yet undeniably other.
Rather than blue, the leaves were rustled a vivid scarlet against trunks like bones, marrow-sap bleeding where the smooth bark was rent asunder. The earth was a barren waste of black sand and basalt while the sky was a sulphurous-yellow that reeked of rotten eggs and burnt hair. Whatever sun this Hel had was hidden behind a swirling maelstr?m.
Strange how such a large place could be held within such a comparatively-small tower.
Looking around his immediate vicinity, Baethen realised they¡¯d all alighted upon the same ruins dedicated to some forgotten godling or another. A great altar lay fallen over by the monolith of black alabaster that marked the location as the gateway¡ªthe only safe place they¡¯d find for some time, he reckoned. It would protect them from the worst of the Gehennic manifestations.
Right quick, they set up a camp around the mirror-smooth monolith. It would remain open for exactly a day since the first man entered the Evergaol and then close; by then, the group of adventurers would need to find another altar as this one¡¯s protection would cease to ward-off devils and imps¡ªhallow-lanterns would only be lit as a last resort as they did not come cheap, being made by players with [Hierophant] cards and the like.
Night did not fall upon this floor of the akashic tower, lending a liminal and surreal quality to the foreign land; rather, the shadows of the trees deepened, seeming to become pitfalls filled with red, predatory eyes at the edges of one¡¯s vision.
And so, they ventured out, questing after the next waystone.
XII - Gallows Humour
Baethen used his sword-spear much as a stave, putting his weight on it to navigate the treacherous terrain¡ªthe land was as much a foe as the devils and angels that they¡¯d soon encounter. The ground was pockmarked as if with the burrows; a disease which afflicted its victims with deep, gaping spiralform sores that incubated bloodflies.
There was a reason [Bloodfly-Husk] was so cheap for a panacea-card.
The cadre¡¯s formation put Baethen at the front with Haviershan; Escoriot and Lacariah at the mid right and left, respectively; Tratvgar at the middle with Narancan at their backs, guarding against any that might waylay them.
Rather than festering darkness, it was the blinding light that forewarned them of coming danger. There, beyond the clouds, were blazing eyes of fire. Death descended on the red wings of vultures, the harpy angels of Yurnmagog the Hanged-God seeking to slake their thirst on the cadre¡¯s blood.
¡°Ignore the tits, lads and laddies¡ªthese ones aren¡¯t here for a lay.¡± And then Haviershan was pulling out a clockwork boltcaster from its holster; a Nezarri weapon, the boltcaster was a thing of mechanical beauty and it sang like thunder. For every clap, a harpy fell to the earth, limbless and limp, grotesque falling stars.
Baethen threw a pile of lead chips into the air and, with his lips forming a tight funnel, blew out a plume of white flame and then struck it with his sceptre. Quicksilver and brimstone rained upon the swooping angels, their feathers sizzling before the onslaught as metal weighed them down.
Tratvgar added his own missiles to the salvo, the rest of the cadre ready to defend their ranged attackers. Narancan, Lacariah, and Escoriot were pure melee fighters with decks that provided them with little options in regards to distance.
A harpy, her blood-slick flesh bare and her talons wicked, stole upon Narancan unawares¡ªthere were simply too many of them and more coming. The terrain, though difficult footing, was a bulwark against coordinated swoops as the red boughs proved shield enough.
¡°Escoriot, shields up.¡± The Cap¡¯n commanded. ¡°We fight a retreat there¡ªmore cover.¡±
The shield-warden brandished his sigil-etched sceptre and conjured a dome of outward pressure around the cadre. The arcana of protection formless nothing into a ward that beggared the toughest steel; it would last for as long as Escoriot held his breath.
Quickly, the harpies began to pile onto the dome through sheer instinct, clawing at it with desperation that only cornered animals could invoke. Unfortunately, Escoriot¡¯s card-set had the [Heavy-is-the-Head] drawback, transferring the weight of their foes upon his temples.
A quarter of the way towards the thicker cover, Escoriot cried out, unable to handle the combined mass of so many foes. By then, Baethen had set up the shield-disk card-chain, spinning around his blood-soaked sword-spear into a great wheel. It proved near enough to see them to the better terrain, the burning slag and red-hot amalgam warding off the worst of the harpies like a flame before the wolves.
Underneath the second skin of metal, Baethen was clad in wormscale from his fingertips to his elbow, augmenting his grasp over the arcana of fire. He felt the {Brand-of-Wrath} stamp itself upon his mind¡¯s eye like its namesake, a burning wound on his soul, stoking all that made Baethen a savage. He almost gave in to the bloodlust, almost let go of the shield, the one and only protection between his comrades and winged death.
He wanted to rip and tear the beasts apart by hand, to exult in sheer dominance and unbridled power over the lesser. All men, independent of what was between their legs, had this seed of ruin within them; the desire to destroy for no other reason than to dance amidst the ashes.
And then they were under the thicker canopy and Baethen let go of the [Lesser-Wormhide] meld. The metamorphosis of his left arm would keep until the brand subsided but it would not otherwise worsen like a wound going sour. The letting go of anger was much like coming to after climax¡ªdisoriented, vulnerable, and a tad ashamed after the exhilaration had run its course, Baethen saw the fruits of his labour: Escoriot, Tratvgar, and Haviershan yet lived, bleeding from their many nicks and breathing ragged breaths from the uphill sprint but alive all the same.
Under the auspices of the scarlet leaves, the cadre needed not fear an attack from all directions. The canopy functioned much like the many murder-tunnels within a king¡¯s keep, funnelling enemies so that they might become manageable. With the tighter quarters, Narancan and Lacariah showed their worth.
The latter was a swordswoman, wielding a greatsword that was less a blade and more a lump of iron like raw ore sharpened to a dull edge. She swung like it weighed nothing, breaking bones and shattering harpies like an ox within a potter¡¯s shop. Her cards allowed her to manipulate the sword¡¯s momentum regardless of inertia; this way, her long, unwieldy weapon was not so but instead an implement of brutal and exacting precision. Lacariah¡¯s weakness lay in her inability to influence anything not within {Thrall-of-Arm} due to the {The-Sword-Itself} drawback. The moment anything left her hands, it ceased to be considered a {Sword} by her cards; the opposite of Baethen¡¯s suite that allowed more versatility in his choice of arcane focus and how he wielded it.
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Narancan, the former, was a whirling blur of daggers wrought from his own blackened fingertips. They shot out from his hands like a crossbow¡¯s bolts, supplying him with an endless arsenal of purpose-made weapons. A talon-sickle for decapitation, a rapier-like needle for piercing hearts, and a shiv for the bellies of the harpies. Laid within every wound were the sharp-though-brittle fragments of his frostbitten fingers, festering with a gut-gnawing numbness that dazed many an angel.
[Frostbitten-Fingers-of-the-Eiruenn] was a metamorphosis card much like Baethen¡¯s [Lesser-Wormhide] meld, taken from the Eir¨²¡¯enn; giant-spawn that dwelt atop the coldest mountains¡ªblackspires of the northern isle of Rebare-Dul especially ridden with those trulls. Eir¨²¡¯enn were known for their wicked, black claws which cursed all those cut by them with creeping cold that did not abate even before open flame.
With practised ease, Baethen spun the disk back into a sword-spear, losing about half of the mercurial font. Now that Escoriot had recovered and could guard them again, Baethen returned to the offensive, the bulwark standing between the horde and the cadre now transformed into a weapon that would see every flying pair of tits felled.
With every strike, he hardened his partisan¡¯s blade with [Cycle-of-the-Crucible] so that it did not turn soft under the heat and kept its edge. Baethen kept a low and balanced stance as he scythed through the cloud of feathers and flesh, reaping blood and sowing death. His ability to elongate his weapon added precious reach such that he needed not leave himself open to reprisal from the harpies¡¯ talons.
Finally, after what seemed an eternity but was rather no more than five licks of the clock, the murder of harpies abated; their will broken before the cadre¡¯s onslaught, the vulture-angels returned to the heavens so that they might live to kill another day.
The slain harpies began to melt into pools of coagulated blood that emanated copper-like vapour, joining with the boiling skies above. Left behind in their place were obols-of-Stribog, God-of-Strength-and-Storms; bronze-tokens formed wherever men worked the forge or cinders otherwise festered. The burning-star Sol was a portent of wildfires and fever and drought.
The wyrd-plague of pyromania oft coincided with sightings of the burning-star, gripping people with an unquenchable allure for flame. Those stricken with pyromania burned from the inside-out with invisible fire, their fingers turning coal-black as if by frostbite and their minds obsessed with arson. In the wake of this wyrd-plague, whole towns were razed to the ground by a fever of insanity, leaving behind but bronze-tokens amidst the charnel-bone ashes to tell tale of what happened. Cards of [Bloodfly-Husk] manifested in the same manner.
The cadre licked their wounds, wrapping themselves in bandages and whatever else they¡¯d brought with. Baethen was the only one to remain unscathed, his living-steel armour and wormscale hide proving an inviolate defence against their foes so far.
¡°They can¡¯t harm me.¡± He told the others as he removed his helm to let in some cool air to refresh his heat-stricken head. ¡°Let me take the brunt of them so that they might break against my bulwark.¡±
Having witnessed his imperviousness, Haviershan agreed and put Baethen at the front of a diamond formation rather than the previous blunted spear-head.
¡°Hel¡¯s Twelve-wormin¡¯-Bells,¡± Lacariah cursed as she poked at a downed angel that was rapidly decaying before their eyes. ¡°I¡¯d be jealous of their racks if they didn¡¯t look in desperate need of a good wash.¡±
Baethen was still reeling from the fight so he could only pat the woman on the back and smile dumbly back at her as he chuckled hoarsely. Tratvgar chortled and Haviershan rumbled something unintelligible. Narancan had a glassy-eyed look about him and just ignored the brazen display of blasphemy.
Escoriot looked at the lot of them as if touched-in-the-head.
An accurate-if-hypocritical assessment as they had all ventured into the waiting maw of Rimare-Tul.
Each rung of an Evergaol was a fractured shard of a divine realm; this one was inhabited by creatures born of the arcana of the Hanged-God Yurnmagog, warped by the influence of the archd?mon at the tower¡¯s heart so that only the worst aspects of the Twelfth remained.
The World-Shadow was the Twelfth-God-of-Sacrifice-and-Rebirth, one that was equally feared and loved, reviled and adored. The season of spring fell under His purview as did droughts where grazing-beasts lay upon the earth rotting, but bones to be picked clean by the vultures.
The dichotomous nature of this rung was exemplified everywhere Baethen might look.
Twisted, bone-white trees drank any blood spilt upon the arid and desolate ground. Wriggling, vermillion worms spawned from the sacs that hung like strange fruit from their boughs, desiccating into empty husks as they fell to the ravenous earth. The stems of these maggot-ridden fruit were fashioned in the manner of the hangman¡¯s noose, the fruits themselves like bloated faces condemned to death for the sins of the many.
There was no night in the Land-of-the-Gallows, only a sempiternal day of sulphur and drought. Time and again, great shapes wove their way through the dark clouds above like copulating serpents amid the waters. Baethen was reminded of [Gullet-of-the-Sky-Gorger]¡¯s portfolio, that leviathans swam not only in the fathoms but also in the heavens.
The cadre kept their wits about them by use of a compass-clock; a contraption of Nezarrem that allowed one to keep track of time and direction. The only problem was that this realm did not adhere to the same laws as Eot¡ªtime flowed faster than it should, stunds of the clock-compass sometimes skipping entirely in but a single lick of subjective or ¡®felt¡¯ time.
The only constant was that direction did not change. No matter which way the group ventured, their path inextricably flowed towards the northern Lode, no different than in the Dreadsea. An Evergaol may trick and test its players but it must still guide them towards its heart, towards its eponymous gaol where a great evil lay dormant.
By the fifth stund of endless wandering, the group reached their second altar-of-refuge and made camp, exhausted and battered and dead on their feet.
XIII - Unnamed
The best way to preserve rations was to be proactive about it as a delve into an Evergaol could last anywhere from many moons to even turns. There were tales of adventurers entering and returning within a day of Eot¡¯s time while inside they¡¯d battled angels and devils for tens of thousands of turns.
A delve expedition could always exit at the end of one rung and the beginning of another but this was only done when there was no chance of breaching the Evergaol¡¯s heart and striking it down. The archd?mon roused the longer it took for a group to clear each rung¡ªinvoking the cubic stone to return to Eot risked waking the gaoled-dragon as well. Instead of contending against just the native godspawn of the akashic tower, they¡¯d have to fight against corrupted devilspawn, too.
So the cadre would have to hunt for game and forage for mushrooms, roots, moss, bark, berries, and the like. Within the liminal realm of the Evergaol¡¯s first rung, the latter was simply impossible while the former was simply ill-advised. Baethen had volunteered to brave those dark waters in place of the cadre. The maggot-ridden fruit might incubate some strange wyrd-plague so it was best to avoid it wholesale.
Then again, they were about to eat the flesh of an angel and that was the sort of stuff told to incur the wrath of the Gods. Though, most likely, the Hanged-God would not take offence given He was the deific incarnation of consumption, known as the Scapegoat Faege-Fata by the alderfolk of Sancre-T?r¡ª¡¯doomed-to-die-a-thousandfold¡¯ was a common kenning that described men forsaken to the gallows and a direct translation of the Alderi epithet into the Woedenite tongue.
Baethen ventured alone into the red wilds and spotted a lone angel, the harpy focused on ripping open the maggot-ridden fruit without spilling their contents. His armour made no sound, form-fitted with interstitial-like joints that did not so much as creak. Though Baethen drew on no overt magicks, he felt the arcana of worms guide his every step under the shadows of the canopy.
Alunariat the Charlatan chided him away from dead branches; Stribog the Warrior whispered of his prey¡¯s exposed vitals and where might a spear slip through with the least resistance; even Broken-Babylon, dead as He was, steered the movements of his body as if one greater amalgamate sum rather than disparate parts, muscle flowing into muscle in an unbroken chain like quicksilver poured from the crucible.
The influence of the Numbered-Gods was subtle, each one easily missed by itself, but as a totality? Undeniable. One¡¯s arcanum was inextricably tied to their very soul, and in the wake of the spirit, the flesh followed in turn.
Baethen struck true, his spear piercing the vulture-angel of Yurnmagog through its neck in one swift blow. A single choking, gurgling caw from its beaked mouth and the harpy¡¯s eyes glazed over.
Just as tokens required sleight of hand to manifest, the carcass of godspawn required interaction by another so as to not evaporate into the ether. The children of the Twenty-One Arcana were spirit made flesh and so tended to return to formlessness once deprived of life like a man made lucid inside a dream and so awoken.
So long as Baethen had a purpose for the beast, the world believed it to be real flesh and blood rather than inchoate thought given temporary physical form.
He returned to the altar-of-refuge not long after, a gutted harpy hung across the shaft of his sword-spear. Baethen had scooped the offal, removed the head, the heart, the breasts and whatever else might make the creature appear similar to a human. He¡¯d also had to defeather the thing like a chicken¡ªshucking and whatnot ensued¡ªwhile also having to remove sections of the pelt of matted fur as well. Though the godspawn had certain man-like features, it was well and truly not a child of Leizuziel.
By the end of it, Baethen was reminded why people did not like to find out how sausage was made. It was easy to take the food on your plate for granted without having to keep in mind the blood spilt to get it there.
¡°I caught it, now one of you¡¯s gotta cook it.¡±
¡°Gimme ¡®ere, lad.¡± Haviershan sighed, resigning himself to his fate. ¡°Not the first time I¡¯ve eaten godspawn. Won¡¯t be the last either. Hope it tastes better than trull.¡±
As the Cap¡¯n set up a small cook-fire, Baethen sat down next to Lacariah for company and tricks of the trade. It had nothing to do with those muscles that could lift him like a hay bale on her shoulder and carry him around like a prize.
Not at all.
He kept his lecherous thoughts to himself¡ªhe had Miro and she had a lucky lass back in Reordran, afterall. Baethen was content on asking the swordswoman about her general story and fighting style.
¡°Soldiered for a few turns in the navy. Got tired of the shite pay so I decided to strike out on my own. Got tired of the people trying to either fleece me on the pay or kill me for it so I decided to tack onto a mercenary caravan. If I get tired of something ¡®ere, there¡¯s always the next thing.¡±
Baethen told her of his own story and how he joined the caravan to escape the smith¡¯s life. Lacariah chuckled at him and his ¡®rebellious boyish spirit¡¯ and he spat back goodnaturedly at her about ¡®general wandering-about vagrancy¡¯.
¡°Don¡¯t worry, little one.¡± She teased as she sharpened the edge of her blade. ¡°Yours will be this big one day. And even if it isn¡¯t, it¡¯s the way you use the sword not how long the blade is that matters.¡±
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¡°Ha! Thank the Gods you¡¯ve not a prick between your legs, Lac. You¡¯d¡¯ve sown oats from Rimare-Tul to the City-of-Mirrors. They¡¯d name a new wyrd-plague after you¡ªthe wandering sickness of bedswerving or some other euphemism for infidelity.¡±
¡°Thank the Gods you¡¯d not get it, Baethe. You¡¯d have to lay with someone to get the crabs.¡±
They went on and on in this manner until Haviershan gave the news that he¡¯d finished Baethen¡¯s ¡®meal¡¯. They¡¯d yet to reach jests about one another¡¯s mothers for lack of time.
¡°I dub them ¡®angel-ribs¡¯ on account of the only good meat being on the ribs and the general blasphemy we¡¯ve engaged in since entering the Evergaol.¡±
Baethen brought up his Hand and exchanged cards with all the resilience of a man told to put his head through the noose¡ªfitting, really, given the deity.
({Archetype}: [Prime]) Selected; {Player}¡¯s ({Hand}: [3//3]) {Drawn} as follows:
[Imp-of-Serpents] ¡ï¡ï ({Four-Card-Set} - {Linked} [Cycle-of-the-Crucible] ¡ï¡ï)
[Strike-While-the-Iron-is-Hot] ¡ï¡ï ({Four-Card-Set} - {Linked} [Cycle-of-the-Crucible] ¡ï¡ï)
[Leaden-Stomach] ¡ï ({Single-Card} - {Unlinked})
Card Bought: [Leaden-Stomach] ¡ï
Draw: [Of-a-Kind]
Drawback: [Usury-of-the-Damned]
Arcana: [The-Feast], [Consumption-Reversed], [Lead]
Number: [XII//XIII]
Suit: [Back-Pocket]
Portfolio ¦µ: [¡®Famine makes even the best, most honourable men into base beasts¡¯. This {Card} grants the {Player} {Minor-Dominion} over the {Arcana-of-Famine}, {Metamorphosing} their {Stomach} into a {Living-Font-of-Faminous-Lead} which can {Consume} near-anything regardless of {Malignance} to the {Player}¡¯s {Body}. {Player} must {Consume} {Metallic-Fonts} to {Sustain} the {Living-Font-of-Faminous-Lead}. This {Card} is {Always-In-Play} and cannot be {Discarded} from the {Player}¡¯s {Hand}; should this {Card}, through {Exemption}, be {Discarded}, the {Player} incurs {Brand-of-Famine} which is the {Manifest-Form} of the {Hunger} {Superseded} by this {Card} during its time within the {Player}¡¯s {Hand}.]
Just as there were dead-cards, there were deadmen-cards. Those that were brought into play only in the worst of times; these differed from bond-cards in that their incurred rune-brand could be removed by the local Hsarashian priest. The {Brand-of-Death} was the most pernicious of the rune-brands and could not so easily be absolved from a player¡¯s soul.
Not even Death Itself knew Its name; how could a lowly mortal pretend to know better?
After the expedition Baethen would have to hire a mender and cartomancer both to convalesce from the [Usury-of-the-Damned] drawback but better that than dying wholesale from hunger.
After redrawing his Hand, the change in Baethen¡¯s being was like a shifting of gears within a great apparatus, lines of divine script slotting into place and rewriting flesh into living metal. By the end of the delve into the Evergaol, Baethen would be more metal than man, he reckoned.
Baethen accepted the plate of angel-ribs from Haviershan and tore a strip off it with his teeth. He did this without time to let himself think given the whole near-cannibalism going on.
¡°Short-fowl really doesn¡¯t roll off the tongue as easily as long-pig.¡± The Cap¡¯n said matter-a-factly to himself in a volume that suggested he wanted everyone to hear.
Baethen choked as the Cap¡¯n chortled and patted him on the back so he could spit the morsel of flesh out his gullet.
¡°Oh, stop it with the rumination, lad. It¡¯s a monster¡ªa spirit given temporary form. It is, by definition, soulless. It cannot accept cards so as to form a true deck. By the Dice, it would kill you in a blink by beak or claw without remorse.
¡°Fair enough that you take a bite back, no?¡±
Once Baethen chewed that over in his skull, he found himself chewing on the meat without gagging. The taste and texture erred towards beef rather than pork¡ªthank every Numbered-God¡ªand sloughed-off the bone without effort. Haviershan had brazed it over some coals he conjured through use of his many cards and then tempered it with some spices.
When Baethen felt a stirring within his soul, he¡¯d first thought: ¡®great, the Gods have decided to strike me down¡¯ and then he read the glyphs inside his mind¡¯s eye and realised that Yurnmagog was just as terrifying as Scaduphomet.
Hearken, the {Player}¡¯s {Arcanum} rouses with {Unnamed-Arcana}.
Scouring [Akashic-Archive] for compatible {Dominion} [¡]
Compatible {Dominions} found; shuffling probabilities set to base one over mean [¡]
Shuffle complete, {[Minor-Dominion] over the {Arcana-of-Blood}} {Proscribed} upon {Player}¡¯s {Arcanum}.
{Player}s {Arcanum} {Read} as follows:
[Arcana-of-Blood]
?[Minor] I - [Resonant] I - [Dissonant] I - [Intrinsic] (Allows {Player} to {Manifest} a {Font-of-Blood} in the {Form} of {Droplets} {Once} per {Hand} so long as the {Player} has a {Bleeding-Wound} in {Touch} with a {Font-of-Air}; as a contra, allows {Player} to {Imbue} {Metallic-Fonts} into {Corporeal-Fonts} so long as they are already {Imbued} with a {Metallic-Font}.)
Baethen did not have a single card within his Hand that granted him dominion over the arcana of blood. Intrinsic dominions were usually granted to the spellscarred; survivors of wyrd-plagues that were pox-marked with the virulent magicks that could not kill them and so their inoculated souls came to subsume the unbound arcana.
¡°Cap¡¯n. Give me your slate. Right. Now.¡±
Haviershan, in any other circumstance, might¡¯ve called out the insubordination. Being a veteran of strange circumstances and familiar with the manic tone of voice of someone that didn¡¯t quite believe what was in front of their eyes, he handed Baethen his personal slate of black-alabaster.
The tablet was a thin thing framed in gilded iron. The glyphs that wrote themselves upon it were garbled to the eye and only legible to the soul. And what Haviershan read made his eyebrows crawl all the way to his hairline.
¡°Seems we¡¯ll be feeding you the lot o¡¯ the birdies, lad.¡±
XIV - Temperance
From altar-of-refuge to altar-of-refuge, the cadre cut through swathes of angels and other godspawn. They stuck to under the auspices of the canopy lest they bring down the leviathans upon themselves like lambs bleating so that the wolves might come to the slaughter.
Amongst the host swooping harpies were great wingless hags. Their arm-wings had been cut and they were carried in palanquins of vermillion and scarlet and bronze. These hags spoke out in the Language, casting down curses upon the cadre.
As they had drilled, when the first of the hostile magi appeared, the group recombined into a turtle formation with Baethen and Escoriot at the centre¡ªthe former conjured a thin but rapidly-reforming discus of metal while the latter provided actual defence.
All curses were largely sympathetic in nature and thus required a binding anchor; line of sight was paramount for these sort of fell sorceries. Disrupting a warlock''s thrall-of-gaze could render them useless in a fight. The next best thing was silencing the offending caster, either by slaying them or otherwise injuring their wagging tongues.
With Baethen and the Lieutenant protecting the cadre against hexes and a direct assault, Ensign Lacariah and Field-Sergeant Narancan took to slaying any harpies that wandered under the shield-disk. Captain Haviershan provided support where he could, his deck a Jack-of-All-Trades that was a master of none but could otherwise shore up any cracks in the formation.
This left Tratvgar able to freely channel and chain his cards into a devastating spell, a tumorous, monstrous tubercle spasming into being in between the green-magician¡¯s hands as he played card after card after card.
The end result was a living lance of writhing roots fit to slay even the mightiest of archangels. Or at least those that could not stand the smell of greenery. Its thousand-thorned edge was sharp as any steel and twice as vicious.
Tratvgar gave Haviershan a nod and then the Captain gave the signal.
¡°Drop trow and let ¡®er rip!¡±
A poet, that one.
Baethen let go of his hold over the metallic fonts just as he played [Cycle-of-the-Crucible] one last time, striking the shield-disk. It erupted upon the horde in a glorious, fiery conflagration, spitting molten metal over feather and fur and skin. The hag was higher up and out of reach of the blast but this was only the beginning.
In Baethen¡¯s wake, Tratvgar launched his lance like Stribog did with His lightning-bolts, putting all of his might into the act. Toothed vines trailed the fetor-lance as it arced towards the palanquin unmolested, excoriating the angels in its path of undeniable destruction.
The spear struck true but the battle was not over.
Cut off the head of the snake and its brood still yet lives.
They switched over to a diamond formation with Baethen drawing the harpies ire the most, each Word of the Language taunting them in a manner impossible with mundane speech. Staves and stones may break bones but words struck where either couldn¡¯t: the spirit.
¡°[Fall. Fall. Fall.]¡±
The bits of metal stuck onto the angels burst into flame, their metallic mass converted into lashing tongues of fire. While Escoriot and the Ensign stuck to the ground to stop any downed stragglers from overwhelming the ranged combatants of the cadre and forestall any would-be swoops, Tratvgar and Narancan shot out their own salvos, joining together their cards into one coup de grace.
One by one they fell until the boughs were empty of Yurnmagog¡¯s vulturous angels.
In the deafening silence after violence, the survivors heaved-out their lungs. The sweat of their brows stung eyes that did not dare blink for risk of life, limb, or just an embarrassing story of how you lost an eye to a lamed harpy you thought dead.
¡°Up and at ¡®em, lads. Can¡¯t stay here too long after a battle like that.¡±
A chorus of grunts.
¡°Bastards got me in the big toe.¡± Lac complained.
¡°Aye.¡± Narancan wasn¡¯t much for words.
¡°Thank the Gods, the rack still yet lives.¡± It need not be said who uttered that particular set of words only that they got a smirk out of Lac, as always.
¡°Loud and clear, Captain.¡± The Lieutenant was ever the painting-perfect soldier, saluting like a conscript and everything.
¡°Methinks I lost the tip of me ear.¡± Tratvgar cupped the left side of his head, red spilling from the cracks of his fingers.
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¡°Better what¡¯s between your shoulders than your legs.¡± Haviershan remarked as he checked his boltcaster¡¯s condition. ¡°Bring your rump over ¡®ere lad and let me take a look at you.¡±
Baethen shuddered at the thought; losing his left arm was bad enough. The concept of emasculation itself sent a shiver down his spine like nothing else.
¡°Honest to the Twenty-One. I¡¯d rather be eaten alive. Again.¡±
¡°Cann, how in Sybil¡¯s alabaster arse-cheeks did¡¯ya slice off a harpy¡¯s nipples accidentally?¡±
The Field-Sergeant sighed and shook his head.
¡°Lunatics, the lot of them.¡±
Lacariah looked around as if looking for someone that wasn¡¯t there.
¡°Waddaya mean? I thought we left Lazarrah behind?¡±
That got a chuckle out of Baethen at least. The rest were too busy still licking their war-wounds.
¡°Ya didnae think that the lasses will notice the missing tip?¡±
Finally, Narancan¡¯s ever-stoic fa?ade broke as he guffawed at the turn of phrase.
It took thereabouts ten feasts of angel-ribs for Baethen¡¯s arcanum to jump from magnitude one to two, changing the {Form} clause from droplets to globules and increasing the amount of times he could call upon the dominion-of-blood per Hand. Diminishing returns were setting in rather quick, dashing his dreams of absolute power against the rocks.
Still, he wouldn¡¯t look a gift horse in the mouth. Especially when it came from the God-of-Sacrifice-and-Other-Ominous-Things. Thankfully, it was only blasphemy if others could hear it.
Somewhere far, far away, a certain god whose number was Twenty laughed for the first time in the last millennium though Baethen would only learn of this after he died for the second time.
¡°We¡¯re getting close to the end o¡¯ the rung.¡± Haviershan announced. ¡°The needle¡¯s turning faster than afore. Time might be well and truly wormed through-and-through but distance¡¯s been a constant.¡±
Not soon after, they reached an altar-of-refuge, the monolith of alabaster foreboding and reassuring both. Somehow, down to the marrow of their bones, one and all knew this to be the last safe haven, their last reprieve, before they came upon the Gate-Guardian of the rung.
¡°Gods, me back and feet hurt.¡±
Baethen did not deign to comment for even he was tired of the ribaldous jests and double entendres. Or just tired overall, really. He wanted nothing more than to lay down, close his lead-lidded eyes and be swept away into Babylon the Land-of-Dreams.
¡°Baethey-boy, last time it was me. You¡¯ve got first watch tonight.¡±
Not even the Lunatics-of-Morophesh could cure the sheer devastation and despair that descended upon Baethen then. He would¡¯ve wept like a dog at the moon had this thrice-damned place even had one.
It was when Baethen finally could sleep that slumber ran from him. He tossed and turned, the exhaustion without respite utterly maddening. His blood was still hot, the restless in him seeming not to ebb before the tide but rather wax, growing, festering worse and worse still.
Unable to stay still in his cot, Baethen got up, told the Field-Sergeant he¡¯d be back and then stole away into the sempiternal day of the Land-o¡¯-the-Gallows.
It was difficult to put into words what he felt then. It was not one single thread of emotion but rather many. So Gods-be-damned many. The battle with the angels might¡¯ve ended with their deaths, but inside him, in that space just below his sternum, it raged on like fire smouldering inside a tree struck by lightning long gone.
Secluded, away from the prying eyes of the camp, Baethen stripped the armour off from his left hand and saw the wormscale crawling beneath. In place of fingernails were wicked talons. A rash of chitin jutted out, the hairs of his forearm growing, clumping-together, secreting a wax-like, oily substance that solidified them into malformed plates.
The {Metamorphosis} made a distinct sound against his more subtle senses, like an innumerable mass of chittering insects just behind him but not really there no matter how many times he turned around or how fast he did so.
It was a disease, he knew. Gods, how he knew. And he¡¯d walked right into it¡ªyou reap what you sow. He ate of the fruit from the poison tree and could blame no one but himself for it. For the first time in many centuries, the Devil was not at fault. He¡¯d read the fine print and signed his name on the dotted line anyway, fool that he was.
When Baethen closed his eyes and opened that of his mind, he saw it: his own personal wyrd-plague.
It waited there, in the seat of his very soul, those three Words¡ª{Brand-of-Wrath}. A bleeding scab on the underside of his psyche, it ached in just the right way that a mouth ulcer might. He couldn¡¯t help but pick at it with his awareness of himself, staring into that mirror of blackest alabaster, anticipating that the reflection that looked back would be a deformed, twelve-horned, six-winged, monstrous thing.
But no, it was just him. Pitiable, enviable, foolish him.
In that blink between the closing of the eyes and their subsequent opening, a mask appeared upon the face of the reflection, split in two with one side wrought of pyrite, of worthless fool¡¯s gold, and the other of purest aurum. And then, it was gone¡ªjust another trick of the mind, just another ripple in the waters, just another cunning illusion of the senses of a violence-addled, diseased madman.
¡°Get a hold of yourself, Locke.¡±
He returned to the waking world, to the sempiternal day of the first rung of Rimare-Tul and questioned whether the man that finished climbing its ladder would be unrecognisable to the one that had first put his foot upon it.
Entirely too unsettled to return to sleep, Baethen armoured himself once again to hide away the shame and set about to practicing a sequence of martial forms, chaining card after card to calm his nerves. The stretch of skin in between his shoulder blades never stopped itching something fierce and he could not help but keep an eye-and-a-half on his surroundings.
Only once exhaustion beyond exhaustion smothered the feeling of being watched under its sheer weight did Baethen return to his cot and fade away into Babylon.
He did not even realise the lack of someone on watch.
XV - Ruination
Angels did not descend upon them any longer, the eerie silence and lack of resistance like a beast¡¯s waiting maw around them, waiting to snap shut once they delved far enough into its gullet.
They advanced through the treacherous terrain, careful not to twist their ankles. Sulphur clouds churned above, ever acrid in their nostrils with the stench of rotten eggs, burnt hair and lightning. Sulphur, as an element, was more closely associated with the Fifteenth God rather than Twelfth though that mattered little in the grand scheme of things. The Major Arcana bled into one another as evidenced by Their numbers. From Justice came the Gallows, followed by Death which gave birth to Temperance afore giving way to Fear¡ªGods Eleven, Twelve, Thirteen, Fourteen, Fifteen, respectively.
No matter how far the cadre treaded ground, they seemed to not move at all. The ashen trees were indiscernible from each other and there was neither sun nor northern Lodestar by which to follow or chart. Instead, they put their lives in the hands of the compass-clock and thus Captain Haviershan¡¯s.
Suddenly, as if by serendipity, the scarlet leaves receded, the cadre happening upon the ruins of some great temple. The ziggurat was built in the same style as the altars-of-refuge, of black-alabaster and Byzantium brass and purest, unmarred marble. Broken statuettes dedicated to forgotten godlings littered the barren earth like trash, the idols but the barest echoes of past grandeur.
Decadence was so named for this was the fate of all worldly riches: ruination.
The Parthenon of Reordranhall was erected in a decidedly different manner than this nameless temple. Rather than columns, the ziggurat was wrought of great blocks of seamless marble. The only evidence for their rivening was dirt that brought it in sharp relief.
Braziers and tripods of Byzantium and damascene were untouched by the ravages of tide and time, their divine metals protecting them from rust and wend both; even a single of those treasures could see Baethen through this life and the next in coin. Mirror-slates of black alabaster lay indolent upon the unswept dust, unbroken and clean where all else was, most decidedly, not.
As they scouted the periphery of the ziggurat, here and there, Baethen happened upon relics of rotten-copper. Little amulets in the shape of faceless people, rings that should have shone like bronze were instead scaled in verdigris, hiltless blades and lonesome spear-heads about the place.
The divinity of the fallen temple warded but the edifice itself, not what lay outside it. There had been a battle here, so bygone that not even the combatant¡¯s bones were left, pulverised into dust by Father-Time¡¯s slow-but-unyielding hand and scattered by Stribog¡¯s breath to the four winds.
Through their scouring of the place, the group found a hand-mirror of black alabaster for each of them and a single sword of damascene-steel, its pattern-weld appearing as if flowing water rendered in argent. Damascene was a divine substance grown from the spilt tears of the Weeping-God-of-All-Sorrows or, some say, from the blood shed by the Broken-God-of-Babylon. Perhaps it was both with Morophesh mourning over the dead body of Her brother, grief and ichor mixing to become one.
It did not rust and could not be broken nor shorn and would keep its edge until the Game after the next¡ªall such artefacts were relics of the second Game, afterall, and showed no flaw. The only way to manipulate the metal, to make it soft enough to mould or pour, was by quenching it in a bath of tears under three full moons. This was usually done by the Church-of-Sorrow, for a tiny fee, of course. Once the ritual was complete, sorrow-steel did not require heat and was malleable by human strength alone so long as it was cold. Damascene scorned flame, being unmeltable no matter the heat.
¡°Baethen, keep it with you for now. You¡¯re best suited for it with your cards; we¡¯ll just take it off the top of your cut at the end.¡±
He nodded to the Cap¡¯n, accepting the sword of living silver, and then they resumed their search in silence. The weapon was in the form of a Byzantine gladius, its argent as lustrous as the day it was forged a thousand-thousand-thousand turns ago. The hilt was a solid cast, the blade and haft one single, seamless whole.
Baethen didn¡¯t know how to wield a shortsword and was a novice to forms and the like, so he simply kept it belted around his hip as a side arm. He could weld it to his spear-sword later on. As for the black tablet, he bound its loop with a chain and affixed it to his side as well. He did not worry about it being nicked in the heat of battle as godstone was invulnerable to harm of any kind.
Emperor Solomon of the bygone Byzantium empire was said to have worn a suit of godstone during campaign against the Woedenites, beating them back from the Kataban continent into the Sundered-Isles of the Dreadsea. Whether there was truth to such tales, only the Numbers knew.
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Stunds later, the ensemble had scoured the outside of the ziggurat and most of its vestibules and so only the inner chambers were yet to be penetrated; they¡¯d left no stone left unturned. With all the easy portions scouted and accounted for, they retreated to a near-intact pavilion where they might rest before tackling the Guardian.
The compass-clock stopped making sense ever since they¡¯d happened upon the ruins, pointing this way and that, undecided, as if trapped between two Lodestars.
In the calm before the storm, Baethen took to welding the blade of sorrow-steel to his spear. He¡¯d had to mould the metal around it to secure the gladius to his ivory-cored haft. Without a partisan¡¯s head, the weapon was now a more narrow implement, no longer a spear-sword but rather just a spear.
Baethen didn¡¯t worry much, if at all, about getting used to a new weapon before the fight as he wasn¡¯t much of a swordsman in the traditional sense. He didn¡¯t know his cuts from one another and that suited him just fine as his parries came from spellcraft rather than martial form. Clad as he was in a second skin of living steel, he didn¡¯t need to fear hits like the others. Force was distributed evenly throughout his body due to [Flawed-Steelheart] transmuting his flesh and blood into amorphous metal; when he was struck, it sounded like a bell being rung.
They ventured forth once Baethen finished welding the sorrow-steel blade to his spear.
The interior of the ziggurat was a lesson in harsh transitions. Where the outside was white with accents of bronze and hammered copper, the interior was wine-dark with accents of porphyric amaranth. The colour was so rich that it left Baethen¡¯s temples aching, as if his mortal mind wasn¡¯t meant to look upon it.
Here, columns of igneous rock abounded, circled in silver and tin, each one so thick that the group could not wrap their arms around it. And they¡¯d tried. The columns were inset with carvings of twelve-handed and six-winged spirits, of the d?mons of Babylon before they were corrupted by the forces of Gehenna.
Baethen saw the resemblance of the psychopomps of Chinvat in them, their large wings and serpentine necks lending them an air of regal primality. An aspect under Nagalfaram, Chinvat was the current arcana to hold the mantle of God-of-Dreams after Babylon¡¯s murder. The difference between the d?mons and the psychopomps lay in their heads: these spirits had the countenance of wolves affixed upon their necks, their eyes closed and mouths open to bear what lay within, fangs tusk-like and many within their gums, jutting out from snarling lips.
There, at the centre of each gaping maw, lay a single, seven-ringed-eye each. Heptagrams circled their heads like halos and their hands formed countless signs of benediction.
Column by column they walked past until, at last, the cadre came upon the inner chamber proper. Behind a veil of bruised scarlet lay the shadow of a beast of knowledge made flesh. It resolved into the image of a d?mon after pulling back the curtain, its single, open gullet-eye staring down at them, baleful and suffocating and enrapturing.
It had the body of a wolf with hind legs to match and the arms of three men, three arms for each side and two hands for each arm. The d?mon, a sphynx, sat on its haunches upon pillows of sendal; a tail, long and sinuous, beating back and forth in anticipation like a cat having come upon a fallen nest of newborn birds¡ªoh so very vulnerable. The tail ended in what could only be described as a deformed flail¡¯s head. It rattled, oh how it rattled, a susurrus that resounded in your chest, shaking your heart into the canter of a panicked horse attempting to trample a serpent but failing miserably to do so.
The d?mon opened its two wings¡ªtwo, terrible red wings¡ªwide in exaltation and addressed them like a judge addresses the masses before the gallows.
¡°[We are known as Orexis the Desire-that-Brings-but-Despair-and-Ruination. Thou may call us Ruination for that is what We are within this dread place and what We shall engender upon thee. Come, mortals, and test the mettle of thine souls against the barest trace of a dead god.]¡±
Its voice was divine mandate, setting their legs to marching forth without their conscious assent. Its voice was legion, a thousand-fold chorus singing in discordant union; young, old, infirm, hale, man, woman, child, fearful, sure-as-stone, shaking, imperial, many¡ªone.
The d?mon spoke reality into being, bearing down its will upon the fabric of existence such that it bent to conform to its preconceived shape rather than the other way around. The soul of Man was moulded from his flesh, from his experiences in the world physical. But the soul of a d?mon was moulded by itself and imposed upon the world its form spiritual. Imagination made manifest, given gross being from the consummate nothingness of the ether through sheer weight of delusion.
It believed itself to be and so it was.
The cadre shook themselves from their fugues of terror as the d?mon¡¯s shadow bore down upon them and assembled once again into a formation with Baethen at the front. He felt his flesh pale and shiver before the d?mon, but his soul held firm, resolute¡ªwaves against the rocks.
The only breach within the bulwark of his being was the {Brand-of-Wrath}, an open ulcer into the inner sanctum of its tower. A snaking tendril of the d?mon¡¯s presence slithered within, climbing and climbing further and further still, down to that place that not even Baethen knew of. The sphynx recoiled at what there lay like a reflection becoming cognizant of the image it had been fashioned from.
A faceless god stared back, and the d?mon came to know the terror known only to men that have swam waters thought shallow and seen the gargantuan eye of a leviathan come open in the unbeknownst fathoms.
Through that tendril of thought between them, the god spoke a single Word-of-Power.
¡°[Die.]¡±
XVI - Babylon, Babylon
Loken¡ªknown to the Nezarrem as Lapopeth the Mad-Reveller and to the ancient, bygone Byzantine empire as Astaroth the Sleeper-that-Must-Not-Be-Woken and to those that worshipped Him as Goghiel-Assiah the Moonless¡ªhad stolen the Name-of-Death so that the Thirteenth Arcana could not speak it before the Gods and so bring death to the immortals nevermore, forevermore. The Fifteenth Hand was not the first betrayer among the Major Arcana nor was She the last¡ªthat dishonour lay solely upon the Unnumbered Arcana.
This stolen name, Loken now spoke a permutation thereof, conjugated through the paltry, linear time that men could but witness with their mortal senses; for, to speak Death in the transcendent realm of the Godhead would bring the End-of-All-Things and this did Loken fear for the God-of-Fools was no fool Himself.
Golden, resplendent fire screamed into being around the sphynx, the d?mon¡¯s form once again cloaked though this time in flesh-scouring flame rather than supple, velvet scarlet. ¡®[Babylon, Babylon, how far You¡¯ve fallen, O Brother Mine.]¡¯ was the last thought of the Faceless-God before He fell, once more, into a dreamless pyrite-masked sleep¡ªuncaring, insensate in the lowest bowels of existence.
The d?mon howled in anguish and all-encompassing, abject horror; the voices trapped within its throat, one and all, shared that common denominator as it clawed at its mouth for air that would not come.
Baethen came to, then, from the trance that befell him, at a loss for how he¡¯d come into the strange world he found himself in. He remembered everything from being born to hearing the d?mon speak but between the sphynx¡¯s manifold tongue and this infernal tableau, he could recall only dreams of dreams of dreams.
Which was to say, in less flowery words: nothing.
One moment, the sphynx¡¯s shadow bore down upon them and in the next instant this.
The others looked at him in what he could only call numb and dumb, wordless disbelief and he looked back at them much the same until he found his voice. He took a step forward to better speak but they, his comrades-in-arms, flinched back from his presence more harshly than they¡¯d done with the d?mon and that hurt near as badly as Baethen¡¯s lies to Mother and Father.
But there were worse, more immediate and imminent dangers, so speak he still did, regardless of what had changed between them. For, even in the midst of that storm of flame, the sphynx still thrashed; in place of its shadow, heat like that of the furnace''s mouth bore down upon them.
¡°The beast is not yet dead.¡± Baethen heard himself say, distant like a man watching the world end around him and at a loss for better words than ¡®lay down and die¡¯. ¡°Just as lightning, miracles do not happen twice¡ªlet us not wait for another that never comes.¡±
With that, Baethen dug into the empty pockets of his belt and pulled out a fistful of already-bloodied, lead-cast tokens and then he charged into the conflagration¡¯s wall. Heat beat down upon him like a tidal wave come to sink an isle into the poison waters of the Dreadsea, seeping into his armour without any resistance whatsoever.
What had possessed Baethen to so recklessly and foolishly wade into what could only be described as living death, he¡¯d never know for not even a single, numbered, god knew. Not All-Knowing Alunariat, not All-Wise Nagalfaram, not even the one staked to his soul.
Like a man dying of thirst in the Dreadsea, Baethen drank of the poison water, drawing on the [Lesser-Wormscale-Hide] meld such that he drowned in it and became one with the Beast-Within.
He sank deeper in, nearing the eye of the fiery storm; each step excruciation and each breath torment. The shell of metal around him was a redundant cask then, shed from him like so much dead skin. Beneath, wormscale clad him horned-head to taloned-toe, redolent in the Devil¡¯s arcana. Cloth turned to ash in an instant until only a stave of behemoth-bone and a blade of sorrow-steel were left.
Naked as the day he was born, Baethen forgot his own name until the only part that was left of him was that of the beast. That low aspect that knows but survival and unbridled violence, to shy away from pain and to bask in pleasure and nothing more.
The man-beast struck the d?mon, again and again, with blade and bludgeon. Though thought vested with flesh, the sphynx still flesh was. Able to bleed and be broken, able to fear and, oh, did it fear for only those that could die truly feared.
The sphynx lashed out with its flail-headed tail, swatting at the man-turned-animal. With stave in hand, the beast breathed-in the arcana of fire of air around it, that blazing-dry sirocco, and clad itself in a zephyr. Its limbs become the sails of some great vessel, steered by the wind with great force and speed.
The beast bent back over itself, letting the d?mon¡¯s tail pass over it.
The moment it did, the beast struck back, jumping upon the sphynx¡¯s hide and plunging its unmelting blade deep within. It held on for dear death on the sword¡¯s handle as the d?mon thrashed, its many hands coming down upon itself as its wings attempted in vain to shield itself against the churning inferno that lay around them.
Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.
In its desperation, the d?mon cast a spell, the Words of the Language freezing the world around it: ¡°[Ekpyr?sis¡ªfor all things must burn, even fire itself.]¡±
But all things had their price and so the fires around it ceased in an instant and so did its flesh-set-aflame become forfeit, ash falling from the d?mon¡¯s many gouges such that it appeared more dead than alive. All that the flame¡¯s tongue touched had been turned to dust; all but a bone-stave and an argent sword and a beast-turned-man.
Baethen remembered once again his own name, flayed of the wormscale hide that clung to him. Charred gristle and exposed muscle now in its place, he looked just as grim as the d?mon, a foot already in the grave.
He¡¯d been flung from the d?mon during the last of its throes before the spell and now he stood, numb to the agony that he now wore in place of skin. He¡¯d been through it once already, had been burnt to the Hels and back¡ªhe still had his limbs this time around, owing to the sorcery within his blood. The arcana, just as they guided act, they infused flesh.
Two broken vessels of divinity stared at each other and then the stalemate broke as Baethen silently charged at the d?mon. There were no war cries to be had for his tongue had been burnt to ash once again, having channelled a power greater than he could bear.
Somehow, through whatever act of sleight-of-hand that governed that aspect of the Game, the tokens in his hand were still there, fused into one big lump. As Baethen ran, he ripped the fistful of coin, bloodied and thus {Red-Hot}, from the charred remains of his fingers and used it to bind his gladius to his stave and then he was upon his foe.
The sphynx reared back, afraid of a man that, by all rights, should be either dead or thrashing in agony on the ground rather than fighting.
Still clad in a zephyr of speed, Baethen struck out with his newly-wrought sword-spear. He played a litany of cards, everything from the [Imp-of-Serpents] set and near all of the [Strike-While-the-Iron-is-Hot] set.
Fire and smoke, air and phlogiston, mercury and lead¡ªa confluence of fonts so great that it blazed around his arcane focus like a second sun. The resonance of his dominions had granted him, long ago, the ability to expend all but one font within a confluence to empower that which remained once per Hand.
And Baethen was a sore-loser down to the marrow of his bones; he was a liar and a cheat at cards; he was a two-faced, serpent-tongued, scheming fool.
No one can predict the actions of fools, not even themselves.
All-encompassing light blinded the d?mon, its gullet-eye closing as it flinched yet no blow graced its illusory flesh. Light turned to smoke, and then shadow, and then {True-Darkness}. No matter where the sphynx¡¯s all-seeing eye turned to, it could penetrate through the veil of night around it.
Baethen brought down his sword-spear¡¯s blade on the sphynx¡¯s serpentine neck. At the last moment before it made contact, he {Refunded} the spent font of mercury, bringing with it heat. All fonts were, by their nature, confluences of fonts¡ªyou couldn¡¯t have a font of air without water and couldn¡¯t have one of fire without air.
Even though he¡¯d brought back mostly the majority of the mercurial font, he brought its remnant flame along with, aiming at the wounded flank of the d?mon¡¯s neck. Trailing in the wake of his spear, a cowl of molten slag rammed into it, further adding to the blow¡¯s force.
Baethen played [Strike-While-the-Iron-is-Hot] and [Mercurial-Inksmith] at once; the first multiplied the deadliness, the second added more of it in the form of an unstable stave already about to explode.
There were a thousand other nuances to that one fell swoop but suffice it to say that it was devastating, it was brutal, it was glorious.
Its thunderclap resounded like the proclamation of a god, throwing Baethen off his feet and deafening him with cicadas in his ears. Had he any skin left to lose, it would have been ripped from him in the resulting blastwave as it carved a crater at the point of impact.
When the dust cleared, the shadow beneath stirred.
The d?mon¡¯s neck hung by a thread to its body, the divine remnant near death but not quite there.
He couldn¡¯t lift a finger¡ªBaethen had charged past the limits of his limits and now he could only watch, helplessly, as the sphynx¡¯s gullet-eye oriented on him.
Owing to its supernatural composition, the beast spoke even with its throat all but destroyed.
¡°[Anathema.]¡± It cursed. ¡°[Betrayer-deceiver.]¡± It spat. And then it charged and limped towards Baethen¡¯s fallen form, its thought-flesh beginning to mend as tendrils slithered through its wounds, reknitting by the invisible hand of its soul.
Just as Baethen accepted his fated death, the d?mon stumbled and then looked down at its hands and hind legs rooted to the ground. Vegetation writhed underneath, emanating from a spear thrown near.
And then the cadre struck.
There wasn¡¯t much if any tactics or stratagems, only a bombardment of sorceries one after another. Baethen only realised that the d?mon was dead when he saw its neck finally fall to the ground, having been decapitated by Lac¡¯s gargantuan slab-blade. The arcana of the Executioner was a deadly thing to behold¡ªit had cut through without even a lick of resistance.
A step behind the pace of the world around him, Baethen became cognizant that he was being carried by Tratvgar when the lad laid him down on a bench within the ziggurat¡¯s antechamber.
He felt nothing, the numbness taking hold as the edges of his vision closed in, darkening. Nigh succumbing to the delirium, Baethen pushed away Tratvgar and redrew his Hand, playing a card-chain of [Cinderspark-Spit], [Forge-Maw], and [Gullet-of-the-Sky-Gorger].
A corona of fire erupted from his mute, howling mouth, enveloping him in an inferno much like the one that had orbited the now-fallen d?mon.
Baethen played [Scarwright].
XVII - Stars Above
God-debt cards erred towards the arcana of panacea and reversal, exchanging something valuable to absolve a person of infirmity.
The [Scarwright] meld had a strict bring-into-play clause¡ªit could only reverse a {Scar} and it required that which inflicted it in the first place to boot. Most importantly, what even was a scar? It wasn¡¯t an open wound, that was for certain, but what about burn marks? Would it only work when they were well and truly scarred-over? How did the card link [Lesser-Wormscale-Hide] fit into that play?
Once more turned into a spawn of the Devil, the [Red-Dragon], charred flesh was covered by scale and then reversed into naked, unmarred, human skin. The meld counted as scar-tissue so long as Baethen interpreted the card as a disease, a blight upon himself.
A scar.
Wind howled into being around him, a roiling gale like that of the Storm-God Himself come to devour him in His great all-consuming eye. At the centre of the Dreadsea lay the Maelstr?m, the one in which all others were named, having been gouged out of Stribog in Games past and left there to fester.
That was much how Baethen felt as his mind, body, and spirit fought each other like a snake, a cock, and a fox sealed inside a barrel thrown down a particularly-steep hill.
Spine stiff as his body convulsed and then relaxed, Baethen let himself be stolen away into Babylon the Land-of-Dreams.
Somewhere inside the Tower-of-Babel that dwelt within the soul of every ensouled thing, an ancient thing slumbered.
He saw its shape under the waters of the mirror, a leviathan beneath the waves whose shape he could not wrap his head around for mortal sensibilities paled before the transcendent. It was like an ant attempting to interpret a foot as anything other than a wall of utter death¡ªimpossible.
How could a god fit inside the spirit of a mortal without ripping it apart?
¡®The same manner in which the ants might bring down a giant: one bite at a time.¡¯ One reflection told the other, both somehow on the other side of the sleeping god and therein simultaneously¡ªtwo mirrors brought together so closely that the reflection and the object are no longer separate but rather one.
The reflections gazed at each other, the golden-gilded masks on their faces hiding what was beneath. One half pyrite and the other true, purest aurum.
His name, what was his name?
Was it Astaroth the Sleeper-That-Must-Not-Be-Woken which the dead Byzantines feared; or was it Bazazath the Thousand-Eyed, Twelve-Winged, Four-Horned Jackal that brought night-terrors to every child of the Apep; or was it Gohgiel-Assiah the Moonless which the Mascaracsam called All-Father; or Loken the Faceless Fool for which the Woedenites had no number; or Lapopeth the Mad-Reveler which Nezarrem saw as a benevolent trickster; or Bezan the One which the Gesserites mum prayers of cipher to; or, or, or a thousand other forgotten names in dead tongues which not even Balphas the Firstborn-In-Creation, the All-Wise, the All-Knowing remembers or even ever knew to begin with.
There, in that morass of divinity where the one became many and the many, one, a man attempted to find his name, to separate himself from a god, to lift the mask from his face and see.
[MHO ??? ?O¡É?//?¡ÉO? ??? OHM]
[WHAT WA? HI? §ªAM??//??MA§ª ?IH ?AW TAHW]
[MH?¡Í IS W? N?W??//??W?N ?¡ÉO? SI ¡Í?HM]
[WHAT I? MY §ªAM??//??MA§ª YM ?I TAHW]
[MH?¡Í IS W? N?W??//??W?N ?W SI ¡Í?HM]
[WHAT I? YOU§Á §ªAM??//??MA§ª §ÁUOY ?I TAHW]
[MH?¡Í M?S HIS N?W??//??W?N SIH S?M ¡Í?HM]
[WHO A§Á? YOU?//?UOY ?§ÁA OHW]
¡°Baethen.¡±
A gentle slap on his cheek awoke him. And then, in that moment where the veil between dream and reality are thin, he was surrounded by a group of people that didn¡¯t know whether to hug him and pat his back or slit his throat while he was still weak enough not to offer resistance.
¡°Lad, by all the Gods and Numbers, what in the Twelve-wormin¡¯-Pits of Gehenna was that?¡± Haviershan gestured about Baethen frantically and then at the still-smouldering corpse of the d?mon¡ªit had turned to unliving stone like the statues carved into the pillars rather than sublimating like the harpy-angels of Yurnmagog. The smoke that wafted from the sphynx was that of rock sizzling under molten metal.
By the fact that it still let off fumes, Baethen hadn¡¯t been in Babylon for too long although he felt as though they were already in the Fifth Game.
¡°First, could you lot give me something to hide my stones? It¡¯s cold and a tad tiring to cup them in my hands like a beggar beggin¡¯ for alms.¡±
¡°Stars above, Field-Sergeant, get this man a towel.¡±
Narancan removed a cloth from his pack by the floor and threw it at him, six paces far and not daring to touch him for fear of a wyrd-plague or somesuch.
Baethen sighed.
¡°Where to begin?¡±
He explained to them the meld, and even showed them his Hand by manifesting it on a black-slate. As to the divine intervention and possession that they¡¯d witnessed but he only got flashes of? Well, he told them about his [Lynchpin] as well.
¡°Well, I¡¯ll be damned.¡± The Captain whistled as he sat down next to Baethen on the bench; the latter was still naked and covered by a thin sheet but given all that happened, he couldn¡¯t bring himself to care. ¡°An actual, honest-to-Calanrial five-star Lynchpin. Never thought I¡¯d live to see the day¡ªthat parity happens only to princes with parents whose decks are heavy with the arcana.¡±
¡°A useless card with only three worming words.¡± Baethen corrected him.
A silent moment later.
¡°Can you give me some spare clothes already?¡±
Baethen was so exhausted that he couldn¡¯t even come up with a ribald to ease the tension that now undercut his interactions with the group¡ªyou couldn¡¯t consign your soul to the arcana of Damnation without also cosigning yourself to ostracization.
¡°Oh, sorry lad, got caught up is all.¡±
Now decent, Baethen approached the cubic stone at the centre of the ziggurat''s inner chambers. It was just as big as the one outside Rimare-Tul and just as resplendent but his thoughts could not appreciate what was in front of him for he was occupied with what was behind.
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A {Brand-of-Sloth} had been burned onto the skin of his shadow, burdening his whole body with greater inertia but not weight. He moved slower but he was not weaker of arm, not truly, the world moving by him as if he were under water. It was a strange sort of curse, one that made him nauseous and fatigued.
[Mercurial-Inksmith], a parent card of the [Scarwright] meld also used the very same brand though it was beneficial towards the player rather than disrupting. Even beyond the added sluggishness, Baethen just couldn¡¯t play the card [Lesser-Narguile-of-Night] consistently; his shadow and body moved at odds with each other and his soul just didn¡¯t know how to translate that disconnect so as to bring the card into play.
Even his skin hadn¡¯t entirely healed, feeling inordinately tight as if it just didn¡¯t fit him right. Though, perhaps, that was a trick of the mind¡ª[Lesser-Wormscale-Hide]¡¯s portfolio mentioned a portent in its lore section that thoroughly fit the situation that Baethen now found himself in. That he was more comfortable with the hide of a beast than his own.
Still, not all hope was lost.
Baethen was alive. He¡¯d been through worse before and clawed victory from some rather literal jaws of defeat; much like before, he was rewarded for superseding the trials and tribulations that the Evergaol¡¯s Gate-Guardian put him through.
He¡¯d done the d?mon, Ruination, the most damage, be it as the opening play that still couldn¡¯t quite believe or even understand for that matter, or as the near finishing blow he¡¯d struck upon the sphynx¡¯s neck.
The wages for his survival lay arrayed before him in divine script, a gift from the heavens themselves.
Hearken, the [Dealer-of-Fate] stirs awake at the {Player}¡¯s {Victory} over an {Implacable-Foe}! As {Eldest}, [Fata-Morgana] takes {Rearhand} as {Dealer}.
Scouring [Akashic-Archive] for compatible {Cards} [¡]
Compatible {Cards} not found; shuffling probabilities set to {[Base]: [Two]} over {Mean} [¡]
Compatible {Cards} not found; {Stribog} takes {Rearhand} as {Dealer} instead.
Hearken, the [King-of-Wealth] stirs awake at the {Player}¡¯s {Victory} over an {Implacable-Foe}!
Changing {Libraries} from [Akashic-Archive] to [Conquerors-Treasury]; scouring [Stribogs-Treasury] for compatible {Tokens} [¡]
Compatible {Tokens} found; shuffling probabilities reset to {[Base]: [One]} over {Mean} [¡]
Shuffle complete, {Token: [Tabula-Rasa] ¡ï¡ï¡ï¡ï} {Withdrawn} and {Dealt} to {Player}; {Token} put into {Player}¡¯s {Tabula}.
Tokens of tabula-rasa were not unheard of; you could buy one so long as you had a few byzantium-tokens to spare. Id est, a full turn¡¯s worth of taxes from the capital city of Woeden, Reordranhall¡ªmultiple since a tabula-rasa could go for thereabouts ten or so of such tokens.
Known as deck-razers, table-flippers, or reshufflers, these tokens were earned only within Evergaols as rewards for outstanding feats of strength by Stribog God-of-Strength-and-Storms, known to many as the King-of-Wealth-and-Widows¡ªthe title was two-fold, telling a story of unmatched might in having slain armies and so left their spouses bereft and for being the patron of those He left destitute to begin with. The Church-of-Stribog was one that regularly collected alms to give to widowers and to supply soldiers on the war-front with better kit.
These ¡®alms¡¯ were wereguilds and war-bounty pillaged from cities fallen to the winner¡¯s blade. Baethen likened Stribog to robber-baron, uncaring of right or wrong beyond the absolute of might-maketh-right.
One of the other aspects of Stribog, borne of a confluence of other gods also, was Dazhbog the silver-tongued God-of-Riches-and-Decadence. A meld of Eot the World, Fata-Morgana the Wheel-of-Fortune, and Nagalfaram the Merchant-of-Death, if Baethen wasn¡¯t mistaken.
Token Earned: [Tabula-Rasa] ¡ï¡ï¡ï¡ï
Withdraw: [Ten-of-a-Kind]
Pay-In: [Turn-Table]
Arcana: [The-Hand], [Fate], [Reversal]
Number: [X//0]
Portent: [The-Burning-Star]
Portfolio ¦µ: [¡®Raze that which was and start anew¡¯. This {Token} grants the {Player} with {Utter-Dominion} over the {Arcana-of-the-Hand}, allowing them to {Reshuffle} the {Cards} in their {Hand} and {Archive} through {Expenditure} of this {Token} through {Chipping-In}; {Sets}, {Decks}, and other {Card-Melds} may undergo {Reshuffling}. After this {Token} is {Chipped-In}, the {Player} cannot {Redraw} their {Hand} until a full {Turn-of-Eot} has passed; should the {Player} through {Exemption} {Redraw} their {Hand} before a full {Turn-of-Eot} has passed, their {Hand} is {Forfeit} and the {Cards} within, {Banished} to {Babylon}.]
As far as why it was a token rather than card was to do with its {Chipping-In} clause among other particulars. Cards and tokens both could be counterfeit or otherwise copied wholesale and the manner in which to play them also differed. [Cycle-of-the-Crucible] didn¡¯t have a chip clause of any sort whereas this token did.
All of these non-sequiturs and disconnected threads of thought lead to a pretty conundrum when you thought about it long and hard enough: tokens are meant to be counted, tallied, and most importantly, spent¡ªthey are not so tightly bound to the spirit.
Though [Celestial-Dew] functioned much like a pseudo-token, it differed in that it didn¡¯t have a pay-in, a withdraw or a portent. Pay-ins were {Bring-into-Play} clauses that governed unique tokens. This one required Baethen to flip the table, as it were, with his very soul. He knew this through the intrinsic knowledge that simply having the token within his Tabula granted¡ªyou could not have something inside your soul and not know it.
Well, at least, you weren¡¯t supposed to but then again
Just as all hope was not lost nor was the encroaching, bone-deep dread.
Hearken, the {Player}¡¯s {Arcanum} rouses with {Unbound-Arcana}.
Scouring [Akashic-Archive] for compatible {Dominion} [¡]
Compatible {Dominions} found; shuffling probabilities set to base one over mean [¡]
Shuffle complete, {[Minor-Dominion] over the [Arcana-of-Betrayal]}, {[Minor-Dominion] over the [Arcana-of-Worms]}, and {[Minor-Dominion] over the [Arcana-of-Death]} {Proscribed} upon {Player}¡¯s {Arcanum}.
{Player}s ({Arcanum}: {Intrinsic}) {Read} as follows:
[Arcana-of-Blood] ¡ï¡ï [Minor] II - {Resonant} II - {Dissonant} I
[Arcana-of-Death] ¡ï¡ï [Minor] I - {Resonant} II - {Dissonant} II
[Arcana-of-Betrayal] ¡ï [Minor] I - {Resonant} II - {Dissonant} I
[Arcana-of-Worms] ¡ï¡ï¡ï [Minor] I - {Resonant} IV - {Dissonant} II
[Arcana-of-Blood] ¡ï¡ï
?[Minor] II - [Resonant] II - [Dissonant] I - [Intrinsic] (Allows {Player} to {Manifest} a {Font-of-Blood} in the {Form} of {Droplets} or {Globules} {Twice} per {Hand} so long as the {Player} has a {Bleeding-Wound} in {Touch} with a {Font-of-Air}; as the first contra, allows {Player} to {Imbue} {Metallic-Fonts} into {Corporeal-Fonts} so long as they are already {Imbued} with a {Metallic-Font}; as the second and final contra, allows {Player} to {Manifest} a {Font-of-Blood} so long as a {Locus} is {Saturated} with the {Arcana-of-Death}.)
[Arcana-of-Death] ¡ï¡ï
?[Minor] I - [Resonant] II - [Dissonant] II - [Intrinsic] (Allows {Player} to {Manifest} a {Font-of-Miasma} in the {Form} of {Curlicues} {Once} per {Hand} so long as the {Player} has {Reaped} a {Life} in the current {Hand}; as a contra, allows {Player} to {Manifest} a {Font-of-Miasma} in the {Form} of {Exhaled-Vapour} by {Expending} their {Breath-of-Lung} and {Blood-of-Vein} {Once} per {Hand}.)
[Arcana-of-Betrayal] ¡ï
?[Minor] I - [Resonant] III - [Dissonant] I - [Intrinsic] (Allows {Player} to {Steal} a {Font} from under another {Player}¡¯s {Dominion} and {Manifest} it under their own so long as the {Stolen-Font} is in {Touch} with the {Player} through either {Thrall-of-Arm} or in {Reach-of-Hand} {Once} per {Hand}; as the first contra, allows {Player} to {Expend} a {Stolen-Font} to {Empower} a {Card} {Once} per {Hand} so long as the {Stolen-Font} is in {Touch} with the {Player} through either {Thrall-of-Arm} or in {Reach-of-Hand}; as the third and final contra, allows {Player} to {Incur} a {Brand-of-Envy} upon another {Player} {Once} per {Hand} which {Seals} a {Known-Card} so long as the former is not held in {Thrall-of-Gaze} by the latter.)
[Arcana-of-Worms] ¡ï¡ï¡ï
?[Minor] I - [Resonant] IV - [Dissonant] II (Allows {Player} to {Manifest} a {Font-of-Wormfire} in the {Form} of {Sputtering-Sparks} {Once} per {Hand} through {Breath-of-Lung}; as the first contra, allows {Player} to {Combust} the {Font-of-Water} within their {Phlegm} and {Imbue} it with a {Font-of-Wormfire} {Once} per {Hand}; as the second contra, allows {Player} to {Burn} their {Cast-Shadows} to {Magnify} {Fonts-of-Wormfire} under their {Dominion}; as the third contra, allows {Player} to {Transform} a {Font-of-Wormfire} into a {Cinderbolt} {Once} per {Hand}; as the fourth and final contra, allows {Player} to {Manifest} a {Font-of-Wormfire} through {Expenditure} of a {Font-of-Fiery-Arcana} {Once} per {Hand}.)
Baethen had to find the secret elixir of immortality because once he died, he was¡ªsure as the Stars Above¡ªcosigned to one of the Twelve Hels of Gehenna. This wasn¡¯t just a card granting him accursed arcana but rather having said arcana branded directly to his very soul.
Scars of the body might be mended by magic and scars of the mind might heal with time but scars upon the spirit? Those transcended even death with some wyrd-plagues able to gestate within bloodlines for turns upon turns of Eot before manifesting and culling a whole generation¡¯s worth of lives in one fell swoop.
With nothing for it, Baethen stepped forward to receive his last and final gift.
XVIII - Calumnia
Without¡ªthe cubic stone upon which the Evergaol balanced, was cold like a stillwater lake that couldn¡¯t quite freeze-over come the winter Round-of-Morokei.
Within¡ªthe very stone that stood before Baethen, was burning with a heatless fire that was the reverse of everything that a flame should be. Droughts of the Round-of-Abidan would pale before it for the Nezarrem called the night-scrivened alabaster ¡®ebzarrat¡¯ or unceasing-thirst.
Divine soulscript shone upon the black and when Baethen removed his palm from the space between, a trifold set of cards came with him, held between his fingers without conscious assent as if they had always been there.
Hearken, the [Dealer-of-Fate] stirs awake at the {Player}¡¯s {Victory} over the {First} {Rung} of the {Akashic-Tower} of {Al-Reth?m}! As {Eldest}, [Fata-Morgana] takes {Rearhand} as {Dealer}.
Scouring [Akashic-Archive] for compatible {Cards} [¡]
Compatible {Cards} found; shuffling probabilities set to {[Base]: [One]} over {Mean} [¡]
Shuffle complete, {Card-Set: [Nightvault-Painted-Prison] ¡ï¡ï¡ï} {Drawn} and {Dealt} to {Player}; {Set} put into {Player}¡¯s {Archive}.
Baethen felt as if he¡¯d swallowed maggot-ridden fruit¡ªa beautiful exterior belying a disgusting core. This was all he¡¯d ever wanted and it tasted like dragonshite.
Fool that he was, instead of simply taking the cards with him and leaving this accursed place, selling them, settling down with a nice lass or lad and living out the rest of his life as best he could, Baethen¡
Well, he did what he did best: before unbeatable odds he placed ill-advised bets.
Having been rewarded he could just will himself back to Eot but he didn¡¯t. He read through the cards then and there and started to salivate at the possibilities of the immediate, uncaring that he¡¯d danced too close to Death far too many times already; sooner rather than later, he¡¯d dance his last for not knowing when to cut his losses and quit.
[Nightvault-Painted-Prison] ¡ï¡ï¡ï ({Three-Card-Set} - {Unlinked})
[Inchoate-Moonwell] ¡ï ({Single-Card} - {Linked} [Nightvault-Painted-Prison] ¡ï¡ï¡ï)
[Sunder-the-Mirror] ¡ï¡ï¡ï ({Single-Card} - {Linked} [Nightvault-Painted-Prison] ¡ï¡ï¡ï)
[Gaolsaint-Idol] ¡ï¡ï¡ï ({Single-Card} - {Linked} [Nightvault-Painted-Prison] ¡ï¡ï¡ï)
Two three-star cards strong enough that they could carry the burden of a paltry one-star and form a three-star set. To say that it was a lucky draw would be the understatement of the last millennium¡¯s worth of turns-of-Sol.
Set Earned: [Nightvault-Painted-Prison] ¡ï¡ï¡ï
Draw: [Three-of-a-Kind]
Drawback: [Star-Blind]
Arcana: [Night], [Chains], [The-Star]
Number: [XVII//XVIII]
Suit: [Back-Pocket]
Portfolio ¦µ: [¡®Most peoples look up above into the night and its innumerable stars, unknowing that beneath the black ice lie prisoners of a war fought before time immemorial¡¯. This {Card} grants the {Player} {Intermediate-Dominion} over the {Arcana-of-Night}, allowing them to {Seal} {Light} within their {Cast-Shadows}. {Light} {Sealed} within the {Player}¡¯s {Cast-Shadows} incurs a {Brand-of-Sloth} upon itself which will {Stagnate} the aforementioned {Light}. For this {Card} to be {Brought-Into-Play} to {Seal} {Light} within the {Player}¡¯s {Cast-Shadows}, they must {Sacrifice} a {Star-Sign} to the {Altar-of-the-Mind}, thus becoming {Blind} to it until the next {Hand} is {Redrawn}. Once this {Card} is {Brought-Into-Play} to {Unseal} {Sealed} {Light} from the {Player}¡¯s {Cast-Shadows}, it is {Discarded} from the their {Hand} into their {Archive} until the next {Hand} is {Redrawn}.]
Just as Baethen could evoke the remnant heat of a font of mercury when {Refunding} it, he could also seal fire along with light. The card was similar to a god-debt card in that it would require a lot of preparation to properly play¡ªit had no limit clause as to how much light could be sealed within one¡¯s shadow.
There was a lot of interpretation that could be had with how the card unsealed light as well. Baethen could focus the evocation into a singular spot, concentrating enough heat to melt through even a gaol-door of solid iron. He could even diffuse the light so as to blind any near him with a bright flash.
The arcana of the Charlatan would mix well with the [Nightvault-Painted-Prison] set as it would resonate with Baethen¡¯s arcanums. He knew it in the hollow of his bones, a gut feeling the likes of which came only to the most wise and the most foolish.
Card Earned: [Inchoate-Moonwell] ¡ï
Draw: [Of-a-Kind]
Drawback: [Star-Blind]
Arcana: [The-Moon], [The-Star], [The-Magus]
Number: [XVII//XVIII]
Suit: [Sleight-of-Hand]
Portfolio ¦µ: [¡®All magic must descend from the stars above, the last reflections to remain trapped within the vault of night¡¯. This {Card} grants the {Player} {Minor-Dominion} over the {Arcana-of-the-Moon}, allowing them to {Double} {Fonts} through {Star-Scrivening} so long as said {Fonts} are in {Touch} with a {Stave} held in {Thrall-of-Arm} and the {Moon} is held in {Thrall-of-Gaze}. Once this {Card} is {Brought-Into-Play}, the {Player} must {Sacrifice} a {Star-Sign} to the {Altar-of-the-Mind}, thus becoming {Blind} to it until the next {Hand} is {Redrawn}.]
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Altar-of-the-mind was a pretty way of saying ¡®mind¡¯s eye¡¯; though those were two different clauses, they overlapped enough so as to become nothing more than fine print¡ªprint so fine that it trumped the width of split hairs so it wasn¡¯t worth more than a hyperbolic comment.
Scrivening-cards were related to prophecy and binding-together omens to magnify the cards within one¡¯s soul-deck¡ªmost divinators, those that read the weather for ships and the like, had a scrivener archetype of some sort. Usually a meld of lesser cards cultivated to err towards the arcana of fate and serendipity.
[Moonwell] cards came in tiers of inchoate, occluded, translucid, and sempiternal like many other auxiliary-type cards and up to a maximum of four-stars. There was probably a one-of-a-kind variant of it that had a parity of five though that was likely hoarded by the Matriarch of the City-of-Mirrors who ruled over the Queendom of Assiah¡ªshe was the world¡¯s preeminent star magi, able to call down meteors from the sky and to bind fortune upon her lands through scrivening.
As far as the card went, Baethen didn¡¯t see much¡ªif any¡ªuse for it in regards to himself. It didn¡¯t mesh well with the rest of his deck and was probably a hold-over from a denizen of Babylon before both realm and god fell by the Fifteenth Hand. There were many such divine demesnes where mortals could petition and beseech their patrons for aid.
Baethen stood within one such realm, chasing after the spoils of a dead god.
Card Earned: [Sunder-the-Mirror] ¡ï¡ï¡ï
Draw: [Seven-of-a-Kind]
Drawback: [Riven-Asunder]
Arcana: [The-Mirror], [The-World], [Night]
Number: [XVII//XXI]
Suit: [Sleight-of-Hand]
Portfolio ¦µ: [¡®Reflections of that which sundered the mirror, four; stipend, stave, sceptre, sword¡¯. This {Card} grants the {Player} {Major-Dominion} over the {Arcana-of-the-Mirror}, allowing them to {Manifest} a {Font-of-Reflection} in the {Form} of a {Plane} before them through {Expenditure} of a {Shard-of-Glass}. Once this {Card} is {Brought-Into-Play}, the {Font-of-Reflection} is {Affixed} to its {Spawning-Locus} and must be {Struck} with a {Medium} of the {Player} held in {Thrall-of-Arm} before this {Card} may be {Played} again. Should the {Player}¡¯s {Cast-Shadows} be caught in the {Reflection} of a {Body-of-Still-Water} after this {Card} is {Brought-Into-Play}, their {Dominion} over the {Arcana-of-the-Mirror} is {Dispelled} until the next {Hand} is {Redrawn} and their {Cast-Shadows} {Forfeit}.]
This card on the other hand¡ªno jest intended¡ªdid mesh well with Baethen.
Even the lore section of its portfolio matched as [Mercurial-Inksmith] mentioned the primordial mirror of the time before the Gods awoke to play Their Game.
Baethen wondered how the card¡¯s font functioned as he¡¯d never played around with such an arcane magic before. Could he trap spells within it? What about missiles like arrows and lances? Or was the font like that of the Charlatan: illusory?
He couldn¡¯t wait to try it out.
[Gaolsaint-Idol] ¡ï¡ï¡ï
Draw: [Twelve-of-a-Kind]
Drawback: [Seraphic-Castigation]
Arcana: [The-Sun], [Fire], [The-Hierophant]
Number: [XIX//V]
Suit: [Triumph]
Portfolio ¦µ: [¡®The twelve archseraphs of Gwynedd-Sol did battle with the forces of Gehenna and, in so doing, knowingly trapped themselves within forevermore¡¯. This {Card} grants the {Player} {Utter-Dominion} over the {Arcana-of-the-Sun}, allowing them to {Evoke} the sleeping {Archseraph} within {Once} every {Turn-of-Sol} for so long as the {Player} can {Withstand} the {Burden} of {Blinding-Light} upon their {Eyes}. Once this {Card} is {Brought-Into-Play}, the {Player}¡¯s {Cast-Shadows} are {Forfeit} until the next {Hand} is {Redrawn}. After being {Brought-Into-Play}, the {Player} incurs a {Brand-of-Shame} for every {Sin} they¡¯ve {Wrought} since last {Playing} this {Card}.]
The seraphem were the class of angels which Scaduphomet used as the protoschema for the dragons, the third elder race after the titans and the psychopomps. Burning, fiery serpents wrought of living flame, they lived upon the skin of Gwynedd-Sol Himself. Only once every millennium did a seraph make pilgrimage to Eot through the vacuous waters of the intervening ether and their appearance hearkened both great proposterity and persecution.
An inversion of pure spirit into impure flesh, the worms of the Devil were. This bit of fact brought profound confusion to Baethen as he was the farthest player for such a gift. This was something only a priest should be given, not an infidel warlock.
[Gaolsaint-Idol] was one step removed from being an artefact proper held within the vaults of the Church-of-the-Sun; Baethen did not doubt for one blink that the clergy could physicalise the card into one through their holy magicks. The only reason that its star-parity wasn¡¯t higher was the steep cost of actually playing the card.
It just didn¡¯t make sense to him; not one bit.
¡°Don¡¯t leave us hanging, lad.¡±
What a polite way to say: ¡®We don¡¯t trust you, pagan. Show us what you have in those worming hands of yours before we put you under the ground where worms belong.¡¯
Though Haviershan¡¯s voice was still that gravely, amicable tone, Baethen knew better. People hid behind masks all the time, especially when they feared that what you hid behind yours was the face of a monster.
Baethen swallowed the [Nightvault-Painted-Prison] set into his soul and then touched his slate, letting the Captain read out the particulars for the cadre. There was a distance between them, both physical and metaphorical. Even Lac gave him the cold-shoulder whenever Baethen shot her a small, shaky smile. Every time she looked the other way and did not meet his eyes, it was worse than being stabbed in the gut.
The amount of backwards-barbed quills that had been removed from his belly, and just body in general, did not compare to the feeling of reaching out for a hand and being met with not merely indifference but scorn. In the feverish waking-and-dreaming within Lazarra¡¯s mending-tent, it was her presence that had buoyed him through the rough waters of delirium.
Men were not born alone but feared dying so.
¡°I can give up the [Gaolsaint-Idol] in return for the damascene gladius. The [Inchoate-Moonwell] also doesn¡¯t do me much good either. [Sunder-the-Mirror] though, is mine by right of conquest.¡±
He said these words into the air for the people in front of him did not deign to interact with what he¡¯d spoken. They¡¯d been this way since he¡¯d awoken as if the man he was before he slept different than the one that stood before then now.
When it seemed that Escoriot would interject, the venom practically dripping from his thin line of a mouth, Haviershan nodded.
¡°You¡¯re gonna attempt a rivening, then?¡±
Baethen slid his thumb on the underside of his fingers, bringing up a verdigris coin stamped with the sigil of an inset within the palm of an open, imperial hand¡ªDazhbog¡¯s iconography apparent as was the magical nature of the object, a palpable presence about it as if the tang of lightning about to strike, somehow more real than everything else as if the world were a mere smudged painting in comparison.
¡°Nothing so¡ barbarian.¡±
XIX - The Blazing Light
He flipped the token end-over-end around his knuckles, savouring the surprise and then greed he saw in the others¡¯ eyes as they realised what he held, how he flaunted it before them and that he wasn¡¯t so meek so as to bend over backwards to bow before them.
He knew they knew.
Rather than risk them attacking him and robbing him of the [Tabula-Rasa], Baethen swallowed the coin. He did so with the rabid glee of a serpent devouring eggs before their parents and then scurrying away.
Eyes were the windows into the soul and Baethen¡¯s burned incandescent white as if two stars placed within his skull. The sheer power did not so much as course through him as it did blaze like a tree struck by a spear of Stribog and hollowed out by the fires raging within.
He opened his mouth and spoke a Word in the Language, the tenth to be spoken in the Game, heard only by the first ten gods of the Numbered-Pantheon and the one which came before all and bore silent witness: Balphas, Sybil, Zartaxia, Woeden, Nezen, Leizuziel, Rephatamon, Stribog, Alunariat, and lastly Fata-Morgana for She spoke it:
¡°[Wyrd.]¡±
The turn of the tongue and of the wheel twain; severing and binding, e¡¯er-turning and never waking, woven and unravelled. The Word added no power, shaped no spell; it was nought more than a simple recounting, a remembering of the bygone age before even the concept of wars came to be.
Eot faded away, replaced with the desolation of Babylon.
Hearken, the [Dealer-of-Fate] stirs awake! As {Eldest}, [Fata-Morgana] takes {Rearhand} as {Dealer}.
Scouring [Akashic-Archive] for compatible {Arcanum-Deck} [¡]
Compatible {Arcanum-Deck} found; shuffling probabilities set to {[Base]: [One]} over {Mean} [¡]
Shuffle complete, [Three-of-a-Kind] {Sets} {Drawn}; please select {Three} {Cards} to form a {Set}.
*Selections are final; results are blind; only {One} {Card} of each {Set} may be selected. Should a {Set} not be formed in the {Allotted-Time} of {Ten-Licks}, a {Set} will be selected at random.
? Set I: [Remain-Steadfast], [Covenant-of-the-Damned], [Catharsis-of-Absolution]
? Set II: [Death-Reversed], [Blood-of-Vein], [The-Mirror]
? Set III: [Night], [The-Crucible], [Fire]
His first set choices had advanced to rareform permutations of the last; [Stay-the-Course] became [Remain-Steadfast] and would preserve the particulars of Baethen¡¯s cards so far. It would further cement what he¡¯d already slotted with little to no deviation on his card-links such as melds and deck capstones.
[Catharsis-of-Absolution] would purge his cards of the arcana of the Red-Dragon but that was too little too late; the token could not reach into his arcanum and cleanse it of the accumulated filth so what was the point?
With a foot already in Gehenna, Baethen stepped fully in league with the Worms, choosing [Covenant-of-the-Damned]. It was a foolish choice borne of immaturity and resentment but one he made without second thought for there was thought within him then. It was power, plain and simple.
In regards to the second set, Baethen wavered between [Death-Reversed] and [The-Mirror]. The first offered the chance of an immortality meld which could prevent a fatal blow or heal him from the brink of shuffling off this mortal coil. The second would compound and synergise with [Mercurial-Inksmith], [Sunder-the-Mirror], and [Nightvault-Painted-Prison]. He already had a mending play with [Scarwright] so Baethen opted for the arcana of [The-Mirror].
For the last choice, Baethen did not need to deliberate, grasping for the arcana of [The-Crucible] like a man grasps at dead coals in the depths of winter. The Round-of-Tzenect was called the Round-of-Bones for reason of deprivation. A time where the boughs are empty of leaf and white with snow; a time where men survive the winter as nought but sleep-still bones and thus not at all.
{Hand} chosen as follows:
? [Covenant-of-the-Damned]
? [The-Mirror]
? [The-Crucible]
Fusing {Arcanum} into {Deck}; please wait [...]
Baethen let go of the token, the coin falling past the barrier that separated his reflected halves and into the nothingness on both sides. He felt the cards within his soul shift, shuffling the foundations of his being.
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Many played cards without much thought about how they worked. Cards were extensions of the soul, tools and mediums through which to channel will upon the waking world to tangible effect; they interfaced directly with what you were so that the world became what you wished it to be.
Rivenings left broken men, women, and leirites in their wake for shards of broken arcana lay within them, tumours of divinity growing where they should not. The spellscarred were much the same though more adapted to the changes wrought upon their most base level of existence.
The process catalysed by [Tabula-Rasa] was mostly done without conscious input from Baethen, his will only interceding to quarantine two cards from the rest so that he might remove them without fear once he returned to Eot. Here and there, he prodded at the invisible hand that shuffled his soul¡¯s deck to change which card went into which set and influence his card links so that the resultant melds weren¡¯t wasted.
An eternal instant later, it was done, the razing of his very soul down to its foundations so that he might build it anew with the fallen brickwork of before.
({Archetype}: [Prime]) Selected; {Player}¡¯s ({Hand}: [1//3]) {Drawn} as follows:
[Echo-of-Alabastron] ¡ï¡ï¡ï ({Thirteen-Card-Deck} - {Unlinked})
[Empty-Slot]
[Empty-Slot]
[Echo-of-Alabastron] ¡ï¡ï¡ï ({Thirteen-Card-Deck} - {Unlinked}) shuffled as follows:
? [Imp-of-Serpents] ¡ï¡ï ({Four-Card-Set} - {Linked} [Echo-of-Alabastron] ¡ï¡ï¡ï)
[Lesser-Juggler-of-Fire] ¡ï ({Single-Card} - {Linked} [Parlour-Tricks] ¡ï)
[Cinderspark-Spit] ¡ï ({Single-Card} - {Linked} [Forge-Maw] ¡ï¡ï)
[Kindlers-Breath] ¡ï¡ï ({Single-Card} - {Linked} [Forge-Maw] ¡ï¡ï)
[Gullet-of-the-Sky-Gorger] ¡ï¡ï ({Single-Card} - {Linked} [Scoric-Wormscale-hide] ¡ï¡ï)
? [Cycle-of-the-Crucible] ¡ï¡ï ({Four-Card-Set} - {Linked} [Echo-of-Alabastron] ¡ï¡ï¡ï)
[Flawed-Steelheart] ¡ï ({Single-Card} - {Linked} [Scoric-Wormscale-hide] ¡ï¡ï)
[Leaden-Stomach] ¡ï ({Single-Card} - {Linked} [Scoric-Wormscale-hide] ¡ï¡ï)
[Slag-and-Scale] ¡ï¡ï ({Single-Card} - {Linked} [Strike-While-the-Iron-is-Hot] ¡ï)
[Run-Like-the-Wind] ¡ï ({Single-Card} - {Linked} [Strike-While-the-Iron-is-Hot] ¡ï)
? [Nightvault-Painted-Prison] ¡ï¡ï¡ï ({Three-Card-Set} - {Linked} [Echo-of-Alabastron] ¡ï¡ï¡ï)
[Lesser-Narguile-of-Night] ¡ï ({Single-Card} - {Linked} [Parlour-Tricks] ¡ï)
[Mercurial-Inksmith] ¡ï¡ï¡ï ({Single-Card} - {Linked} [Scarwright] ¡ï¡ï)
[Sunder-the-Mirror] ¡ï¡ï¡ï ({Single-Card} - {Linked} [Scarwright] ¡ï¡ï)
His previous false or half-step deck [Cycle-of-the-Crucible] and its constituent sets had been cannibalised in the shuffling process, reforming links with each other to preserve the previous melds. Baethen hadn¡¯t gained any new melds¡ªdisregarding the deck conflux, that is¡ªbut he had breathed in new life to his deck, transforming it into a proper one that took up only a single slot within his Hand.
The only true mutation had been with [Lesser-Wormscale-Hide] losing its {Lesser} prefix and gaining the {Scoric} one. The arcana of scoria was the corrupted form of the arcana of the crucible, the leftover slag and scale and dross from the forge rather than the fiery forces proper.
The card had fully matured into something worthy selling your immortal soul over.
Card-Meld Linked: [Scoric-Wormscale-hide] ¡ï¡ï
Draw: [Threefold]
Drawback: [The-Beast-Within]
Arcana: [The-Worm], [Strength], [Scoria]
Number: [XV//XIX]
Suit: [Triumph]
Portfolio ¦µ: [¡®A hide of scoria, of rock infernal from the pitted crags of Gehenna¡¯. This {Meld} grants the {Player} {Major-Dominion} over the {Arcana-of-Worms} and {Intermediate-Dominion} over the {Arcana-of-Scoria}, allowing them to {Metamorphose} their {Skin} into {Scoric-Wormscale} which {Resists} the bite of {Blades}, the strike of {Staves}, and the licks of {Fire}. Once this {Meld} is {Brought-Into-Play}, the {Player} incurs a {Brand-of-Wrath} which {Empowers} {Infernal-Arcana} but {Enrages} them until the next {Hand} is {Redrawn}.]
Though an undeniably powerful meld, what truly blew away his expectations was the deck¡¯s capstone and namesake. Beyond the set changes which allowed him to fit more cards into his Hand, the [Tabula-Rasa] token had left him a parting gift. It was the product of all his powers, be they bought and commissioned within Reordran, earned within Rimare-Tul or taken from the jaws of defeat.
Deck Formed: [Echo-of-Alabastron] ¡ï¡ï¡ï
Draw: [One-of-a-Kind]
Drawback: [True-Name]
Arcana: [The-Crucible], [Night], [Mercury]
Number: [Zero//XVIII]
Suit: [Back-Pocket]
Portfolio ¦µ: [¡®Riven from the mirror, the first to escape was fire¡¯. This {Deck} grants the {Player} with {Utter-Dominion} over the {Arcana-of-the-Crucible}, allowing them to {Fabricate} {Simulacra} of {Cards} by impressing them over a {Font-of-Mercurial-Shadow} and {Striking} it with a {Sceptre} {Resplendent} in the {Arcana-of-Fire}; and, in so doing, {Expend} said {Fonts} and {Imbue} the {Stricken} {Card} within the {Sceptre}. Should the {Player}¡¯s {True-Name} be {Uttered} before them, this {Deck} and all {Cards} {Linked} to it, shall be {Forfeit} to the {Utterer}.]
Baethen had never been more joyous or dreadful¡ªhe¡¯d signed a soul-binding contract with Haviershan to jump onto the expedition and should the Captain find out his deck¡¯s drawback, he could not only lord it over Baethen but take it from him wholesale.
His cards were like the spheres, the god-planets, orbiting around the blazing light of Sol; should the sun either wink out from existence or grow gluttonous to devour the other arcana, it would spell the doom for all that depended on Him.
Were it not for that particularly pernicious drawback, the deck might¡¯ve not even formed a three-star capstone as it was composed of so many lesser parities. Still, it proved worrying.
How would he avoid disaster? How would he thread the needle to stay within the cadre and thus the Evergaol? How would he balance on the knife¡¯s edge between keeping his cards and becoming utterly ruined while doing so?
Baethen would have to answer those questions right quick for in the next blink he returned to the waking world, his former-cronies looking at him expectantly as they surrounded him in a circle. Though no weapons were drawn, hands were at the ready to do so.
¡°Well, lad. I¡¯ve got to say I wasn¡¯t expecting that.¡±
XX - Judgement
Baethen preferred enemies that came at him with apparent bloodlust rather than all this conniving and social combat. A foe that was charging at him from the front with spear in hand rather than at his back with a smile and calling themself ¡®friend¡¯ while hiding a knife up their sleeve.
What was the correct thing to say to a group of people that did not so much as trust you? They wouldn¡¯t want him near them without great investment from his part and that meant exposing a secret which could end Baethen¡¯s adventuring career right in its infancy. Haviershan had been a kind fellow that looked out for him and his but, right now, he did not look at Baethen as belonging to the company.
Unadept but not unused to lying, Baethen drew a knowing smile from the corner of his lips and said with an unwavering tone: ¡°Keep your cards close, no?¡±
Rhetoric had nothing to do with words but rather inference. Simpler, more direct and honest folk had no need for hiding meaning in between breaths but those that went after power had to learn the art of tongue wagging right quick. Monsters might kill you but swindlers made you do it yourself.
Baethen let them stew in the silence, relaxing his stance and creasing the edges of his eyes as if to taunt: ¡®well, speak your part; I am waiting¡¯. Though his flesh took after an aspect of utter tranquillity, his soul tightened like the legs of an alabaster nun after a vow of celibacy. He was ready to play his cards should the worst come to pass.
Seeing as Baethen did not leave him any recourse but the more heavy-handed approach, the Captain just nodded and then turned to address the cadre.
¡°You lot reckon we¡¯re good for another rung?¡±
¡°That Guardian was stronger than we thought.¡± Escoriot said, seeing as he was the second in the line of command, the would-be tactician. ¡°In any other situation, we¡¯d have to fight a fighting retreat. D?mons aren¡¯t supposed to be four-stars until after the third rung.¡±
That was the first that Baethen heard the sphynx¡¯s star parity and he still couldn¡¯t quite believe it. The d?mon was most likely on the weaker end of four-stars, with just enough magic to push it from three to four but not much more. Its Language abilities had been what¡¯d made it so dangerous.
¡°Wounds are mostly scratches and bruises and the like.¡± Lac said, beginning to at least look in Baethen¡¯s direction with a side-eye glance. ¡°No broken bones in need of resetting or any open punctures. Some wyrd-ointment should be enough to fend off any pox-spirits so we don¡¯t go sour with gangrene.¡±
Narancan, as Field-Sergeant, was responsible for supplies and rationing; he spoke up when the Captain¡¯s gaze fell upon him.
¡°We¡¯ve enough to see us over for another three rounds¡ªfour if we stretch rations thin. The hardtack hasn¡¯t spawned any fey-weevils and the dowsing rod is working fine. The purification rune-brands on the water-sieves show no decay, not even a nick.¡±
Haverishan made a show of looking around for dissent so that he may take measure of it. No grievance was aired though Baethen knew that those eyes talked amongst each other of the enemy within their ranks.
¡°Then my judgement is settled: we¡¯ll continue ascending the rungs. To the tower¡¯s heart, we go.¡±
Though Baethen had thought he¡¯d be thrown out without so much as a single snort of protest, he¡¯d over-estimated their willingness to part with a player. Sure, they could force him to forfeit and leave but then they¡¯d also have to wait for another to join which might risk incensing the tower¡¯s ire.
The first rung had been rather deserted, with nary an enemy in comparison to Haviershan¡¯s previous delves. What it lacked in numbers it had made up in star parity, its Guardian a force not to be reckoned with. Not because it was not powerful or worthy¡ªit most certainly was¡ªbut rather because any victory achieved over Ruination would be pyrrhic in nature.
Essentially, Haviershan was gambling his life and the lives of his soldiers-o¡¯-fortune on the predicate that Baethen would be more friend than foe. He saw the odds of Baethen betraying them as low enough in comparison to the archd?mon rousing fully from slumber; should the fallen angel of the Dead-God Babylon awake, it would marshall the forces sleeping within to invade Eot.
The Helmouths of Gehenna might be spoken of in gibbering terror but the Evergaols of Babylon were whispered of in despair. God-beasts and divine spirits insensately-enraged from ?ons of torment and confinement within the corpse of their slain father could rival any cavortation of devils or host of wraiths.
The Twentieth Arcana of Judgement was just as feared as the Fifteenth Hand. Where Scaduphomet was disdained and scorned as the antithesis of Man, Nagalfaram was respected for being the Judge-of-Man¡¯s-Fate, fomenting temerity within their hearts, inspiring the fatherly white-fear of justice. The fear of punishment, of the rod, of divine castigation.
He, afterall, had been the one to curse Scaduphomet¡¯s womb barren after Her betrayal and fratricide so that She would have to cut off Her own heads to spawn Her vile progeny, the lesser worm-gods.
They did not advance onto the next rung in the same day, nor even the next or the one after that. They would recover and acquaint themselves with their new cards¡ªeveryone had gained some new power or another.
A notch or two would be enough of a refractory period to see them stronger than before and ready to contend against the next Divine Arcana¡¯s manifestation. Perhaps it would be another aspect of Yurnmagog, erring towards the World-Shadow rather than the Scapegoat, with rootwalkers and wortlings in place of harpies and hags. These writhing, moving plant monsters were the inversion of the pale gallowswood trees around them¡ªwhere their bark was bone-white, the rootborne were pitch-black with cerulean leaves in place of scarlet. The Azure Forest that encircled Rimare-Tul from the West was the remnant of a previous god-bleed when the domain of Yurnmagog bled into Eot during the Time-of-Upheaval in the previous Game.
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Baethen kept to himself, only keeping company with the rest of the cadre so that he could close his eyes undisturbed from the blood-harpies and their brethren. Either they would kill him in his sleep or they wouldn¡¯t¡ªeither way, it wasn¡¯t worth losing sleep over as he couldn¡¯t strike out on his own without certain death.
No man was an island nor army; alone, he would die.
It was during his long bouts of solitude that Baethen practised his new cards and he was not disappointed in the slightest. His deck had been piecemeal before, certain powers mutually exclusive due to the constraint of his Hand. Now, he could use all of them without worrying about juggling risk, reward and utility.
Baethen struck a gallowswood with his sword-spear blunted into a long, bladeless stave. When it made contact with the pale bone-bark, the metal exploded with lashing tongues of flame, incinerating the white into ember-veined black.
He could only imbue a single card within a single stave lest the confluence of energies within grow turbulent and backlash. He¡¯d placed a simulacra of [Strike-While-the-Iron-is-Hot] meld within his weapon¡¯s mace-like head and had played it to devastating effect on the inanimate and unfortunate tree before him.
Since decks were more stable than single sets, even with an odd number of cards not divisible by three, Baethen could remove it from his soul to play with still keeping it within his Hand¡ªit was the same process as removing a token from his Tabula or discarding a linked card to his Archive due to a {Bring-Into-Play} clause; a paradoxical sleight-of-hand that was hard to explain. The best that Baethen could surmise to another person was that it was like juggling with your eyes crossed while balancing on a gossamer thread of steel.
Tricky, finicky, fickle, and strangely satisfying like picking at your gums with a splinter.
The arcana and the overall power of the card was still inside his soul but its manifest physical-form was outside, both connected by an invisible thread like that of iron to lodestone.
Beyond being able to play his whole kit interchangeably, Baethen had traded [Inchoate-Moonwell] with Escoriot for a meta-card with the arcana of the sceptre so that he could modify his casts to include {Thrall-of-Gaze} as well. This way, he didn¡¯t have to always physically move and could use his will in place of body.
({Archetype}: [Prime]) Selected; {Player}¡¯s ({Hand}: [3//3]) {Drawn} as follows:
[Echo-of-Alabastron] ¡ï¡ï¡ï ({Thirteen-Card-Deck} - {Unlinked})
[Clouded-Fiefsight] ¡ï ({Single-Card} - {Unlinked})
[Bloodfly-Husk] ¡ï ({Single-Card} - {Unlinked})
[Clouded-Fiefsight] ¡ï
Draw: [Of-a-Kind]
Drawback: [Eye-of-the-Beholder]
Arcana: [The-Tower], [Sight], [The-Eye]
Number: [IV//XXI]
Suit: [Triumph]
Portfolio ¦µ: [¡®Wherever your eye falls upon, there does your dominion follow in its wake¡¯. This {Card} grants the {Player} with {Minor-Dominion} over the {Arcana-of-the-Lord}, allowing them to {Rewrite} the {Thrall-of-Arm} {Clause} of a {Card} into the {Thrall-of-Gaze} {Clause}; only {One} {Card} may be {Rewritten} at a time. The {Thrall-of-Gaze} {Rewrite} born of this {Card} must {Contend} against the {Dominion} of other {Players}; should the {Player} lose {Clout} before a {Greater-Dominion}, the {Player}¡¯s {Dominion} over the {Arcana-of-the-Lord} is {Dispelled} until the next {Hand} is {Redrawn}.]
[Clouded-Fiefsight] was part of the [Lordsight] set which allowed sceptres to function through line-of-sight. Some cards of that set still required an {Act-of-Body} but with a ranged {Thrall} clause in place of something strictly melee. Apropos of its namesake, many nobles had a permutation of the [Lordsight] set so that they could command their forces from afar as sceptres fell under the Tower-Investiture, the investiture of warriors, leaders, and clergy. The [Leaguesight] set was the lesser cousin of the [Lordsight] set, erring towards staves as bows counted as that particular arcane focus.
The {Scoric} prefix added to his meld had changed the manifestation of wormscale. Instead of semi-smooth scales, crags of scoria erupted from Baethen¡¯s skin, covering him in a shell of igneous rock. Because of this, he did not have need of armour of any kind any longer. His scales counted as metallic fonts due to their new composition and he could forge his magicks through them just as well.
The irony of forging a suit of armour from a dread-knight only to become one himself was not lost on Baethen. He¡¯d worn the hide of a monster and could blame no one but himself when he found that it was no longer a cloak but something more intimate and binding.
As a consolation for whatever fate he had in store for himself after death, the power of the card was like a spiced draught of moonsugar¡ªutterly intoxicating. He felt invincible, nothing able to penetrate his defences, nothing able to harm him.
He could put his hand through a pool of molten slag, he could strike at it with his damascene gladius, he could pound it with a stone; his scales, thick and cracked, sloughed-off only to be replaced by new scoria. In comparison to its previous incarnation, this permutation of wormscale regenerated faster, could take more damage overall, and resisted a new source of harm¡ªthat of staves.
Though Baethen did not have a single card which directly augmented strength or even belonged to the arcana of strength, he was certainly exceeding his previous mortal limits. He wasn¡¯t past the natural upper stratus of what a man was capable of but he was certainly closer to it than before.
It was a confluence of [Flawed-Steelheart], [Slag-and-Scale], and [Scoric-Wormscale-Hide]; the first let him apply the second to his muscles intuitively and the third augmented what was already there, letting his dominion over the arcana of the crucible seep into himself more deeply.
He¡¯d been scared, previously, that he would not recognise the Baethen that came out of the Tower. Now, he was glad for it¡ªthe previous Baethen paled before the power of the current.
Baethen grabbed an errant rock from the ground, one that barely fit within his palm. It was solid through-and-through, a singular, continuous object. It wasn¡¯t brittle, it did not crumble with a little pressure into dust.
Within his scaled right hand, Baethen closed his fist around the unriven stone.
Man, without aid of tools, could not break such a stone by strength of arm alone. Not for lack of force, necessarily, but for lack of constitution. One¡¯s tendons and bones would give before the pulleys of their muscles; physical might was not simply a matter of how tightly the sinews of a bow could pull but how that bow could withstand the forces impressed upon it.
Wormscale clad him from fingers to elbows, scoria cracking his skin into impervious, unfeeling rock. Though it gave no might directly, the meld reinforced his body along with the other flesh-warping card [Flawed-Steelheart]. It was certainly not to the same degree as a direct strength card but¡
Stone once-unriven cracked in twelve, then seven, and then finally into many uncountable shards and dust that fell through the gaps of his wormclad fingers.
The grin that split Baethen¡¯s face in two was downright feral.
Interlude - Wildman
In the intervening two notches between this rung and the next, Baethen took to hunting down every last harpy he could get his claws on.
This ended up being rather literal as they¡¯d begun to run from him on sight and he¡¯d had to improvise and capture them like headless chickens. Perhaps it was the disparity of their metaphysical weight, his arcanums heavy against their subtler senses.
He¡¯d yet to get himself a [Spiritsight] card like [Lesser-Daemonic-Third-Eye] which could interpret gnostic-glyphs and in so doing give a rough estimate of an entity¡¯s star-parity, or [Partial-Metempsychosis] which could take measure of souls as if vapour pouring from the living or as semi-ambulatory wisps for the dead. Numbered-Gods, Baethen would accept even a [Clouded-Arcane-Gaze] so he could at least read superficial aspects of the spirit.
Maybe it was just the nature of his trade or maybe it spoke of something deeper seated within Baethen, but he¡¯d had the wherewithal to think through all of this while he wrung the neck of a harpy with his bare hands. Bone cracked, joints and cartilage ripping apart as the life left the god-beast¡¯s beady-black eyes.
This was the thirtieth angel he¡¯d slain since the battle with Ruination; he¡¯d given back his rations to Escoriot a long time ago as he¡¯d begun to subsist entirely on monstrous fowl. The blood, once salted and spiced, made for a decent enough tea if a bit metallic.
You lose disgust right quick when you¡¯ve either thirst to slake or hunger to sate.
Especially so when the hunger was not merely physical.
{Player}s ({Arcanum}: {Intrinsic}) {Read} as follows:
[Arcana-of-Blood] ¡ï¡ï [Minor] III - {Resonant} II - {Dissonant} I ? [Minor] IV - {Resonant} II - {Dissonant} I
[Arcana-of-Blood] ¡ï¡ï
?[Minor] IV - [Resonant] II - [Dissonant] I - [Intrinsic]
Origin ¦µ: [Allows {Player} to {Manifest} a {Font-of-Blood} in the {Form} of {Droplets}, {Globules}, or {Minor-Pools} {Thrice} per {Hand} so long as there is a {Bleeding-Wound} in {Touch} with a {Font-of-Air} in a {Locus} around the {Player}.]
? [As the first contra, allows {Player} to {Imbue} {Metallic-Fonts} into {Corporeal-Fonts} so long as they are already {Imbued} with a {Metallic-Font} {Thrice} per {Hand}.]
? [As the second and final contra, allows {Player} to {Manifest} a {Font-of-Blood} so long as a {Locus} is {Resplendent} with the {Arcana-of-Death} {Thrice} per {Hand}.]
His dominion over the arcana of blood had been at [Minor] II after the fight with Ruination. It had jumped two whole magnitudes since then after Baethen changed his diet from solids to semi-liquid stews of divine origin.
Baethen didn¡¯t need to have a bleeding wound himself to manifest new fonts through the arcanum but rather just have any near him. Gashes afflicted on his enemies counted; strangely this did not take blood from a foe but rather was just a limitation wholesale¡ªa product of dissonance, of antithetical dominions clashing with each other.
His resonance prefix did not change as he¡¯d not gained any new arcanums.
Baethen took the harpy by its long, slender and limp neck and sat by a gallowswood¡¯s stump, resting his back for a bit. He¡¯d learned this next trick after a morbid afternoon of desecrating the carcass of an angel¡ªthe phrasing made it sound worse than it was though he imagined that even in this context it was still some variety of blasphemy.
The godspawn was beginning to sublimate, its pseudo-flesh evaporating back into pure spirit; a few more licks of the clock without interaction and it would return fully to the ether. Baethen breathed-in, pulling at the threads that held the angel together to unravel, beckoning its wayward Babylonic-script to join his.
Streamers of copper-red, letter-etched soulstuff were sucked into Baethen¡¯s waiting maw. He couldn¡¯t breathe through his nose lest he drown in godling blood. He had to pull and then stop in a steady rhythm to consume the godspawn¡¯s spirit and the glyphes contained within. Each logogram cascaded into his soul like a cog falling into its slot, clicking into place where it belonged.
The harpy wasn¡¯t sapient, only sentient, so there wasn¡¯t a soul construct proper within to attach to his own and possess him so Baethen did not fret. Much. All power came at a cost, afterall.
Harvesting glyphs and arcana this way was faster than having to cook it though Baethen reckoned he lost efficiency. An actual alchemist would do better than him but there was no one with such a mastery over flesh-lore within twenty leagues of him, much less the current world.
Each rung of an Evergaol was a universe unto itself, expanding infinitely so long as someone was there to witness it. Anything not observed reverted back into formlessness which could then be fashioned into form. When you looked at something in the corner of your eyes, it appeared hazy, as if under a veil of smoke, ebbing placidly as if beneath stillwater.
It wasn¡¯t real. Nothing here was. Just a figment of the imagination of a god long since dead, infected with the living thoughts of another divinity that ushered in sacrifice and bloodshed.
No matter how many more harpies Baethen ended up swallowing into the seemingly endless gullet of his soul, he did not gain another magnitude to his minor arcanum of blood. He felt as if it was on the cusp of advancing, like a woodpile all neat and tidy and with tinder but lacking a catchspark or some other artefice with which to make a fire proper.
He¡¯d not advanced his other arcanums at all, seeing as the most common resonant arcana to be had with the monsters of this rung was that of blood. The arcana of ichor was too rarefied to be had with lesser godspawn of this sort and the arcana of violence, war, and slaughter did not have a place within Baethen¡¯s soul. His sheer antipathy towards that particular branch of the arcana made it unlikely to gestate within his Tower-of-Babel.
The arcana of betrayal and worms had been outliers due to the outside influence of having cards that provided said dominions wholesale¡ªrather than trying to sow oats within the fallows of a field, that was like transplanting a sapling which would take root far easier in comparison to a sleeping seed.
Thus, seeing that he¡¯d not gain much if any more glyphs from the monsters, Baethen stopped harvesting them and just went out on the warpath. The hypocrisy of despising the arcana of violence and indulging in it so deeply was lost on him as scales-of-scoria clad him in a second skin impervious to everything this rung had to offer.
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The single word that best described him then was ¡®callous¡¯ for he wore the dead remnants of himself as armour and could feel nought¡ªno pain, no regret, no second thoughts, no hesitation as to whether what he was about to do was right or wrong or wise or foolish.
To start out confrontations with the harpy-angels of Yurnmagog, Baethen played [Cinderspark-Spit] and [Strike-While-the-Iron-is-Hot] with a smattering of others¡ªthis card-chain was an old but dear one he¡¯d made when still under the auspices of the Azure Forest.
Rain-of-fire decimated the angels that descended upon him, a tenth of their number falling to the barren earth kicking and screaming, molten chunks of metal sticking to their wings and burning with a supernatural fire they could not put out. Baethen¡¯s flames, through the influence of half-dozen or so arcanums, did not burn out, instead feeding on whatever they touched as if alive. He felt his dominion clash with theirs and supersede them in the fight for supremacy, for primacy.
When the second wave swooped down upon him, Baethen screamed and swung his sword-spear, having ignited it before the battle had begun. He drew upon his once-per-Hand arcanum of worms, transforming the amber fires that cowled him, arms and armour and all.
Sickly, sulphur and umber flames devoured those that birthed them from the inside out like teratomas, howling into being at the mere thought of violence. Their cores were the colour of brimstone and they stank of burning flesh even before coming into contact with such, emitting a choking miasma in place of smoke and with black tongues that gibbered in a strange language.
Wormfire did not kill fast. Its power was not one of raw volume but rather unceasing, inexorable, clawing persistence. All that the harpies felt then was an unsettling, tingling sensation like being bathed in vinegar and this spelled their inevitable doom.
Swinging in a slow and steady tempo, Baethen used the choking smog produced by the wormfire to play the smoke-burst chain, pushing away his foes when they congregated too much for him to handle. When his sword-spear could not cut through the swathes of airborne angels, he played a smoke-burst, seeding it with heat through [Cycle-of-the-Crucible]¡ªwithin the substrate of the vapour was sublimates of various lesser metals such as lead and mercury and iron and tin, allowing his arcana to take root within.
Talons and wings choked out the bleeding, sulphurous skies; everywhere Baethen could and couldn¡¯t see was now occupied by harpies. He¡¯d not run when he should¡¯ve, having stayed in place for too long. Once reaching this tipping point, the host of angels began to make way for their matriarchs, the wingless hags indolent upon their palanquins of vermillion and bronze.
¡°[Weaken.]¡±
¡°[Stumble.]¡±
¡°[Die.]¡±
¡°[Fear.]¡±
¡°[Blindness.]¡±
¡°[Deafness.]¡±
The curses built upon one another, carving brands upon Baethen¡¯s soul, excoriating the skin of his being and flaying him from the inside-out. The world caved-in, vertigo making it so that Baethen was impossibly small as an ant; and tall as a giant; and swaying upon the peak of the greatest mountain from which he could see the entire face of Eot; and at the bottom of the bottomless pit where Alunariat¡¯s angels-of-darkness, the Vesper, dwelled and made communion with the fathomless all-nothing which bore the Numbers.
Among the rootwork lattice of curse-brands, one stood out, deeper carved for it originated from within and not from without.
The {Brand-of-Wrath} burned, a blackness about it which knew no decency and no mercy and no care but for unbridled destruction and desolation. It howled and broke through the chains that bound him in deafness and blindness and fear and death and weakness and nervelessness.
Baethen opened twin portals into the pits of Gehenna, his pupils that of a serpent and his ire the venom of an asp. His irises were burning brimstone and his sclera coagulated tar. Beneath that malign, primaeval gaze, those he held in thrall cowered for the arcana of the worm was one of bone¡ªnay¡ªmarrow-deep terror.
¡°[Lo and behold, O wandering-stars-of-heaven: fall, fall, fall.]¡±
The spell clawed out with one-thousand black fingers of sulphur-flame, cursing all which he saw. A hundred among the thousands fell as he commanded in the Language but still many more than him remained.
He wanted nothing more than to indulge in the violence, to let that black rage take hold and rip them apart limb from limb and rend their beating hearts out from the chests and tear asunder their frail, little wings. So he did just that, wading into the sea of the damned before him, striking out with his sword-spear and clawing with his talons when they got close enough to catch until he couldn¡¯t feel his arms any longer. There was no pain under the earthen crags of scoria that had become his hide, his blood wrought of fire and his marrow a festering Helmouth.
With so many dead and dying upon the fallows of the battlefield, he did what came naturally to him and called upon the arcana of blood so that he might make life from the effulgence of death around him. A sphere of scintillating blood appeared before him, reeking of the iron-copper tang of mass-slaughter.
That red newborn he sacrificed upon the dread altar of the Nameless Arcana, breathing out a blanket of foul miasma. His throat distended as it poured out from his maw, a diluvium that would see all before him wiped clean from the face of the earth.
A holocaust not to the Gods but to the Devil. Sulphurous fires raged and then turned to ash and charred gristled, hoarse cawing coming from all around in a cacophony of pure despair and grief and pain.
A moment, an eternity, later¡ªno more than a blink of the clock and longer than ten thousand millennia¡ªand Baethen witnessed the devastation which he¡¯d wrought. He came to, remembering his name for, in the throes of violence, he¡¯d forgotten himself.
He reeked, covered in greasy and rotting blood, morsels of spirit-flesh hanging in tatters about his form as it sublimated into miasma and returned to the bosom of the World-Shadow. Baethen was utterly disgusted but he did not possess the wherewithal to admit to even himself that it had nothing to do with the apparent filth.
It, unlike what was to come, would disappear soon.
Any angel that survived beated back a desperate retreat, not a single one looking back as they flapped their wings with wild abandon. Baethen did not understand the harpies¡¯ language of screeches and caws but he could glean the gibbering terror which soaked each sound.
With a stirring in his soul, he looked within to see that a dread-seed had not only taken root but had sprouted, stem and leaf and all. A tree of death which enshrouded the valley of his consciousness in the shadow of ruin.
{Player}s ({Arcanum}: {Intrinsic}) {Read} as follows:
[Arcana-of-Death] ¡ï¡ï [Minor] I - {Resonant} II - {Dissonant} II ? [Minor] III - {Resonant} III - {Dissonant} III
[Arcana-of-Death] ¡ï¡ï
?[Minor] III - [Resonant] III - [Dissonant] III - [Intrinsic]
Origin ¦µ: [Allows {Player} to {Manifest} a {Font-of-Miasma} in the {Form} of {Curlicues} {Thrice} per {Hand} so long as the {Player} has {Reaped} a {Life} in the current {Hand}.]
? [As the first contra, allows {Player} to {Manifest} a {Font-of-Miasma} in the {Form} of {Exhaled-Vapour} by {Expending} their {Breath-of-Lung} and {Blood-of-Vein} {Thrice} per {Hand}.]
? [As the second and final contra, allows {Player} to {Manifest} a {Font-of-Ghostlight} in the {Form} of {Wisps} by {Expending} their {Breath-of-Lung} and {Forfeiting} their {Cast-Shadows} {Thrice} per {Hand}.]
There was a deep unsettling within his gut as if he was about to fall into a pit. And there was an excitement within his heart, the power that he held something terrible to behold.
He could never understand why someone would accept forbidden arcana within their soul; it seemed such a stupid thing to do. Now, he knew¡ªthis was why.
When the scales-of-scoria receded from him, leaving him naked and vulnerable, there was not a single scratch on him. He¡¯d been bruised to the Twelfth-Hel and back but his skin hadn¡¯t even been broken.
But there was no sating that hunger, that desire for more. Baethen, even after gaining a deeper grasp into the arcana of death itself was left wanting. It drove him near crazy enough to continue his death-march but he stopped himself before he went on to kill every last living thing within this rung.
Though restless, he needed rest.
This, at least, he was not a fool to scorn.
XXI - Recompense
Despite the distance that had grown between them, Tratvgar returned to sparring with Baethen. The green-magician had been the one to offer a tentative olive branch, apologising when the both of them found themselves alone for but their shadows.
Too craven to speak with me together with the others. Traitors, the lot o¡¯ you. Baethen kept those bitter thoughts to himself; he was not yet foolish enough to let his resentment take root within his tongue. It might fester within his heart but that was part and parcel to being an adult, to disregard pangs of passion and the spurs of emotion when they risked harm.
It also helped that Baethen was going to beat the ever-living wormshite out of Tratvgar during their spars but that was neither here nor there.
The best manner in which to improve a part of oneself is through isolation thereof.
Baethen forwent most of his cards, especially those of his two first sets [Imp-of-Serpents] and [Strike-While-the-Iron-is-Hot]. He limited himself to only the [Nightvault-Painted-Prison] set, its constituent cards, and his arcanums be they granted or intrinsic.
The battle they held within a ring of fire-caught roots, large enough to move within yet small enough so that they¡¯d have no choice but to enter direct confrontation. The writhing vegetation was one part dead-growth set ablaze and one part plant-life; it had been purpose-made by the both of them so as to produce elemental fonts during the spar. Tratvgar had gotten a card that allowed him to sap the lifeforce of plants around him to empower his own verdure as he wished¡ªthe arcana of Zartaxia the Empress was one of the natural world, of moss and bark and root.
They began the spar with the traditional Hsarashian Crucifix; with two fingers of his destreza in the gesture of benediction, Baethen crossed his heart from glabella to solar plexus and then left to right from shoulder to opposing shoulder. There was a whole rite with mores and all to follow but most only spoke the oath¡¯s conclusion.
¡°Cross my heart.¡± Tratvgar swore.
¡°And hope to die.¡± Baethen finished.
With a glass-shard gripped within the palm of his hand, Baethen played [Sunder-the-Mirror]; a plane of air froze into being just in time to intercept a blunted dart of living wood. It had not been easy to procure glass-shards¡ªthough a common spell-reagent for many scrying sorceries and the like, there weren¡¯t any markets within the Evergaol¡¯s first rung.
The barren dirt had just enough sand to vitrify through extreme temperature into fulgurite. It took about a stund of his time and effort to produce two dozen shards of passable quality; the font-of-reflection was influenced by the reagent expended to bring it into being.
The dart clinked against the near-invisible plane of practically-immovable reality and fell to the ground. With his damascene gladius, Baethen struck the conjured slab of nothing-stuff, shattering it into rapidly-sublimating prismatic shards.
Using his sword as a stave, Baethen bound the rainbow smoke to his strike¡¯s wake, taking it with himself as he charged after Tratvgar. Normally, the phantasmagoric fumes would evaporate back into the ether, but like with the false flesh of godspawn, so long as Baethen had a use for it, they remained tethered to physical existence.
Baethen approached at an oblique angle, dodging blunted missiles when he could and striking them out of the air when he couldn¡¯t. He did not call upon the arcana of worms to clad himself in infernal armour, rather going about it with some hastily-put-together plate made from lead-tokens welded as one then bent to form.
Tratvgar did not cast tendrils from the ground to trip Baethen for the simple fact that he too was limiting himself as practice. Instead, a cape of roots extended from his shoulders, writhing about in anticipation so as to intercept strikes of all kinds. The green magician had lacked defence in their last bout thereabouts two rounds ago; but he was defenceless no longer and Baethen had to account for that.
When they met, Baethen conjured a shield of glass ethereal and then drew upon his dominion over the Mirror.
[Arcana-of-the-Mirror] ¡ï¡ï¡ï
?[Major] I - [Resonant] I - [Dissonant] I - [Granted]
Origin ¦µ: [Allows {Player} to {Move} a {Font-of-Reflection} in the {Form} of a {Discus} {Once} per {Hand} so long as their {Reflection} is {Held-in-Thrall} therein.]
? [As a contra, allows {Player} to {Expend} a {Reflective-Font} not under their {Dominion} to {Magnify} another {Font-of-Reflection} {Manifested} under their {Dominion} so long as their {Cast-Shadows} are {Caught} within the former {Once} per {Hand}.]
The thing about clauses was that they were, by their very nature, interpretable. With the right knowledge, one could bend their rules by reading between the lines so as to apply them to outlier and fringe scenarios.
What counted as ¡®move¡¯? Baethen could move something as a singular, discrete action from one locus to another. This was a rather primitive way to see the clause and Baethen was anything but pedestrian.
He couldn¡¯t manipulate the shape of a font-of-reflection, needing to adhere to its base manifestation form, but so long as it was always in movement in a way he could perceive as movement, then he could continue to move it. Rather mind-boggling to explain to others but otherwise intuitive.
Baethen blocked the strike of Tratvgar¡¯s stave and then the subsequent blunted tendrils with a towershield wrought of frozen-over reality. He¡¯d bound the mirror-shield to his front with an imaginary thread, pinning it at a parallel axis and then moving it in a clockwise fashion so as to never let it still and lose his dominion over it.
This defence proved inviolate like the skin of Scamander, the demigod dipped within the waters of Hypnagogia and who could not be cut by mortal blade, pierced by mortal spear, or hurt by mortal hand. This defence also proved uniquely vulnerable as that of the Woedenite hero-god of legend¡ªBaethen could not strike where the mirror-shield lay lest he break it and thus lose it until his next Hand was Redrawn.
Through the sympathy that bound him to it, Baethen could feel where the manifested font lay; no different than any other part of his flesh. This, at least, allowed him not to flounder utterly before Tratvgar¡¯s onslaught.
Where Baethen could only strike as one, Tratvgar struck as many.
Blunted serpent-like tendrils, heavy darts of livingwood, a morphing stave that could assume any number of forms¡ªthese methods of attack were as varied as they were vast. To riposte in between the waves of verdure, Baethen used the trailing ribbon of prismatic-smoke as it proved just as durable as any other font of reflection. Rather than slash, he whipped, cutting through the thrice-braided roots with a lash of molten-cold glass.
The battle devolved into one of martial might, footwork becoming Baethen¡¯s foremost concern. He spun around Trae, attempting to waylway him from an opportune angle of attack while the latter slowly mirrored him.
Changing course, Baethen modified the angle of his shield then and again, redirecting tendrils further away so as to leave Tratvgar¡¯s dominion and to catch him with a lashing unawares. Unfortunately for Baethen, the writhing-cape was thick enough to stop him from scoring the first blow.
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The problem with tricks though was that they only worked once or twice and so Baethen had to continue innovating as he fought. He mixed in bright sparks conjured from dominion over fire to blind his foe; he blurred his form with minor illusions from his dominion over deceit to set up a flurry of attacks; so on and so forth until his bag of tricks was well and truly empty for but a single ace up his metaphysical sleeves.
Seeing as this bout was going nowhere¡ªa war of attrition which would see who could outlast whom¡ªBaethen drew upon the arcana of smoke and then of worms as he lashed at the direction of Tratvgar¡¯s eyes. The trail of prismatic vapour that extended from his gladius exploded into shadow, then smothering blindness.
A font-of-true-darkness was one that no mortal sight could pierce; it was the fear of the unknown made physical. As the caster under which the font¡¯s dominion fell, Baethen saw through the smoke just fine and with that advantage, he grasped Tratvgar by the arm and said: ¡°Gotcha.¡±
¡°You still have that [Lesser-Hailstone-Strike] card?¡± Baethen asked as they sat down, recomposing after the hard-fought bout of battle. It was nice to stretch his muscles and focus mostly on his body after having been so enraptured with his crucible-magicks. Though, Baethen had had to burn his cast-shadows entirely to enhance his cover to even be able to approach Tratvgar as the latter had a much longer range of both defence and offence.
It was the strangest thing to look behind yourself and not cast a shadow; it didn¡¯t quite feel real, the dissonance between what your mind thought should be and what truly was. Irreconcilable such that dysphoria was unavoidable, an unease grinding between Baethen¡¯s shoulder blades like wheat beneath the millstone.
¡°Aye, though it¡¯ll cost ya.¡±
Baethen had debated ever since they¡¯d begun sparring as to whether or not to trust in Tratvgar. His thoughts had sorted themselves into two divergent paths whose consequences and hidden dangers mirrored each other like Gehenna does to Babylon. To share a card¡¯s description was already intimate enough through speech but as to actually show another player your deck was something else entirely
He could confide in Tratvgar and in so doing offer to enchant the man¡¯s weapon as well as his own¡ªthis way Baethen wouldn¡¯t have to use his hard-earned tokens. Even though it was a one-star card, [Lesser-Hailstone-Strike] would probably cost him seven silvers and all his damascs. He¡¯d gotten twenty silver-tokens as a bonus from trading in the [Gaolsaint-Idol] to Haviershan in return for keep of the damascene gladius. Though weapons of Damasc were prized, the tokens themselves were valued less than silver but higher than iron.
Seven silvers, though, might be a worthwhile price for keeping his cards close to his chest. It would remove the risk of his drawback being found-out and also give him peace of mind amid the growing sea of paranoia and suspicion¡ªhe¡¯d lost trust with the cadre, both ways.
They saw him as a devil inside their former comrade¡¯s skin and he saw them as turncoats whose confidence was prone to change, as mercurial as that of a coin toss and twice as impartially unfair to the gambler whose life hung in the balance of odds.
Baethen brought a hand to his temple, grazing his glabella and tugging at the deck of cards within his skull. He hesitated, knowing that this might cost him everything, either way and there was no more time to think. Anymore and he¡¯d just be running in circles, ruminating and chewing over cud he should¡¯ve spat out.
He was alone in a strange place that wanted him dead¡ªthis was what he told himself as he decided to confide in Tratvgar. Beneath that lie was the simple if pathetic truth that he wanted a friend, an ally, an accomplice, anything, anyone. Baethen would befriend the Devil Herself so long as he didn¡¯t have to be by his lonesome.
Trust, he¡¯d later learn with a shiv to the kidneys, was a fickle thing.
As to whether it was this moment that spelled his doom, he¡¯d never know. Memory fades and certainty fails before the human need to see yourself reflected across the eyes of another.
Baethen brought out a card from his forehead, its surface like glass, like a thin layer of morning frost atop glass, like a breath of blackest alabaster, just an echo, a pale shadow of something greater behind it.
He handed his life¡¯s work to Tratvgar, a thin, ephemeral line of magic arcana binding it to his soul. A card couldn¡¯t so easily be stolen through physical act, but had there been a player versed with the Hangman, they could¡¯ve severed that strand and taken [Echo-of-Alabastron] without resistance.
¡°Read it; speak nothing of it. I¡¯ll do the same for your cards. It has no imbuement limits but for duration¡ªnot instance.¡±
Those words Baethen could not obfuscate no matter how much he wanted to; he could not cover them up; could not smudge them; they were indelible, inviolate. The fundamental language of Omniglot could be read by will alone, even blind or entirely senseless, by any and all, regardless of previous knowledge, skill with other tongues, or native intelligence of the reader. Though Baethen perceived it as his native Woedenian runes, the ideographs were universally intelligible such that even soulless beasts could parse them.
Perhaps, if his dominion in the arcana of the Charlatan were greater, then Baethen might¡¯ve hidden such a thing. But he could not let his spirit be occupied with thoughts of what-ifs and what-fors. He¡¯d chosen his course and would reap it in full.
The more that Tratvgar read, the wider his eyes became. He was a reed-thin man, his frame tall and his limbs languid as if an aspen wrought of flesh and bone rather than bark and heartwood. With each line, he regressed further into a graven idol, seeming to petrify at a very particular clause that Baethen could not only guess at but feel.
Like a stranger¡¯s gaze alighting on the hairs at the nape of your neck, having another witness part of the inner sanctum of your soul was inherently unnerving. Evidently, this extended from object to subject as Tratvgar shivered as if he chanced upon something he was not meant to see.
With a grim nod, Tratvgar handed Baethen the card back and removed a card of his own from his Archive and handed it to him. This was not like Baethen¡¯s gossamer-bound card, having not been directly borne within Tratvgar¡¯s Hand for rounds upon rounds of toil and strife.
Baethen would never understand how something could form a set only to sell it afterwards, dispassionately¡ªsuch a thing was profane to his senses of right and wrong. Like kicking a lover out of your bed after the deed was done.
¡°We need to test all of our cards and see how the imbuements work. Are they static and dead like rune-brands? Do the dominion-granting clauses stack? Didnae think I¡¯d be this excited since I left me hamlet.¡±
With a face-splitting grin, Baethen patted the man on the shoulder, laughing in that genial way that you always have to in response to something endearing.
¡°The dominions aren¡¯t cumulative¡ªthat breaks the duplicity axiom. ¡®A hand cannot hold two staves without letting go of both¡¯ and all that. You can have a duplicate card with the same name within your Archive but can¡¯t do the same within your Hand¡ªarcane mediums are extensions of the Hand, so any card borne within them counts as much.¡±
¡°Then that makes the card useless without the help of another; makes sense why you¡¯d ask for me aid then.¡±
Baethen did not correct him on that end¡ªextensions were, by their nature, one step removed from that which they extended from. The dominion-granting clauses were not cumulative but he could still play the card simulacra concurrently with their sires. This was less an act of desperation as it was one of greed; Baethen wanted to keep his hard-earned tokens for something better.
The imbuements themselves were somewhere between a physicalised card-vessel and an artefact-card proper. Haviershan, as the leader of the delve, had been awarded a relic-card after the defeat of Ruination; a hilt of ivory wood so white as to be Yggrdrazil¡¯s bones, gilded with gold so pure that it shone with an inner light.
The fragment of a divine artefact once wielded by heroes long since past or villains long since laid to rest, safeguarded by angels and coveted by devils alike. So long as there was a legend, a story so grand so as to become myth, an artefact would be born from humanity¡¯s collective, living memory.
Since the imbuements were temporary¡ªlasting only until the next Hand was redrawn, and thus needing to be maintained¡ªBaethen believed that Tratvgar would not be too tempted to rat him out. Being able to, essentially, have extra cards outside of your Hand was no mean thing.
Sure, it could be said that Tratvgar could still retain access to the imbuements even after betraying Baethen but that was only in the event that Baethen didn¡¯t attempt a rivening as a last resort should the worst come to pass. And he wasn¡¯t called a sore-loser for nothing.
Baethen would light himself on fire before he let another take the clothes off his back. Afterall, he¡¯d done it before inside the belly of a dragon. If he went down, he was taking the lot o¡¯ them down with him.
XXII - Pagat
Just a day before they set off to the next rung, Baethen did his preparations for his most difficult to play back-pocket cards; among them were [Echo-of-Alabastron], [Mercurial-Inksmith], [Nightvault-Painted-Prison], [Leaden-Stomach], and [Flawed-Steelheart].
Starting from the bottom-up, [Leaden-Stomach] and [Flawed-Steelheart] came as a near-indistinguishable pair. In place of a drum-like muscle, Baethen¡¯s very core was wrought of a flexible metal, a living font of iron. This imbued his blood and the rest of his body with the arcana of amalgamy, allowing him not to die from mercury poisoning.
Fleshwarping cards were looked down upon for this very reason¡ªBaethen¡¯s bodily fluids were, both technically and practically, poisonous to any but himself. Had Miro not possessed a [Trull-Liverspawn] card to filter out the quicksilver from his body¡
Well, suffice it to say that the veteran adventurer was not a spitter.
To continue living, as he was wont to do, Baethen had to ingest metals. Usually, in the form of lead-tokens. To that end, he had stockpiled the Death-God¡¯s obols within his Tabula. The bond-card made the back of his mouth taste perpetually of bitter copper, as if his gums were bleeding, but otherwise superseded his need for thirst beyond a cup every notch.
His ability to go for long bouts without either food or drink had been what let Baethen go in place of Miro, seeing as the latter had seen his fair share of battles twice-over. It was a matter of resource conservation.
Having subsisted on monster-flesh and amalgam of lead, mercury, and iron for thereabouts a round or two, whenever Baethen cut his palm to check the colour of his blood, he bled liquid cinnabar. The very alchemy of his blood had changed and would begin to spread further still as the turns passed him by. Many sorcerous bloodlines of spellscarred began in this manner, their progenitors having changed themselves through cards that polite society held as taboo. Notwithstanding, of course, that Woeden¡¯s High-King had an extra pair of arms and hands like an asura of Stribog or a cherub of the Fourth-Arcana, His Majesty¡¯s royal lineage entirely suffused with physically-evident arcane influence. Rather than seen as unsightly or unholy, their spellscars were things of divine mandate.
Next came Baethen¡¯s as-of-yet to be played [Nightvault-Painted-Prison] set-card. Without access to a night-sky with which to scriven and scry, he couldn¡¯t do much of anything with the card. They did not have a night-mirror either, seeing as those artefacts were rather rare. They were artificial portals into the ether beyond the moon that allowed magi to read the stars no matter what time of day or what place of the various realms within or without Eot.
But that was enough of the set¡¯s capstone couldn¡¯t do; what the set card did was grant a new dominion to play with in the lonesome, quiet stunds away from the cadre.
That of night.
[Arcana-of-Night] ¡ï
?[Intermediate] I - [Resonant] I - [Dissonant] I - [Granted]
Origin ¦µ: [Allows {Player} to {Magnify} a {Font-of-Night} {Once} per {Hand} so long as their {Cast-Shadows} are not in {Touch} with {Light} or held in {Thrall-of-Gaze} of another {Player}.]
? [As a contra, allows {Player} to {Expend} a {Font-of-Day} to {Expand} a {Font-of-Night} {Manifested} under their {Dominion} so long as their {Cast-Shadows} are {Caught} within the former {Once} per {Hand}.]
Where dominion prefixes were discrete instances whose {Bring-Into-Play} clauses were separate, contras were bound directly to their origin and shared per-Hand casts.
This made practicing with the dominion difficult and sparse. Fonts of night were any related to darkness and quietude, similar to how fiery-fonts could interface with each other. This granted dominion really just expanded Baethen¡¯s ability to use illusions, allowing him finer control over those he wove through [Parlour-Tricks] or enhance his veils of sky to obfuscate the reach of his weapons. Even the arcana of worms benefitted from night as Baethen could expand his cast-shadows into a cloud of darkness and then transform it accordingly into a higher-order font which only he could see through.
As for [Mercurial-Inksmith], that card depended on what Baethen could forge-up with [Echo-of-Alabastron]. And Baethen forged a weapon of war and utter devastation.
Brands-of-Sloth stagnated that which they sealed. They preserved whatever form the branded object had; not perfectly, but good enough.
This meant that no matter how unstable an imbuement was, and how prone to explosion it became, Baethen could just continue layering more and more magicks therein. Up to a certain point, of course.
Baethen dubbed his newest toy the Godkiller after the artefact of legend, Pagat, itself. The name meant ¡®little, inconsequential thing¡¯ in the Carothian parlance. Shaped like a perfectly-ordinary carving knife, the artefact acted perfectly-like its form.
Even to divine flesh which no mortal blade could cut.
Which avatar had fallen to Pagat, no one knew¡ªthe Nameless Death-God had been felled by Loken while Babylon was slain by Scaduphomet. The hero which had killed this god was also unknown, her story told as an allegory for corrupt kings brought low and the haughty put in their place.
The age-old adage of ¡®pride cometh before the fall¡¯ originated from the feyry-tale of Pagat.
Beyond weaving insubstantial magicks, Baethen also dabbled in the more physical side of alchemy, packing the sceptre¡¯s markings with a pinch of dragonpowder he¡¯d bought from Haviershan at quite the mock-up. Strictly regulated for its heavy use of infernal sulphur harvested from wormling-broods and drake-dung, dragonpowder was a thing of beauty. Father had brought Baethen to see the cannonade demonstration the day after his Lynchpin ceremony and he remembered till this day the thunder that reverberated in his chest.
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To work on his Godkiller project, Baethen had made a makeshift anvil by welding his slab of black-alabaster to a framework of lead-tokens and then affixing that to a large and sturdy stone. With use of his cards, he carved various runes and chanted spells of durability into the sceptre. The former functioned as a player¡¯s mark while the latter was done by use of the Language and wouldn¡¯t amount to much beyond a minor increase in tensile strength.
Before he added the odorous dragonpowder into the sceptre¡¯s creases, Baethen pulled a tried-and-tested set of cards from his temples. These were the best combination of arcana and raw power with the least likely chance to explode before he could get it inside his shadow.
Card imbuements were products of their parents but entirely their own and thus subject to their own rules¡ªlike water being poured into a cup, they conformed to the vessel¡¯s shape; namely, that of a sceptre.
[Forge-Maw], [Gullet-of-the-Sky-Gorger] and [Kindlers-Breath] all depended on a player¡¯s ability to breathe; without being able to exhale or inhale, they¡¯d not be playable, no matter the small fact that whoever lost said ability was most-assuredly choking if not already dead.
For most, the incompatibility would have stopped them from attempting an imbuement in the first place. For Baethen and other fools whose lives were ended short and violently short at that, it was the threshold by which he tested himself.
In the Language, Baethen spoke a Word-of-Power, a simple one and the first he¡¯d ever learned. Big Yldira hadn¡¯t expected him to form a Magus confluence from a set of cards picked for blacksmithing but she had taught him then the best she could. She was no runespeaker who could inscribe brands and speak them into life, but she¡¯d picked up a few tricks ¡®ere and there.
¡°[Breathe.]¡±
When it came to spellcraft, it was a meagre effort at best. Baethen, as he was, would never rival a sorcerer of the Lodge. But that was fine for this was enough.
For every thing bought there was a price and so Baethen felt the life drain from his lungs, air escaping as if liquid poured from a carafe. Thirst came upon him and a tightness about his throat as if he¡¯d run throughout a winter¡¯s coldest night and scraped his voice-box raw.
His living breath flowed into the roughshod brands of the sceptre before him as he struck down with a hammer wreathed in flame, hot and willing. The strike reverberated in his bones and made his teeth clatter like fine porcelain shaking about on a rickety wagon.
Laid beneath his shadow cast, crying out as if a newborn, was an artefact.
Artefact-Card Forged: [Pagats-Shadow] ¡ï¡ï
Draw: [One-of-a-Kind]
Drawback: [One-Foot-Already-in-the-Grave]
Arcana: [The-Sceptre], [Fire], [Night]
Number: [XIII//XIX]
Suit: [One-at-Dice]
Portfolio ¦µ: [¡®Once there was a sword, mighty and old, riven into many and mended without word, fashioned into scythe that would not blood reap but rather wheat bleed¡¯. This {Artefact-Card} possesses {Minor-Dominion} over the {Arcana-of-Metempsychosis}, {Imbuing} its {Vessel} with the power to commit {Deicide}. For this {Artefact-Card} to be {Brought-Into-Play}, the {Player} must {Strike} a {Deity}¡¯s {True-Form} that is {Near-Death}, {Dying}, or already {Dead} with its {Vessel}. After this {Artefact-Card} is {Brought-Into-Play}, it is {Discarded} from its {Vessel}, thus {Banished} to {Babylon}.]
Normally, such information was beyond him, seeing as Baethen didn¡¯t have a spiritsight card of any sort. However, as the sceptre was under his shadow and had been forged of cards still within his Hand, a link, a tenuous resonance, had been wrought between creator and creation.
¡°Mighty useful for the next archd?mon.¡± He whispered under his breathless breath, metallic sweat dripping from his brow.
Just as quickly as he¡¯d brought the artefact into being, Baethen cast it away, letting the sceptre dissolve into his shadow, layering his form with even more heaviness than before. Along with [Stigmata-Mundi], he was beginning to falter in the burdens he bore. Every movement was delayed by more than it should¡¯ve been; every two steps forward, there came another to drag him back.
It was like straining against shackles you couldn¡¯t see, an anchor staked not to your flesh but to your very soul. Sleep was an act of excruciation, of shuffling back and forth on the cot while the weight festered on your chest no matter what position you settled in.
A hellish experience, aye, but better sick than dead.
The cadre approached the cubic stone as one with Baethen at their backs. They were mostly on the mend in regards to treating him with a modicum of human decency, no longer fearing him to stab them in their sleep.
Baethen¡¯s frustration at the whole thing paled before his need to be rid of the Gallowswoods¡¯ eternal daylight. He wanted dark and he wanted rest, to be away from the monotony of this instance of Yurnmagog¡¯s domain.
Just as they¡¯d entered the Evergaol, the adventurers went one by one, touching the black alabaster and then vanishing as they were reflected across an unseen axis.
When his time to pass the threshold came, Baethen reached out with a hand, his mirror-image reached back. They grasped each other''s forearms, one of flesh and the other spirit.
From across the infinite divide, the interstice which no thing can cross unaided or pass unchanged, five words were whispered.
¡°[Come O brother, brother mine.]¡±
Baethen tumbled through the blindness of the ether until his feet met the terra firma of Eot once again or, at least, a pale imitation thereof. Confusion wracked his skull, the world a cacophony of colour and lurid visions. Discoherent thoughts wove together to birth apophanic half-dreams as if his soul was too big to fit inside his body.
Still with a foot on the other side of reality, Baethen realised then why night did not come upon that paltry shadow of the Twelfth Arcana. Thieves and murderers rarely met their ends upon the gallows for hangmen were so made not by the gravity of their transgressions but by the vicissitudes of the ruler which they¡¯d offended.
Thieves and murderers got their throats slit behind closed doors; traitors of the state and deserters were hanged before the raving-silent masses.
Executions were, by their very nature, spectacles. They were less about proportionate punishment that fit the crime than they were cautionary tales wrought in drawn-out, torturous death. Made to remind the gentry that the state stood above all, that the authority of the land was not to be trampled upon for the law was inescapable, that one may run but never truly hide. The Scales-and-Blade would have its pound of flesh, inexorable as tide and time.
From Justice came the Gallows which led to Death¡ªGods Eleven, Twelve, Thirteen, respectively. That land never darkened because it wanted you to witness the blood being spilt upon it. It wanted an audience, it wanted to be seen.
Just then, an errant thought in a voice he could not remember said three spine-shivering words.
¡°[You are watched.]¡±
XXIII - The Gate
They alighted upon a dais of blackest alabaster, an ancient forest unravelling around them like the skirts of a giantess of eld. Vegetation thick and incestous, it grew into itself and warped without rhyme or reason into spiral-like, malformed patterns. The green canopy was a veil of tangled-together roots, blanketing the sky above. The heavens beyond the wilds were the porphyric-aquamarine of a summer sunset, only penetrating the forest in vast light shafts through great circular breaches as if the maw of some great organism.
Feyries and wisps frolicked upon the trunks and flitted between moss-carpeted branches, tinkling with the sound of windchimes. Parasitic flowers grew from the boughs every which colour, running the gamut from tones that Baethen had the names for and those he didn¡¯t.
Instead of the tableau inspiring calm and tranquillity, the cadre tensed, knowing better than to let their guards down within the Feywilds of Phantasmagoria. Where the Gallowswoods was a domain of quiet, lonesome dread, this place was one of hypnotic beauty belying hidden death. A single wrong step and they¡¯d die, horrifically slowly, or worse, not at all.
The cadre switched to hand-signs for to speak within the vicinity of feyries was to risk becoming a bondsman for millenia in service to fickle masters whose desires and ire were impossible to discern through mortal sense alone.
<> Haviershan signed, his gestures short, clipped behind his back so that only they¡¯d see the movements. Though it was doubtful that feyries could understand signed communication, it was best not to tempt Fate and Her literal flesh-and-blood children. <>
Off they went, into the green jungles of Phantasmagoria.
The Field-Sergeant tapped intermittently on Baethen¡¯s bare shoulders, the code one that the expedition members had practiced in the round before braving the Evergaol proper. They¡¯d settled on a mixture of pauses, taps and holds, each combination of which meant a single Woeden rune-letter. With the use of two fingers, you could sign two runes at the same time to form an abbreviated word.
Each step within Phantasmagoria was a lesson in the pitfalls of complacency and in actual pitfalls. What was seemingly just more green bark was, in sooth, a highly dense veil of butterflies masquerading as such. At the bottom of these traps were vicious thorns that could impale a man from the nave to the chops, white bones strewn between the fine-tipped pillars. The underside of these butterflies was a lurid red like that of freshly spilt-blood and royal vermillion.
Baethen had been the first to trespass one of these feyry pits, grasping onto the walls by the skin of his teeth and the blade of his gladius. Long, scoric talons held him aloft in tandem, plunging deep into the greensap flesh of the hole¡¯s smooth and slick walls. When the pit wavered, spasming no different than a wounded beast, Baethen got his wits about him and clawed his out, breathing heavily as he vaulted the lip of the fey machination.
After they put some distance between themselves and that particular trap, the cadre stopped for a moment to catch their breaths and settle their minds. They¡¯d so far let Narancan and Baethen dictate where they¡¯d venture, seeing as the Field-Sergeant was a veteran woodsman and navigator while the Footman was nigh indestructible to ambushes and traps.
Baethen didn¡¯t remember signing up with the expedition as a meat-shield but he also wouldn¡¯t complain much given he¡¯d survived several acts of extreme bodily harm that would have left lesser men dead and wiser men without a scratch for they¡¯d not throw themselves into the unknown in search of bounty.
<>
They happened upon a great many bronze-skinned fruits throughout the stunds of silent marching. Narancan, seeing as he was the fastest and an avid scout, had taken to prospecting what these fruits were.
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Seeing as this was the Feywilds, they¡¯d happen upon quite a few natural treasures and alchemical reagents. Haviershan had already collected hundreds of flowers into tiny glass ampoules that sealed themselves shut. After the Evergaol was conquered, it could be properly surveyed and exploited as a spawning ground of arcane resources that ranged the gamut from card-making and rune-branding materials to specialised spellcraft focuses and even familiars.
There was no ground in this incarnation of the Feywilds, only gargantuan boughs and root-mats which could tenuously support one¡¯s weight. Narancan had to climb his way up half a trunk until he reached a parasitic tree that bore the copper-bronze fruit. These fruits grew only on these specific parasitic trees with golden flowers blossoming upon their deciduous ivory. The flowers were like eyes, blinking open and close as they seemed to track the cadre¡¯s movements.
Narancan made a hasty retreat from the tree before it could react to his theft, sliding down the gargantuan trunk by use of his [Frostbitten-Fingers-of-the-Eiruenn]. When the Field-Sergeant reached the cadre and showed them what lay within the fruit, they all-but lost their minds.
The fruit parted into even sections like a pomegranate, but rather than seeds, there were copper-tokens within. Hundreds of them. A single fruit was the size of a melon or thereabouts the size of Baethen¡¯s head.
He did not like the comparison he himself had wrought but that was easily ignored as the enormity of what they¡¯d stumbled upon made itself known.
Copper-tokens¡ªobols of Zartaxia¡ªgrew within fertile soil, found wherever there lay cradles of root. Bountiful harvests of this token happened whenever farmers took to reaping the fields ¡®neath the morning-star Adhafera or the Braid. There were species of divine saplings¡ªoffshoots of Yggrdrazil¡ªthat also produced this token though it could also be made by one with the appropriate minting-card. The World-Root aspect was attributed primarily to Yurnmagog though it was tended to by Fata-Morgana and Zartaxia both; Fate and the Empress, respectively.
The parasitic saplings that gestated all throughout the Feywilds were miniature Yggrdrazils. Even a single branch of that ivory wood could be worth tens of thousands of copper-tokens. Staves and sword-handles wrought of worldroot were powerful focuses for the arcana and Baethen was about to get one for himself.
<> He signed to Haviershan.
<>
Though it doused his fires something fierce, Baethen did not argue. There was a very real danger of trespassing upon some ancient archfey writ that could spell their doom.
Narancan put the fruit on the root-mat ground and the cadre left it behind as they ventured forth once more.
Three stunds of the clock later¡ªjust two stunds before they¡¯d make camp¡ªand night descended. It had nothing to do with time but rather distance; the more they walked in a certain direction, the more it darkened or lightened. The Captain had been the first to notice, seeing as he held the compass-clock and other instruments of calculus in hand.
The gargantuan light shafts were places where the ground gave way to a great and bottomless pit like that of Gehenna. They¡¯d avoided them so far, seeing as these pits were natural obstacles to them in their current elevation within Phantasmagoria. However, the paths they¡¯d braved so far, these like the beast-shod game trails of Eot, dried up one by one.
It was a subtle thing, corralling them towards a specific root-bridge that traversed the circular gap. On the other side was an altar-of-refuge, tantalising and like bait. With their current locale, darkness had staked claim to the sky; rather than this making sight difficult, the Feywild seemed to come alive in a manner it hadn¡¯t before.
Phosphorescent moss lit up, mushroom-lanterns blossoming into being as great streamers of feyries flew through the air like painted wind. It was a dance of spirits, a Revelry of Phantasmagoria.
Their spines stiffened as they realised the danger. Revelries-of-Phantasmagoria were just as horrid and dreadful as Gehennic-conjunctions. Devils were wont to sow death and wanted nothing more than to eat your flesh before your very eyes; feyries were wont to bind others in their service and wanted so much worse.
The Feywilds had steered them towards the bridge so that they¡¯d accept this poison gift and be under the hospitality of the feyries around them. There was no other choice but to brave it, the whispers of the Fifteenth Hand stoking their fears from remnant embers into fires of gibbering panic.
Devils did not manifest outside of an Evergaol.
But within?
Fair game.
XXIV - A Garden Not of Eden
The cadre bound a tight, single-file formation with Baethen at the front.
His skin broke and sundered, shedding the false skein of humanity to bear the primal hide of the Beast that all men bore within themselves. Scales-of-scoria limned his form as horns unfurled from his temples, cracked and ruined like the spire of some ancient vulcan-mount, dormant and slumbering. Already taller than most before, now he towered over the rest, a wingless, two-legged devil.
The march was a lockstep affair, the tempo fast like a horse¡¯s trot yet careful like a thief¡¯s padfooting. When Baethen first touched down on the bridge with his foot, all Hels broke loose. The stars above were reflected below, the great circular pit lighting up with a thousand-thousand wisps.
They picked up their pace, a quarter of the way to the otherside by the time that the lights reached them proper.
¡®Dance with us!¡¯ The little feyries pleaded, whispers forming within their skulls rather than coming from without. As if poured over with water, the bridge underneath the cadre disappeared. The reflection of stars above and below rendered the chasm into a strange lake caught between two opposing and self-same firmaments, as if the mirror of black alabaster within their souls made real.
Baethen signed <>
He could feel the veil that the devilish fey had woven, his dominion over the arcana-of-the-Charlatan and of deceit resonating with the magicks to produce a low hum in his mind¡¯s eye. He did not yet counterattack, knowing that once they began to do so, the laws of hospitality, of Wyrd, would bind them in chains thicker than the coldest iron.
Just as Akasha was the prime arcana and font of Babylon, Wyrd was the firstborn of Fata-Morgana. It dictated the flow of fate as ordained by action and reaction, a sympathy favoured by wytches and the like to cast their doomspells. Many hexes originated from the twisting-strands of Wyrd, uncouth guests and trespassers turned to frogs or cursed to always taste food as if it were shite for spitting upon a wytch¡¯s poisoned gifts.
Warlocks trafficked with Scaduphomet but wytches and cunning sorcerers venerated Urd, the Herald-of-Doom. The angels of Fate had joined the Host-of-Hel in the War-In-Heaven ?ons ago, cast out of Babylon but not fallen to the depths of Gehenna entirely like the worms, becoming instead feyries. Pale shadows of what they once were, stuck between Heaven and Hel.
When the cadre reached the halfway-point of the bridge, the feyries conjured another trick, this one forcing the adventurers to trespass upon the Wyrd. A single, great moth-winged child-shaped creature alighted before them, blocking their path as it offered them a bronze-skinned fruit. The fallen angel had scintillating skin like that of a butterfly¡¯s wings yet flaking as if an already-shed chrysalis, its face smooth and featureless except for a single great, big ear in the middle. Prehensile tongues jutted from the mouths on its palms, licking at the orb it held.
¡®You¡¯ve forgotten your fruit, guests. Here, We¡¯ve brought it back. Please, accept.¡¯
Said fruit grew wicked thorns dripping with hypnotic venom that sizzled as it fell to the invisible ground. It reeked of rotting meat and fragrant spice, the tokens metamorphosing legs and eyes, chittering strange and garbled nothings. Should Baethen accept it, he would be forced to eat the poisoned gift. Instead, he gave the fey maleficar his own.
The Wyrd veil around the root-bridge drew upon Akasha, similar to the one that Baethen himself could conjure. With that foothold, he leveraged his will against it, invoking his dominion over Smoke and Deceit to warp the illusion into an inferno fit for the furnace-mouth of Gehenna¡¯s deepest pits. It wasn¡¯t real worm-fire but minor spirits were weak to such tricks, their false-flesh subject to mass delusion¡ªthe spiralling streamers of lesser fey were instantly set alight, screaming in their child-like voices under excruciating, if imaginary, pain.
Notwithstanding that they were soulless figments incapable of anything but rote obedience to their progenitor arcana¡¯s ethos, the cry of a vulnerable bairn was enough to make even the fiercest, most stone-hearted warrior flinch.
He felt nothing and in that hollowness he saw no wrong then. There was only the violent need to inflict retribution, to see his enemies struck with terror. His cracked lips split further to bear the rictus grin of a madman, his teeth unchanged for beneath the callous hide of a beast lay his better sense and humanity and the name he¡¯d been given.
¡°[Such a cold, lightless night, hosts. Here, We¡¯ve brought you warmth and sight. Please accept.]¡±
Somewhere so far, far away, someone screamed in utter despair beneath a mask of fool¡¯s gold.
The maleficar, wrought of stronger stuff than its lesser brethren, was not harmed in the slightest by the illusory tongues of worm-fire. The fallen angel instead looked around in something approaching astonishment, its face unreadable but its body language like that of a child having found a strange new insect with which to pull its legs out one by one and see for how many parts it could survive without¡ªan innocent monstrosity.
Before it could respond, the Beast breathed-in and then spat out a gout of sulphur; fire equal parts smoldering brimstone, phantom umber, and noxious green. Wisps of ghostlight swept out in the wake of the miasmic deluge, wrought of the copulation between the arcana of light, death, and deceit. Feyries flocked to these beacons only to become inundated in poison air, choking the life from them. They fell like flies, the light that enshrouded their bodies snuffed out such that they looked nothing more than winged straw-dolls thrown to the black.
By then the maleficar returned its wits about it and covered its face with the back of its hands, its twin mouths speaking although the sound they produced was entirely different from the words whispered into the Beast¡¯s skull.
¡®Thank you, O honoured guest. We shall endeavour to repay thee threefold.¡¯
Seven angelic wings slowly spun around the axis of its back, moving without regard for anatomy. Each feather of its wings was a moth, the scales shimmering a riot of hypnotic colours. As one, the insects pulled their wings together to lay bare the latticework they hung upon, bones carved from ivory wood and strung together as an effigy to the Wytch-God. Red and white hair bound the deciduous skeletal fragments together, a facsimile of muscle and sinew puppeting something which should be dead.
Just as the moths pulled their wings together, the world around the Beast was gaoled within a perfect sphere, the insides covered entirely with feyry skins and iridescent insect wings. The Maleficar¡¯s flayed bones were set aflame in rainbow vapour that enthralled any who gazed upon it.
Devils did not care much for pretty things.
The Beast did not feel resonance between himself and the gaol¡ªa physical thing then, wrought of arcana he did not possess nor care to. To test it and the feyry, the Beast spat a globule of molten metal at the barrier and then the maleficar.
The gaol simply undulated, dispersing the magmatic phlegm. The maleficar fared much the same though it did strike back, casting a single curse.
¡°[Entwine thy intestines into knots, thousandfold.]¡±
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The Beast felt his insides squirm and rupture as they did as they were bid. It wasn¡¯t near enough to kill, only to enrage as he bent over himself and vomited whatever was left of his previous humanity.
The {Brand-of-Wrath} burned upon his heart, setting him ablaze and limning his skin in rivers of magma as the scoria cracked to bare the fires raging within.
Entrapped and without recourse or will to do anything but, he charged the fey, boots shaking the bridge of roots. No matter how many steps he took, the Beast was always at the center of the gaol, the maleficar out of reach of either tooth or claw.
The working, the trickery, bore some resemblance to Akasha but not near enough to leverage such a paltry arcanum against. Playing [Pagats-Shadow] was not viable yet, seeing as the bug was not worth all the effort; better to use other more-fitting weapons.
This was not yet a blinding rage but rather one of clarity that brought all edges into stark relief. Many men delude themselves into thinking that they¡¯ve let anger possess them, that they¡¯d given into it; it was much the opposite.
Anger did not make you do anything you didn¡¯t already want to do.
[Arcana-of-the-Crucible]
[Absolute] I - [Resonant] VII
Origin ¦µ: [{Once} per {Hand} {Player} may {Transmute} a {Metallic-Font} into another {Metallic-Font} of divergent {Arcana} so long as they both {Resonate} with this {Arcanum} and the {Player} possesses {Dominion} over both.]
? [As the first contra, {Player} may {Ascend} a {Metallic-Font} to its next {Permutation} of {Purity} {Once} per {Hand}.]
? [As the second contra, {Player} may {Condense} a {Font-of-Smoke} into a {Font-of-Etheric-Glass} {Once} per {Hand}.]
? [As the third and final contra, {Player} may {Imbue} a {Metallic-Font} with a {Font-of-Phlogiston}, thus {Transmuting} it into a {Pyrophoric-Metal} {Once} per {Hand}.]
Once an arcanum possesses all distinct grades of dominion¡ªthe gamut of minor, intermediate, major, complete, and utter¡ªit ascends into the penultimate form, that of the [Absolute].
Like a vulcan-mount slumbering, biding its time, the Beast¡¯s hide of scoria hid an interior of potential devastation, of abject and utter ruin. He inhaled, the act drawing on a multitude of cards and dominions that the Beast did not care to acknowledge beyond their usefulness.
Phlogiston was the arcana of fire and air intertwined¡ªno flame could start without this ephemeral substance and no flame could survive without it. It was the breath of the cinder, and the conception of the spark.
Scoria ignited, no longer merely set ablaze but rather entirely within the thrall of {Pyrophoria}.
With a guttural bellow, the Beast let loose his grasp on [Scoric-Wormscale-Hide], plates of molten, burning tephra launching out in its wake. Fire and brimstone struck the fallen angel¡¯s panoptic-shield, melting through with ease like toothed-fish chewing through a fisherman¡¯s net.
In his first bid, the barrier had dispersed heat evenly throughout its surface. In his second, the magmatic pyroclasts had adhered to the feyry skins like molten sugar, reacting violently and eating through.
With its spell breaking down, the maleficar cut its losses and dispelled the magicks that bound the Beast. Its wings were utterly ruined, the moths burnt to coals and the ivory bone-frames covered in accumulations of pyrophoric scoria.
¡®Apologies, O honoured guest. We must leave early tonight. Please accept this gift as a token of our shame and regret.¡¯
The angel of fate retreated on seven wings into the chasm below, leaving behind a single bronze-skinned fruit. It was without blemish or maggot or poison; Wyrd bound the fey to acknowledge its lack of hospitality and thus reward the Beast.
Rather tired and frustrated that he hadn¡¯t had the opportunity to pluck the feyry angel¡¯s wings or tear it limb from limb, the Beast walked to the otherside of the bridge, the illusory veil over it dispelled. Under the auspices of the altar-of-refuge, the Beast entered a deep slumber.
¡°Baethen.¡±
A single mote of consciousness arose from the morass of sleep like a pillar of salt from the sea; fragile, thin, piercing, impossibly tall.
¡°Wake up.¡±
The ignorance, that black ignosis around the spark began to shake, cognizant cracks rivening into ratiocinating fractures and then epiphanic chasms.
¡°Baethen, wake up.¡±
He opened his eyes like the first man to do so, as if clay newly-arisen to life, a Qadmon that knew not a single thing of the world around him. Leizuziel had fashioned first the formless golem from the primordial muck of where sea met shore, then the seneschem who were wise and old pillars carved of purest salt, then the nephalem who were giants not of stone but the finest porcelain, and finally the red eralem from which all of mankind shared the red of their blood.
¡°Baethen.¡± A woman said, her voice making him breath-in deeply, a drowned man gasping for air.
Seirios the Star had given animating breath to Leizuziel¡¯s lifeless statues which were sculpted after the likeness of Eot¡¯s progeny. Though long-lasting, the seneschem could not venture beyond shore nor away from it, bound in the twilight between earth and sea for else they cracked and crumbled or drowned and dissolved; neither titan nor leviathan but rather both.
His head was heavy on his neck and shoulders, the gears within moving too slowly to form any coherent thought beyond childhood fables and feyry tales. Memory was his only anchor, spoken words his chain.
Morophesh had taken pity on the seneschem and beseeched Gwynedd-Sol but the Sun would not give its fire to children born of earth, water and air. A fourth element and they would become perfect and overthrow the Gods¡ªSol would not repeat His mistake of sharing the flame, the death of Babylon enough.
The woman gave him a cup, hot to the touch with tea, vapour pouring from it in thick plumes. He drank from it, instinct taking over as the implicit knowledge carved into his marrow bade him to do so. Deeper than speech, every man, woman, child or sybilant knew that a cup was to drink from.
Benevolent Sybil, seeing that the seneschem took after Her aspect, taught Leizuziel to sculpt from alabaster and dry the seneschem into nephalem; thus they could venture further but lived shorter lives, wandering earth and sea. The porcelain men were fragile things, easily broken by stronger creations of the Gods.
Each gulp of the tea down his gullet sent sweltering heat to his gut and loins, vivifying the deadness within.
Sybil, O merciful Sybil, She brought the alabaster men under Her wings so that they might find succor in Her bosom. There, in the Refugium where an offshoot of the World-Root lay was the Lyzard¡ªa six-legged serpent which Sybil had saved from being cast into Gehenna with the rest of Scaduphomet¡¯s spawn. The Lyzard, a wily though oft-benevolent trickster, egged the alabaster men to partake of the World-Root¡¯s fruit¡ªGnosis. That they might become like the Gods and know the knowledge of good and evil.
The porcelain men were allowed to eat everything of the Garden-of-Eden, of the Refuge, but for the tree at its center. They were innocent, unknowing of sin and thus unable to do so. For their trespass, they were banished from Sybil¡¯s Eden and doomed once again to wander Eot aimlessly for a thousand-thousand-thousand turns of Sol, no longer alabaster nephalem and free of sin but rather red eralem, marked by partaking of the forbidden fruit. The Lyzard was cursed to slither upon its belly like the rest of its kind.
Gnosis gave them blood though cold, the brackish water in their veins turned red from supping of Yurnmagog¡¯s shadow. Next, each Number carved a likeness upon their facelessness. Eyes from Nagalfaram the Judge so that they might have the discernment to parse good between evil by sight alone; ears from Nine so that they might hear the whispers around; a nose from Calanrial so that they might smell the wrongness of injustice and lies; teeth from Stribog so that knew themselves to be born like all other beasts upon the earth; brows from Woeden for crowns must be borne there upon for all to see; eyelids from Death so they might contemplate the fate that awaits them; fingers from Balphas so that they might toil and make; a mouth from Hsarash to balance deed by the scales of one¡¯s promises and words; hair from Nezen to hide the profane clay of their flesh so that the Gods do not grow wrothful by remembrance of the original sin.
Sol, seeing that the eralem were not perfect, gave them fire so that they might have the furnace of a heart and heat in their blood¡ªthat neither dry earth would crack their flesh nor dissolve in water like pillars of salt. Having the knowledge of good and evil, they had their own will, born of all Gods and yet beholden to none but the moral compass within themselves.
Thus, mankind was born, in their veins flowing the blood of the eralem and in their stomachs the hunger of the nephalem and in their skulls the wisdom of the seneschem. Qadmon was the first among to receive the flame and the last of Leizuziel¡¯s line. Babylon had roused from deathless death then to bless them with¡ª
Now, he remembered his name and knew it to be.
Son of his father and son of his mother, Baethen ¡®Sore-Loser¡¯ Locke.
XXV - Refugium Peccatorum
The current safe-haven was a large one in comparison to the ones in the previous rung. Perhaps it was to compensate for the inability to speak aloud in or otherwise interact with a realm as hostile as that of Phantasmagoria. Instead of a cottage-sized and intimate affair, the altar stood as a mausoleum fit for a line as blue-blooded as they came; utterly ruined, said blue-bloods had died along with Babylon a millennia of turns ago. Around the central structure, was a spacious clearing of wild-flowers demarcated by a crooked fence of slabs, a dome of Bilr?st shimmering into being so as to ward any fey from trespassing upon the threshold.
At the centre lay a temple where stout pillars held up half of a stone ceiling, red marble riven in form but not waned of colour¡ªthe gildings of damascene alone could feed a clan through ten turns, much less the stone itself, a blood jasper of some sort.
There was a fire crackling in the center of the refuge, cradled between fallen plinths erected to forgotten gods felled in the wake of the War-In-Heaven. A cookpot bubbled merilly, the cadre laying about that central warmth in rest.
Captain Haviershan Bjoren twiddled the locks of his saffron hair, be it pate or beard, into neat rows and bound them in rings of brass as he took measure of the stew. His boltcaster was disassembled atop a cloth with a canvas beneath, already oiled and each gear accounted for.
Lieutenant Escoriot Son-of-Kol sat in deep meditation to his patron deities, Irmin-S?l the World-Pillar and Woeden the God-Emperor; the shield-warden¡¯s sceptre lay across his legs and his plate-pauldrons, each the general size and shape of kite shields, lay before him, one for each Number, engraved in religious iconography and purity seals.
Ensign Lacariah sharpened her sword-slab with an arcane whetstone of lightening; she did not look for an edge but rather to make the blunt weapon faster. Through the magicks of her cards, the sword was light as a feather to her hand but heavy as a tomb to those she struck. The rune-brands of the whetstone lit up from within, cerulean embers ebbing as if breath and casting shadows about her ivory skin and black mane¡ªpure Woedenite that one, without a touch of Nezarri, Carothese, or R¨narian.
Field-Sergeant Narancan played tricks of skill with a steel knife, sharpened to a fine edge and hafted in a pitch-lacquered wood. His sleight of hand drew no blood as he wove the blade between his frostbitten fingers¡ªnot for his knack to the art but for the fact that those digits were entirely bloodless. His shirt exposed a large scar raking across his sternum, grey against the swarthy red of the men of R¨naria who were said to still carry some of the blood of Qadmon till this day.
Footman Tratvgar coaxed about a writhing vine. His living cloak rested against the Feywild¡¯s root-floor, extending a single tendril to interact with its master. It had all the inquisitiveness of a newborn pup, prodding and grasping any item given to it¡ªby namesake, familiar spirits such as these tended to be passed down a familial line as their pseudo-souls dwelt within the card that birthed them. It had been a lucky find, purpose given by the cubic stone of the last rung.
Lastly was Footman Baethen, holding an empty cup in his hands and utterly lost on how to approach the fact that he was no longer an invalid, a lunatic, or possessed by the Devil Herself. The vermillion tea had been a rich one, heavily spiced with saffron, turmeric and even shavings of divine bezoar; Baethen had only tasted hillocks-heart when his master had found him no longer wanting as an apprentice and declared him a journeyman.
What wouldn¡¯t he do then to return to such a simpler time.
Well, he¡¯d most likely do anything but attempt to do so¡ªbittersweet things had to be, by their very nature, sweet. And no sweeter thing than the power that dwelt at the tips of Baethen¡¯s fingers.
¡°I¡¯ve returned from Babylon.¡± Baethen said. ¡°The Land-of-Dreams said it had no space for a layabout like myself.¡±
The jest incited no true laughs and half-born, miscarried chuckles that could nary be heard over the crackling of flame. The feyry crickets were loud but the tension was louder.
The Captain brought the ladle to his lips and supped the boiling stew.
¡°Needs salt.¡±
Aloof, he set the ladle¡¯s hook against the pot¡¯s loop-handle and then turned to fully address Baethen¡¯s existence.
¡°We¡¯ve a lot to talk about, lad.¡±
Baethen did not like the way he said ¡®lad¡¯. It had all the righteous disappointment of a parent and all the gravity of an executioner reading you your last rites before they put you in the ground.
Rather than let himself be cowed, Baethen narrowed his eyes and waited for Haviershan to elaborate. Had he the ability to do so, he¡¯d be sweating pails upon pails of water. Instead, his pallor took a metallic sheen to it, not wet but rather gilded in a heavily-adulterated sterling of silver.
The silence stretched until Haviershan lost his patience and sighed, the act drawing deep of his being. He¡¯d undone his rune-branded suit of Woedenite plate, only his chausses and sabatons still donned. The cuirass, pauldrons and gauntlets hung on a branch, tied on the inside with leather thongs.
¡°We can¡¯t keep pussyfooting around the topic, lad¡ªyou¡¯ve got a problem and it¡¯s a dangerous one. Wildman cards are taboo for a reason; what¡¯s the fiercest warrior worth when he can¡¯t differentiate friend from foe? A beast don¡¯t fight, Baethe, it just hunts to satisfy itself.¡±
Sore-loser that he was, Baethen wanted nothing more than to argue back like an indignant child. He hid his left hand then for he knew it was covered in scales, having drawn instinctively on his cards without his explicit consent.
¡°Did I hurt anyone?¡± He found himself asking, his mind distant, trying to remember. ¡°Last I knew, I only had eyes for that maleficar. It was one, right? Not a br¨´naidh or a gruagach. Gods forgive me, if it was a beneficar instead. Boggarts aren¡¯t known for their mercy.¡±
¡°Boggart, already turned that one¡ªit broke the implicit Wyrd first, wasnae you. Either born that way ¡®ere or it retreated into the Feywild after turning. Goblyns are errant fey and can traverse the ether between Eot and Phantasmagoria through a feyry ring with ease; don¡¯t even require a full moon or some other planetary conjunction.¡±
Though he took to the archetype of seasoned fighter, Haviershan was more brains than he was brawn. His boltcaster experienced more battles than the blade that nary left its sheathe; even within the unwelcoming Evergaol, he¡¯d drawn tools of navigation from his pockets more than he¡¯d drawn steel. The man had travelled the Dreadsea and beyond with nought but the stars to guide him, had walked upon the alabaster sands of Whiteshore, seen the spire-palaces of Nezarri¡¯s greatest caliphates and broken bread with the vagrant tribes of the Asgorgorophs beyond the Drysea.
¡°But I digress¡ªno one got more than a scrape or minor burn from you or your cards.¡±
The Captain made a show of looking about the place before he conceded some amount of face.
¡°Tell no lie. You did save our hides, lad. You single-handedly destroyed swarms of feyry-flies and made a thrice-damned greater, worming boggart of all things run with its wings tucked between its legs. It was no mean feat and we¡¯ve done nothing to deserve such in the way we¡¯ve treated you in the past days.
¡°But¡¡±
The shame tied knots of his Qadmon¡¯s apple, his throat hurting something fierce. There was an opportunity then to apologise and to make amends, to meet Haviershan halfway but his pride would not let him. Better said that Baethen was of two minds, one half thinking himself wrong for so easily falling prey to himself and the other unequivocally right such that it silenced the other, utterly.
¡°...It can¡¯t go on like this lad. I apologise for shunning you, especially so quickly. In my discomfort I pushed ye away and the cadre followed in my wake. I should¡¯ve known better¡ªold enough to be your grandpappy, I am.¡±
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Such a silvered-tongue that one that Baethen had trouble hiding his growing grin.
¡°If I didn¡¯t feel like a right bastard before¡¡± He said, some mirth returning to his voice though his throat was still tight. Guilt, unfounded or entirely rational, did not go away easy.
The return of rapport was not instant, it was not seamless and it was not without its aggravations and awkwardness. Haviershan, even as Captain, could not force the others to interact with a warlock; he could only encourage with the fear of death to the contrary.
All rungs before an Evergaol¡¯s heart was subjugated were measured to a group of six¡ªto lose one, especially a member with an equivalent parity of power, was to court Death and to tempt Fate. Barring none but the Devil Herself, the Numbers of Thirteen and Ten were one of the most pernicious.
Baethen agreed to only draw upon his fell sorceries should the need arise¡ªin their stead, he would drill with his other cards with help from the others. Improvements did not come quick nor effortless and required constant rearranging of one¡¯s goals and how to achieve them.
Byzantium was not built in a day but it surely did fall in but one night.
Currently, Baethen practiced with Escoriot as the shield-warden had skill in the use of protective dominions like that of the Mirror.
¡°Protection comes in many forms¡ªsubversion, mitigation, zero-sum nullification, deflection, and reflection like your own arcana.¡± The war-priest lectured. He¡¯d been sociable before finding out that Baethen had trafficked with the Worm-God; even now, with Haviershan attempting to bring him back into the fold, Escoriot kept his distance.
¡°Manifest your shield.¡±
Baethen took a shard of fulgurite from his belt-pockets and played [Sunder-the-Mirror]. Reality fractured between the fingers of his hand, glass becoming a card of black-alabaster for an instant before it too shattered into nought.
The plane of reflection was bound in front of himself, interposed between Baethen and Escoriot.
¡°Don¡¯t draw on your dominion too soon¡ªit¡¯s too precious a resource to waste at the start of a battle. Instead, cast your shield and break it in succession to reposition.¡±
Rebellious prick that he was, Baethen waited for the warden to finish his speech before he did the opposite of what he was told. Having worked out the trick beforehand, he showed Escoriot the exception to the rule.
¡°Cunning, that.¡± He begrudged matter-a-factly. ¡°My point still stands.¡±
¡°Do enlighten me.¡±
¡°Gladly.¡±
He brandished his sceptre, the cerulean obsidian clutched between two gold-cast eagle¡¯s claws revealing intricate rune-work. A single letter from the throng of carvings remained burning while the rest were snuffed out; a discus of hardened light coalesced between them.
¡°First¡ªknowledge is power. Don¡¯t expect the coming godspawn to rush at you mindlessly; they will scout and they spy and they will try and parse out your Scamander''s tendon. Feyries are insidiously ingenious and will utterly take you apart if you let them.¡±
The discus unspooled itself into a rod five-span-long and five-fingers-wide.
¡°Second¡ªthe moment your shield stops moving, you lose it until the remainder of the fight.¡±
Baethen almost didn¡¯t react in time. He brought up the plane of reflection between him and the coming missile; the strike did not push him back, seeing as the font reflected all force, thus nullifying it completely.
¡°That all?¡±
¡°No, son. Not nearly.¡±
The rod unravelled into letters bound by threads, each end of a strand held taught by a rune. The latticework rearranged itself, spinning on an invisible axis, clockwork gears wrought of magic itself.
¡°Third¡ªdon¡¯t ever let a foe set up a trap and don¡¯t rely on any single tactic to see you through thick and thin.¡±
Baethen hadn¡¯t been idle as the war-priest wove his runes, attempting to unbind the threads from his shield. They were inextricably stuck in place, affixed parallel to its surface no matter what he tried to the contrary, even as he clawed at it with his finger tips or spat fire at them.
The latticework completed, forming a silhouette around the discus of reflection; having been sympathetically bound to the working, the font reflected it, becoming still and affixing itself into thin air.
¡°I concede¡ªfoolish to think myself invincible.¡± That display of magic, though, didn''t fit right with either Irmin-S?l or Woeden. ¡°Didn¡¯t peg you as a wytch.¡±
The man scoffed in response, not willing to hide his consternation.
¡°All spellcasters draw on sympathy, not merely adulants to Fata-Morgana. It is the basis of magic arcana, of sorcery itself. ¡®As above so below, as within so without, as Eot so Babylon¡¯.¡±
To illustrate his point, Escoriot conjured rune-brands upon thin air, reflecting them across the crossguard of his sceptre. The war-priest¡¯s arcane focus was a long affair, the end butting against the ground as the man rested his weight on its berm¡ªthe place where a standard, either royal or holy, might be attached.
¡°The arcana of [Runa] is that of [Valkyrja] the Shield-Maiden, of the Protector Herself, born of the tripartite union between [Judgement], the Wheel and Death. It is the manifest form of Omniglot, the secrets that Woeden unravelled from the roots of the World-Tree by hanging from its boughs with nothing more than a [Noose] for three days and three nights.¡± The Words-of-Power were heavy to the ear of the soul, like a millstone around Baethen¡¯s neck, each one a peal of thunder, a hammer strike to the anvil, forcing its weight upon him like Escoriot did upon his sceptre.
He knew the kenning of Valkyrja in the Old-Tongue of Woeden.
Just as Rimare-Tul meant the Crags-Where-Men-Go-To-Die, Valkyrja meant Chooser-of-the-Slain. An aspect of the Merchant-of-Death, She was said to carry the souls of the bravest warriors directly to Maraflagan so that She might speak with Nagalfaram in their stead. Many a soldier before battle made prayers to the godling so that Her angels, the valkyries, would watch over them.
¡°When you see a man or woman or sybilant with blade in hand, they might be knight, bandit, or peddler. Not all those who carry a sword are deserving of it.¡±
Escoriot looked pointedly at the gladius in Baethen¡¯s hand.
¡°Now, manifest your shield again. We shall only stop once you¡¯ve got a grasp on repositioning the plane.¡±
Sometimes, tricks aren¡¯t as much innovation as they are crutches when you can¡¯t do a skill unaided. A few stunds of repetition was enough for Baethen to get the hang of using his sword-spear as a shield¡ªnot to the degree to use in battle but nearing it, certainly.
When a strike neared, Baethen would manifest a reflective-plane and counterattack, lashing out as if the shard of frozen-over reality weren¡¯t there. In praxis, it really wasn¡¯t, shattering instantly without impeding his momentum though it did hinder aim.
It was like looking at something at the bottom of a bath-house¡¯s pool, objects distorting through the intervening medium.
The problem of this new approach to defence lay in resource efficiency; as it was, Baethen was burning through his spell reagents right quick. He¡¯d yet to find any sand with the minimum amount of purity to make fulgurite since venturing into the Feywilds.
He still had hundreds of shards with him, though they differed in qualities of shape, size and viability. So long as he could perceive a piece of glass as greater than a bead and jagged enough not to be considered a rather sharp pebble, [Sunder-the-Mirror] was none the wiser.
I could melt some of them together, purify them through my arcanums and such, and then cast them thin as can be¡ªstretch it out like food in winter.
The refuge was spacious enough for each member of the cadre to have their own section to themselves, Baethen having staked claim to the only area bare of growth and verdor¡ªa part of the temple proper, walled in by fallen pillars.
There, Baethen built a forge with coals of lead, his cards and arcana allowing him to turn metal itself into fuel. It wasn¡¯t easy but he¡¯d become familiar with the deck throughout the turns.
Fulgurite glass was entirely opaque and extremely impure¡ªrock-solid and vitrified dirt essentially. It was rough and ugly, nothing like obsidian or jet or black-alabaster, more akin to slag and scoria than anything else. Baethen had achieved it through heating the soil of the Gallowswood until it blackened and then began to glow. After a stund or two of cooling, a jagged mass of brittle fulgurite was formed.
He¡¯d then break it apart and harvest the better shards of glass; it had been numb and dumb work like boring through thick lumber with a dull drill.
To contain the glass he¡¯d soon turn molten, Baethen made a crucible of iron and lead, tempering and annealing it so that the glass wouldn¡¯t stick to it. As an isolating interface, he used ash from burning a few shoots and branches to cinders¡ªthese were then crushed into a fine dust using the holy stone of the temple to fabricate a rather shoddy mortar-and-pestle.
Hels-bound, Baethen was far and away past any compunctions or strong opinions about blasphemy.
With a bowl of coal-dust to coat his fingers, Baethen was ready to begin.
XXVI - Protection
Glass was a moment frozen in time.
A single speck of dust could hang suspended therein, conserved for ?ons. Of the countless bygone civilisations buried in the mammoth ashes of time, the only shadows that marked their wake, their presence upon Eot, were artefacts of glass, stone and steel.
Where metal obscured whatever it touched, keeping at most the echo of its subsumed form, translucid amber preserved memory for all to see, indifferent to tide and turn.
Though seemingly diametrically opposed, Baethen found that they were but two sides of a singular token. Mirrors, he knew, were backended with alloys of silver and mercury and lead, coated with a varnish of glass and other alchemicals.
How could he marry the two? Better yet, how to part them?
He¡¯d used extreme heat to purify a third of his shards, turning them into a singular molten amalgam of fulgurite and lead. The lump was heated until it bled its leaden blood, stealing away most of the impurities of char and cinnabon with it. Baethen then molded it into a sheet, taking care to make it thin enough for carrying but thick enough for a lasting structure; the actual durability of the shard did not affect the font-of-reflection conjured through [Sunder-the-Mirror] unlike with shape affecting manifestation form but its constitution did make it a whole lot harder to preserve spell reagents through the heat of battle.
Baethen used his gladius¡¯ blade to carve grooves into the sheet while it still cooled so then when it set, he could more easily separate them. The damascene was unmarred, not needing to be cleaned for nothing would take to it, sorrow-steel scorning even the fiercest of flames; you could throw an arm of Damasc within a fiery Helmouth and it would remain clean of soot.
The end product of the fining ordeal was a verdigris ice that did not break without the equivalent power of oxen ploughing the fallows come spring.
Well, that may have been a bit of hyperbole¡ªBaethen didn¡¯t actually know that bit of fact.
The next set of reagents were a new type he hadn¡¯t worked with before: etheric glass.
He¡¯d gotten access to it through the third contra of his Crucible-Arcanum, allowing Baethen to condense smoke into solid form. Streamers of the stuff coalesced like morning dew upon leaf, transmuting insubstantial air into solid substance.
Etheric glass was pale-blue and near translucid¡ªyou¡¯d not know it was there without a keen eye or previous knowledge. As for durability, a shard of the stuff was more fragile than sugar glass, breaking with the slightest of touches; even looking at it funny could risk the thing shattering. The edge that it could keep though was sharp enough to slice through stone as if paper.
Heat also proved to interact strangely with the esoteric material which was to say not at all. Baethen could hold a piece of etheric glass over an open flame for licks if not stunds and it wouldn¡¯t even get warm, cool to the touch. Just as with heat, light passed right through it, utterly indifferent without either focusing or dispersing.
In regards to combat, [Sunder-the-Mirror] projected a plane of reflection no different with etheric glass as regular lead fulgurite. The difference lay that Baethen had to coat the former with a thin layer of steel so as to stop the brittle stuff from breaking. Perhaps he could devise a card-chain to make use of it in battle, forging a dome of etheric glass in an instant and then in the next, transforming it into an inviolate shield through [Sunder-the-Mirror].
The newly-minted reagents were carefully slotted into a leather parcel he¡¯d modified for that exact purpose. It took some elbow grease to make plates of metal thin enough to box the square-shards in and a spring to boot but it was worth it.
Though he was no tinkerer, the contraption functioned well enough to hold his reagents in place; seeing as it was delicate work, he layered the space between leather and machine with riveted plates like brigandine¡ªthese made on the spot while the steel-wool he¡¯d used to cushion the device was brought with him into the Evergaol.
His only surviving equipment from the fight with the sphynx, beyond the ivory-hafted gladius, was the pack he¡¯d left at the outside of the Gate-Guardian¡¯s lair. His armour had melted into slag and scale; he¡¯d need a new suit.
For that he called the Captain to tell him of his plan.
¡°Foolish, reckless, hopeless scheme, that one.¡± Haviershan reproached, gravel tumbling from his gullet. ¡°I like it. Let me call the others ¡®ere and tell them the good news.¡±
They did just that, convening on a section of the refuge where none had staked claim.
Baethen would play his forbidden card, clad himself in wormscale, douse himself in molten metal, shape and cool it so that he¡¯d not be trapped and then redraw his Hand so as to expend any rune-brands of {Wrath}. To keep him from doing something rash, the cadre drew their weapons so that they might beat him senseless before the feyries could do it for them.
¡°Last time I was in the middle of a circle of men with just my breeches, they also had rods in their hands.¡±
At last did someone laugh at a jest of his, Tratvgar¡¯s composure breaking like a thin layer of ice. Haviershan shook his head, not surprised at all at the shameless bit.
¡°Counting you, o¡¯ course, Lac. Your rod¡¯s the biggest.¡±
The consternated exhale was followed by a begrudging smile.
Just a round ago it would have elicited a guffaw but progress was progress.
¡°Well, nothing more for it.¡±
[Imp-of-Serpents] interfaced readily with [Scoric-Wormscale-Hide], forking Baethen¡¯s tongue such that his next set of words were all in the Language¡ªcards of the same deck bled into one another, especially so when their arcana resonated. Baethen could not help but speak in such a manner, be it by nature of the transformation or by his own sense of theatrics.
¡°[Speak of the Devil¡]¡±
His grin did not elicit the reaction he was hoping for. Escoriot seemed ready to attempt an exorcism then and there, sybilant absent and all. Tratvgar took a step back, gripping his stave with white-knuckles as his eyes grew wide and his teeth began to chatter. Lac¡¯s stance lowered so as to be ready to swing her sword-slab from her shoulder at a moment¡¯s notice. Haviershan and Narancan were further away, watching and waiting.
It was difficult to think, his thoughts swept up in the undercurrent of mania that seeped through his skin, burrowing deeper than bone and reaching beyond marrow. The wont of a beast is to do as it wills, nothing more¡ªhe kept this at bay through repetition of the plan he¡¯d concocted.
He took up the crucible that lay near him and doused himself in its already-molten liquid. It felt like nothing more than weight, the heat too petty to penetrate the crags of scoria that grew from his hide.
A devil could not be burnt by mundane fire alone.
The Beast lathered itself in amalgam of lead and iron, the metal seeping in between the wends and rents and vents of his topography. He half expected someone to say ¡®ye missed a spot¡¯ but no such luck¡ªthe silence was deafening.
After being sure that he missed no crack or crevice, the Beast took up his ivory club from the ground and struck the air, playing [Clouded-Fiefsight] in tandem with [Cycle-of-the-Crucible], and [Slag-and-Scale] whilst drawing upon any and all available arcanums¡ªthis last was more instinct than anything else, the animal cunning within seeking the gaps of his cards so that he might rectify them with his dominion, bending rules just so.
In an instant, a steel-shell froze atop him, draconic in aspect with large windswept horns spiraling outwards. Though his own rack of antlers was a shorn, half-ruined, malformed thing, these were regal and exultant in all their primaeval glory.
The next play was the hardest.
Beasts do not like being corralled into corners. They do not like chains, they do not like being fettered by rules they do not understand, they do not plan ahead but for moments and they see any trespass as trespass upon their very lives.
Why should he let go of something that felt oh so very right?
The wrong answer to that question was the easiest, and for a long moment, he almost gave in¡ªhow easy would it be to just let himself do what came natural? But not all bonds are evil. Self-denial was not self-sacrifice but rather freedom from the darkest, most despicable corners of the self that knew only to seek pleasure and shy away from pain.
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The Beast discarded his Hand and Baethen redrew that very same, only now, the {Brand-of-Wrath} was forfeit, cast away into the oblivion of Babylon. He could not see, trapped as he was within a cask of cold metal.
¡°Any help ¡®ere, lads? This didn¡¯t happen last time.¡±
Baethen had left weak points in the plate through a mixture of cooling, heating, and shaping; it wasn¡¯t all that far off from what he¡¯d done to the glass sheet. The cadre took up their chisels and began to pry open the shell.
Each plate was thick and heavy, thinning only to preserve some amount of range of motion where they met. For most warriors, the leaden armour would¡¯ve been nothing more than dead weight. But for Baethen, it would be like cladding himself in resplendent gold.
When at last they¡¯d pried enough of the back plates so that he could remove himself from the cavernous maw of the suit, Baethen pulled in a deep lungful of breath.
¡°Gods, that was a bit unnervin¡¯.¡± He said as he rolled his sore shoulder and stretched the knots out of his spine. ¡°Usually like tight spaces.¡±
Perhaps he was not as humorous as he thought he was since the lot o¡¯ them simply shook their heads or looked at him funny.
Baethen took to tinkering and articulating the armour¡¯s joints in the coming notch before they set off again. Just like the previous suit, he made heavy use of meshes and half-chains to give it flexibility without providing weak points where most of the locomotion would take place.
He¡¯d heard of Ha?rztromian steel-shelled, faceless warriors, so-called ¡®knights¡¯, that fought each other with daggers, searching for holes in each other¡¯s iron skin; and Baethen wanted no such thing happening with him. Dread-knights were supposedly named after them, given the second half of the name and all. The actual, Woedenite kenning for that sort of devil was helgr¨ªsar or ¡®Giant-of-Hel¡¯ which was descriptive if uninspired. When the steelshod men from Sunset-beyond-the-Dreadsea made landfall upon the Sapphire Isle¡¯s shores, the people of Woeden couldn¡¯t help but think that either devils looked like them or they looked like devils.
Most likely a bit of both¡ªbeyond the dragon-powder arms they bore being outlawed for their use of infernal sulphur, Ha?rztrom had attempted, with no small amount of effort invested, to annex Woeden into its Holy Byzantine Empire which was neither holy, Byzantine in origin, nor even an empire for that matter.
Till this day, the women of Woeden tend to the sword-graves of a thousand-thousand-thousand nameless men, be they outlander and isleborn, neither forgetting nor forgiving. Warriors die by order of their king and cannot be blamed for war so they get a soldier''s burial all the same.
But as for the country itself? For the head which bore the crown?
Modern sailor¡¯s curses and old pyrate hymns alike dedicated themselves to ridiculing and vilifying the landbound, throne-shackled, wall-cowering, lily-livered kings of the Continent that would not fight amongst their host but rather wage war from afar with a sea between them and their enemy like the cowards that they were.
Truly, it was a wonder how the mind could wander while one worked with their hands. Baethen hadn¡¯t expected himself to rant and rave on his hatred for the Ha?rztromian monarchy while he made chain links.
The central theme for this set was ¡®impenetrable, impregnable, impervious¡¯.
Baethen would have to wear a mountain of lead on his back and shoulders to be able to live up to that ideal but it would be worth it. He¡¯d not have to react to every attack, able to think out his approach and card-plays beneath a shield thick enough to stop bolt-caster¡¯s dragon-powder bullet.
To make the inside of the suit more livable, Baethen exchanged a few tokens with the cadre in exchange for cloth, leather, straw, string, and wool. The insulation would help control heat as well, slowing its creep from the outside-in. Etheric glass was too brittle to fashion plates out of but could be rendered into a fine sand and then laced through the wool to ward off flame. The hybrid material reminded him of the unburning dresses of Byzantium barrow-kings; amiant, he thought it was called. A crystal-like lace that was popular among merchants that came from beyond the Dreadsea.
As for what kept him from chaffing, Baethen would float inside the suit in a pool of pure mercury. Before the addition of [Flawed-Steelheart] into Hand, this would have been a death sentence¡ªnow, it just felt like water if a whole lot heavier. Mercury, being dense as it was, also took on the role as a font reserve to power the suits other functions.
On the back of the armour, Baethen placed a hatch and set of unfurling plates that would allow him to extricate himself from within the Behemoth as he began callin¡¯ it. The mechanism that moved the plates was a weld that could be undone through use of his cards, the mercury that flowed through the living war machine acting as conduits.
Cables thick as a man¡¯s wrist like a ship rope would bind his blood to the various channels and veins he¡¯d carved into the suit¡¯s metallic flesh¡ªthis part was no different than in his previous dread-knight suit, biting into his back and lining his spine from shoulders to tail. He¡¯d fashioned metal muscles in the same manner as the cables, threading them throughout the armour so he could pull on them to increase strength at the cost of the suit¡¯s mercury reserves.
Once the armour was nearly finished, Baethen had one more step to do: [Ascension].
It was a common enough process to alchemy, allowing metallurgists to transmute metals into increasing purities, all the way from worthless lead to gold. Royal token-minters made use of ascension and descension to regulate the coin in circulation though it was outlawed for those not bearing the High-King¡¯s seal to sell any transmuted material seeing as they kept the ¡®memory¡¯ of its previous form.
Each night, Baethen would place his hand on the chest of Behemoth and chant in the Language: ¡°[Rise, stronger than before.]¡±
The first night lead decayed into rotten copper. The second, green melted away to bear the bluish, skyshod patina of fresh tin. The third, pearl darkened into the amber of bronze. The fourth, iron broke through like a river-serpent breaching the waters. On the fifth, the last and final night, a bastard of sorrowsteel was born.
It wasn¡¯t ¡®true¡¯ damascene, not consecrated in the tears of Morophesh or the blood of Babylon, but it was just a smidge tougher than mundane steel. The amour, resplendent in argent, looked to have been an artefact fallen from the Silver-City itself and Baethen couldn¡¯t have been prouder.
He¡¯d had to weld more and more lead to the suit¡¯s bones as it turned sleeker with each spell as the process thinned the resultant mass of metal. The sevenfold alloy that constituted Behemoth was one part lead, one part tin, two parts iron and three parts damascene in that order¡ªthe metals bleed into one another¡¯s distinct weld layers. The lead-tin layer provided cushion while the sorrowsteel was the true barrier.
Once he¡¯d gotten the armour as ready as he could, he called on the cadre to show them his prized creation.
Haviershan gave the slumbering Behemoth a low whistle of appreciation as it stood in all its argent glory. Making the suit balance itself had been difficult, especially making it stand upright.
¡°Impressive lad.¡±
Its skin had been engraved with scrollwork and sagas, decoratory rune-brands at the intersections of each limb and at the centre of each plate. The horns had been rather fun to carve, reminding Baethen of his smithman¡¯s lessons from Big Yldira.
¡°Can this thing carry our packs?¡± Narancan asked, ever the Field-Sergeant.
The suit had the air of a Nezarri clockwork soldier, those war-machines powered on dragon-powder and lightning. It was no wonder that they thought it some sort of eastern automaton.
¡°Aye, that it can.¡± Baethen said as he patted Behemoth on the shoulder. ¡°It¡¯ll cost ya though. She is a hungry lass and every bit of weight she carries, she needs to munch on some metal. Mostly lead though tin and copper are also needed.¡±
It seemed that it was rather impressive, truly, as Haviershan gave Baethen a friendly shove and said: ¡°Go on and show us how she moves! Haven¡¯t seen a war-suit like her in ages.¡±
Woedenites tended to be conservative in their arms and armour so seeing something like Behemoth stoked a bit of the Captain¡¯s wanderlust.
Baethen went around the slumbering, steelshod helgr¨ªsar, towards its back hatch where he would enter. At the centre of the flower-like furling plates was a circle of copper which Baethen touched his palm to, heating it by use of his arcanum and cards.
The blend of the metal had been chosen for its low melting point so that he could take command of it with his magicks. Once it was red hot, the liquid wove through the channels, no longer locking the plates in place and letting them slide out by gravity alone. That had been a rather inspired working on his part, Baethen knew because the cadre worded their wonderment; even Escoriot couldn¡¯t help but be enthralled by the mechanism.
Once the hatch was open, Baethen grabbed onto bars within and pulled himself into the Behemoth. It was weighed mostly in its front and especially on its foot so as to not topple over when he entered. The entire suit weighed more than an ox, he reckoned.
The insides were hollowed out from the knees-up so that Baethen could reach his arms into place and there was just enough space for him to wriggle his body about against the solid layer of lead amalgam.
Behemoth needed to go through a rather ornery card-chain called ¡®ignition¡¯ for it to function. Without heat, it was just an unmoving lump of metal which couldn¡¯t do anything by itself.
¡°You lot will want to step back. It¡¯s about to get rather warm.¡±
[Gullet-of-the-Sky-Gorger], [Cinderspark-Spit], [Forge-Maw], [Imp-of-Serpents] and [Cycle-of-the-Crucible] came together in an union that could only be described as ignition.
¡°[Awake O Sleeper.]¡±
Fire surged through the Beast¡¯s veins, resurrecting it from the grave like a vulcan-mount stirring from slumber. The engravings lit up with shimmering, molten emberlight, smoke wafting from the Behemoth¡¯s nostrils.
The lead amalgam melted into mercury which Baethen manipulated to ferry the cables into the slots he¡¯d already had implanted along his spine. This made it hurt less seeing as he didn¡¯t have to wound himself over and over again. He only had to twist the disengage the locks of the interfacing medium and his blood and the suit¡¯s would mingle, further connecting him to the Behemoth.
Its head had no eyes, only a graven, rictus grin of a maw which opened to bare Baethen¡¯s true grin. The upper part of the head furled backwards, up and over like a sallet while his chin rested on the Beast¡¯s tongue like a head on a silver platter.
¡°Before you go clapping, know that this little trick cost me twenty lead-tokens and two coppers.¡±
That doused their fires right quick and Baethen doused his own lest he burn more money on a little show of braggadocio.
XXVII - Threads That Bind
There was no day-and-night cycle within this instance of the Feywilds, time instead dictated by direction¡ªit having been ¡®night¡¯ in the sanctuary for two notches now. Baethen looked up into the stars above and was excited to begin trying to bind them to himself through the [Nightvault-Painted-Prison] card; for that he had a lesson with the Captain.
¡°See that constellation, to the right of Woeden¡¯s Crown but to the left of Zartaxia¡¯s Sceptre? It takes each sign¡¯s respective arm to form a face of leaves. The Green Man, the Wildwood¡ªit is the male aspect of nature; conquest and wisdom made one. Where Stribog is the Sire-of-Beasts, Gallathwa¨ªn is the Father-of-Verdor.
¡°The Arcana, you¡¯ll come to realise soon enough, lad, are always in a complex game of push and pull. All things have their shadow and not all shadows fear the light.
¡°Now, go on and trace out the Diadem-of-Petyrnlote I showed ya just a lick ago.¡±
Haviershan was rather fond of mixing explanation with practice. Every few sentences, he¡¯d ask Baethen to trace a constellation and would make him repeat others he¡¯d already been taught or knew of. He¡¯d even blindfolded him and then spun the lad about before removing the blinders and making him identify three different starsigns. All in all, it was an eclectic-if-effective way of teaching.
Stars, Baethen came to learn, were multifaceted creatures.
All magic originated from them, carried through the vast, infinite ether by way of astral highways¡ªthese lines between confluences contained a great deal of power. It wasn¡¯t merely the stars themselves that a magi drew upon but the connections between them, the invisible gossamer threads that bound the cosmic forces of the universe.
Omniglot, just like with normal speech, required breath and without the rarefied air ferried by the stars above, it would not function, choking the soul from the inside-out. There was a wyrd-plague by the name of spelldrought which was caused by the dysfunction of one or more of these leylines; babes born under blackstars were born stillborn, the breath of their souls exhausted in the womb such that they died a death of spirit before ever drawing breath proper.
Cepheus, portent of the Thirteenth Arcana, signalled a coming of spiritual famine and all soothsayers, divinators and the like, watched the skies like eagles so as to prepare for such tribulations. Whatever path that the Black-Star took was like a scythe, cutting through leylines and leaving spelldroughts in its wake¡ªHaviershan warned against binding any constellation with Cepheus in its midst, lest Baethen traffick with powers best left alone and forgotten.
There were other devils beyond Scaduphomet.
As for truly binding a starsign, the act was rather simple. [Nightvault-Painted-Prison] was, like all cards, written Omniglot; the Words-of-Power were already spoken, etched into a thin sliver of black, alabaster stone. Baethen needed only to let his soul do as the card bade it and he could will the pinpricks of light into his mind¡¯s eye, into his Tower-of-Babel.
For his first binding, Baethen took the sign of Daedolon. The constellation was the astral body of the God-of-Iron-and-Steel, patron-deity to craftsmen of the smithing trades and the thirdborn son between Gwynedd-Sol and All-Father Woeden.
He had the most affinity for the aspect of the Crucible so the choice had been like water through a riverbed. The constellation above disappeared, reflected across the mirror of his eyes into the black of his mind. He held the sign there, its presence wriggling against [Nightvault-Painted-Prison] like a dove in his hand, wanting to be free but unable to break from the cage of his fingers.
The card had two main resources to juggle¡ªthe first being a starsign and the second being light. For the latter, Baethen had prepared a chalk-striker of pyrophoric metal that he heated with nary a movement of his fingers, striking the steel-laced rod against the flint. The chalk incandesced, growing blinding in an instant such that it would leave phantom images in its wake for licks to come.
Baethen took the constellation within his mind¡¯s eye and cast it over the chalk like a net, trapping it within; a mass of darkness-made-tangible descended over his hand. The card then reeled the net back into his soul, binding its web within his shadow. Now, a starsign floated within his shadow where it was cast, light sealed within. Every now and then, Baethen would catch sight of the pinpricks of light and the threads that bound them.
¡°Good work lad, now for the rest of them.¡±
It was going to be a long night of parsing through pinpricks, that Baethen was sure of.
Disentangling star-roads from each was difficult, constellations overlapping such that Baethen had to choose one over another and sometimes he just outright lost one or two or three to the ether, star-blindness overcoming him, novice that he was.
Each sign would colour his manifestation of light in its own unique manner and would require further practice to master but he was no astrologer, not really. Baethen was interested in the card¡¯s ability to store a secondary resource seeing as light was the shadow of heat¡ªhaving a font reserve at his fingertips would be useful to reignite Behemoth in the midst of battle, for example. Now that Baethen couldn¡¯t subsume another sceptre owing to [Pagats-Shadow], the new storage method was a godsend, quite literally too now that he thought of the providence of the [Nightvault-Painted-Prison] card set.
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As a consequence of [Scarwright], Baethen¡¯s shadow was weighed down, making it so that he couldn¡¯t hold as many starsigns as the Captain¡ªhis personal limit was five rather than Haviershan¡¯s thirty-two. The latter used signs to sharpen his wits and senses while Baethen used each sign to seal away a ¡®handful¡¯ of light for lack of a better word.
By the end of the session, the night above was near-empty and pitchblack. Baethen was well and truly stricken with [Star-Blindness], losing sight even of the Lodestar, the guiding light that all men used to orient themselves no matter the world.
¡°Alright laddie, rest up for a stund and then we¡¯re off. Remember to take a vial of wyrd-beast repellent before we leave¡ªfeyry-fly sores are no laughing matter. Still have them scars on me rump since my last going into Fata-Morgana¡¯s mite-infested arse-crack.¡±
They left the refuge not long after Baethen wrangled his last star-sign into his shadow.
Walking within Behemoth was a strange thing, almost as if he were within his own body, the suit of living metal moving like a thing of flesh. Baethen lumbered along the matted root-ground, his clawed and spiked sabatons leaving depressions in his wake.
To keep the liquid mercury from going into his eyes, nose, mouth or ears and preserve most of his senses all the while, Baethen had fashioned a visor that he wore, goggles fitted with the purest glass he could refine through his magicks. The helm itself was fitted close to the front of his face, padded with the most insulation to counteract the lack of quicksilver. He could still speak through the lead coffin he wore on his head and he heard near-normally¡ªthe metal near the sides of his skull was thinner and hollowed out to boot, acting as a sort of drum that made noises sound strange, as if underwater.
The armour dulled his sight and entirely took away his olfaction beyond the strong metallic tang that seemed to bite deep into his nostrils. Owing to the liquid he was submerged in, Baethen, at times, felt as if he were under the Dreadsea, ebbing and floating. This happened only between steps, seeing as his feet were secured directly to the armour as were his hands as well to be able to pilot the fingers¡ªwires ran through the Behemoth¡¯s forearms, bound to him so that he could puppet them with a pale reflection of dexterity.
He couldn¡¯t do any parlour tricks with them but he could sure-as-Hel hold his sword-spear with a death-grip and swing it with a love for life.
Just when the night was beginning to break before the dawn, the cadre having walked far enough towards the Orient, they happened upon their first impasse. It wasn¡¯t a group of goblyns come to waylay them or an impassable chasm but instead a rather innocuous-looking river of reflective, Bilr?st-laden water.
<> Haviershan signed
Phantasmagoria was a land of trickery and chicanery first and foremost, a wild riot of colour and counterpart to the dark realm of secrets begotten to Alunariat¡ªthe adventurers knew better than to trust in this place¡¯s falsities.
The liquid was thick and ran with a surface of quicksilver though distinctly cerulean like a cloudless afternoon sky, the edges shimmering with the rainbow stuff of the Godsbridge. To test its effects before it could affect them, the Captain threw a stone at the river, watching it float atop the mercurial waters as if on solid, if moving, ground. Though the rock was carried forth, its shadow was left where it had landed, shrived from its body.
Wherever they looked was this great divide of azure silver, cutting through the root-ground like a blade parts through flesh, leaving pools in its wake. Each pool was entirely round, the perfectly-still edges spiralling into a whirling, prismatic point at the centre; they measured them at around ten strides.
There was no going around the feyry river, no matter how long they marched the line between Lode and Low¡ªafter stunds of walking getting them no closer to the next shrine, the Captain ordered that they must ford over it.
<> Baethen signed, explaining how many of his cards would be rendered useless for a whole day lest he redraw his Hand afterwards.
Set capstones required the use of all constituent cards. At least, for most and Baethen¡ªthough learned in the minor skills of cartomancy such as with arcanum cantrips and calling upon his Hand within his mind¡¯s eye¡ªwas very much part of that ¡®most¡¯. He could not play a capstone while a part of it was discarded because of the [Running-Water] drawback.
Redrawing his Hand would lock him into those dealt cards for the foreseeable future, even if, say, a newly-won card could save his life like what had happened with [Flawed-Steelheart]. It was best he chose wisely whether losing access to [Imp-of-Serpents] through the discarding of [Lesser-Juggler-of-Fire] was worth it so long as he could still redraw his Hand should the need arise. Though he had no other cards inside his Archive, many of his brands and other spells required redrawing like with [Scoric-Wormscale-Hide] lest he succumb to [The-Beast-Within].
This was why speciality tokens were so prized: they didn¡¯t take up space within a Hand. Where [Celestial-Dew] could net Baethen five platinum Hsarashes, thereabouts five-hundred-and-seventy-five Sols¡ªmore than a stone in its, quite literal, weight in gold¡ªan equivalent [Celestial-Teardrop] was priced at nine platinum-tokens.
Baethen chose, then, to redraw his Hand rather than be without his cards. Better the devil you know than the devil you don¡¯t and all that. Unfortunately, devils, even those you know, are still just that.
Devils.
XXVIII - Spurn the Wicked
As the one with the most affinity for both illusions and mercurial magicks, Baethen was the first to brave the feyry river. He stepped onto it, feeling the ground move even as he stayed still atop the solid waters. Whatever ensorcelled its Bilr?st surface also took hold of his shadow, shriving it from his body like a knife¡ªthe weight he¡¯d been carrying from [Scarwright] vanished as a result and so did his ability to play [Lesser-Narguile-of-Night], seeing as he had no nothing to burn upon its altar.
Beyond these immediate effects, Baethen felt his tongue suddenly dry as the magicks therein fled like the doomed before the Grim Reaper. Drawbacks were not pleasant things, each one the taking away of a part of your very being, if only for just a day. Baethen couldn¡¯t imagine how it must feel to be a card-mule or a card-surrogate, caring for and forming sets only to remove and give them to another.
Walking upon the shimmering water was strange and ungainly, the ripples he left in his wake making it all the worse the closer he got towards the other shore. Only then, when he reached solid ground, did he Redraw his Hand, the feeling of the arcana rejoining him like a second wind, like regaining a lost limb or sense.
The others followed suit, though without having to Redraw. Their own drawbacks were related towards less esoteric weaknesses, simple limits on daily casts and the like; Magus-investiture cards tended towards mastery over magic and thus also had to possess equally-magical drawbacks. It was only Escoriot who had a similar vulnerability like Baethen¡¯s [Running-Water]¡ªthe man couldn¡¯t, for example, wield either sword or shield nor could he armour himself beyond the decorative shield-pauldrons he wore as those didn¡¯t do much to protect physically him in the first place, wrought of a fragile latticework carving of sandalwood banded with thin metallic rims of brass. A knife could part that flimsy barrier or simply pierce through one of the myriad, gaping holes.
¡®Forswear your shield so that another may have it.¡¯ Was his order¡¯s motto afterall.
Once they¡¯d all braved the river, not a single feyry fly or sprite waylaid them beyond those that were ever present within this part of Phantasmagoria. The buggers didn¡¯t swarm them which only made the cadre all the more worried seeing as letting lying dogs lie in a place such as this might mean death.
Perhaps it could be interpreted as the group having to present a gift to the boggart that they¡¯d fought before¡ªfey erred on implicit rules of hospitality so as to deceive and rob and bind the foolish. ¡®We¡¯ve cleared the way for thee, O honoured guests. Please, come and eat with Us.¡¯ Many a fool had forgotten to observe Wyrd and become the feasts for ravenous goblyns and trulls alike.
Once more, into the unknown the adventurers went.
The next point of interest they¡¯d encountered was the giant crystal chrysalis of some ancient, slumbering god-beast. It hung suspended across one of those great, circular chasms, floating with absolute stillness as if held aloft by countless invisible threads of gossamer.
The true form of the creature was ensorcelled in a veil of shadow that left only the vague suggestion of shape. Its size was comparable to the forefathers of mountains, so vast that it would dwarf Reordranhall a dozen times over or blot out the sun. That was without even counting the medium that the god-beast lay within¡ªwrought, seemingly of moonstone, semi-occluded at sections as if hoarfrost upon metal left in the night. Veins of trapped starslight spread throughout the amaranthine amber, though what for was anyone¡¯s best guess.
There was great discussion through finger-wagging about whether or not to approach the elder feyry¡ªperhaps it could grant a wish or a card or the group could beseech it for its timeless wisdom; few could be said to have spoken with something older than most civilisations or even stocks of mankind. In the end they decided not to awaken something best left asleep.
So long as he had line of sight towards the slumbering archfey, Baethen felt the hairs at the back of his nape stand on end. If you could see something, most likely could that something see you.
He had been one of the few that had argued for them to leave the thing as fast as possible¡ªhim being a voice of reason had spooked Haviershan enough that they left soon after.
For the nights to come, Baethen would dream of a baleful, all-consuming locust breaking free from its cage.
The Feywilds, though distinctly wild, were also home to many an intelligent fey stock.
Just as there were different stocks of Man, like the Nezarri and the Woedenites, there were varieties of fey. The first that they¡¯d encountered upon entering Phantasmagoria were feyry-flies and sprites; the former tiny, featureless children wrought of alabaster clay and winged with insectile grace while the latter were wisp-lights like those of Seirios though distinctly more colourful, resplendent with rainbow blood and laughing with the tinkling of bells.
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Feyry-flies tended to bite and lay eggs inside their hosts, spurring fungal-ridden spiral-form sores that gestated more of their misbegotten kind. Wisps simply ate of sunlight and drank of darkness unless they were of the thinking stock¡ªaged one-hundred-and-thirteen turns¡ªwhich lured children to their deaths so that they might eat their eyes and gain souls.
Thus came the boggarts, a nomadic sort of spirit which flitted unseen through Eot from feyry-ring to feyry-ring, cleaning homes and doing hously chores to pay the wages of their sin lest they lose their stolen souls. Sometimes, though, instead of just eating the eyes, a wisp might enter through the open mouth of a babe and turn it into a changeling.
This was the fourth type of goblyn they now encountered.
Note the use of name¡ªnot just fey but goblyn. All goblyns are fey but not all fey are insatiable monsters with a penchant for human flesh.
The cadre happened upon a convocation of gobs, their redcap heads eyeless and with long knife-ears and even longer noses, curved and wicked and pox-marked with warts. Upon seeing the group, the buggers began to chitter and chat, waving about their javelins before they charged from their homes; furrows carved within trees, bulbous mushrooms hollowed-out, and even pots and pans of copper stolen from Eot and traded through Phantasmagoria as cold iron burned fey of any kind.
These redcaps were tall enough so that they pointy-hatted heads¡ªwhich were really just fungal growth as goblyns did not wear clothing¡ªreached Baethen¡¯s waist. Though the gobs were just as weak as the children they¡¯d slain and eaten, they were many in number as bairns are wont to disobey their parents and venture into the forest, unknowing of the danger that lurks and cavorts in wild places uninhabited by Man.
Were it not for the Evergaol trapping them within, suspended in time, this band of goblyns would have raided a settlement by now, their number large enough that they could break through the veil.
A lifetime of grisly feyry-tales and battle with such monstrosities made Baethen callous to the devastation he was about to wrack upon the fell, unwholesome spirits before him. Even if he hadn¡¯t Redrawn his Hand after fording the river-of-Bilr?st, he would have done so now just so he could draw more deeply of his power.
The Behemoth¡¯s mouth opened, the jaws cranking against their grooves as the lower-melting metals within gave way and the magicks greased joint and cable alike. Baethen¡¯s visor did not stop his use of the Language and neither did it impede the dragon-breath he exhaled through the worm-maw slitting down his throat. Hel came from the portal into the Heaven that there dwelled, Gehenna begotten from Akasha like blood from a stone.
[Forge-Maw]
[Cinderspark-Spit]
[Gullet-of-the-Sky-Gorger]
[Imp-of-Serpents]
[Kindlers-Breath]
In rapid succession and in concert, he drew upon all his cards, playing a singular spell the likes of which he¡¯d not done since the sphynx awoke what lay at the deepest fathoms of his soul. He did not stir that which slumbered, only himself, the sheer human spirit enough to see through vengeance.
¡°[Spurn the Wicked. Burn and Shrivel. Torment and Woe upon Those Who Harm the Little.]¡±
All incantations benefitted from rhyme and what better use of a nursery-rhyme than in slaying the fey creatures that parents told their children to scare them to fitful sleep? Caricatures of tykes, wild and animal, told as cautionary tales to elicit obedience before fear, the shadow beneath the bed, the shadow of death.
From the Behemoth¡¯s mouth came a balefire so hot that it stole away the breath of all those near, greedy for every scrap of air. It rivalled the highest and brightest sun and the deepest, darkest moon; worms¡¯ flame tickled throughout, a verminous green and sulphur umber, miasma and ghostlight left in its wake.
Wherever Baethen¡¯s breath touched, things died, dried like husks that left no ash nor dust when they fell to break against the ground. Thus was a new card-chain born, spurn-the-wicked; a wicked spell for wicked things. Thus, so too, was a new card born from the ashes of the old but now was not a time for reading words.
The backlash that followed on playing so many cards at the same time was like being hit across the head. Baethen stayed there, dumbfounded by the self-inflicted blow to his soul as the smell of burnt hair and rotten eggs assaulted him, digging into his sinuses like saltwater, scouring his senses raw. Had his attack not razed the first wave of enemies to nought, he would have been skewered through his bared throat.
Already, the others of the cadre were advancing on the coming host of goblyns, a wing-formation corralling them back as Narancan stayed back to guard Baethen as he got his wits about himself again.
<> The Field-Sergeant asked in sign. Baethen responded with a nod as he girded the last of the mental cloth of his loins. There were monsters to slay and so many opportunities to do so, arrayed before like would-be heads on silver platters. There was no guilt for their passing similarity to humanity much the opposite.
There was glee in being able to justify hedonism for blood in a righteous cause.
He pulled down his helm with his claws, puppeting the digits through the wires in his war-suit and charged into the fray. Couched in justice, he would slaughter with abandon and would only learn the lesson that there was no more dangerous draught than anger in five lifes¡¯ time.
Because anger didn¡¯t make you do anything you didn¡¯t already want to do.
XXIX - Wrack and Ruin
Even without seeing his deck within his mind¡¯s eye, Baethen knew, just as he knew the grooves at the roof of his mouth, the contours of the changes that had been wrought. Like all good dealers, the ensouled had intrinsic knowledge of the cards dealt and drawn and yet to be, even if they couldn¡¯t tell you if the king stamped upon the inner face was crowned with steel or gold or if the jester¡¯s hat was black or red.
Baethen breathed in and felt the death around him feed him in a twisted parody of Seirios breathing life into Leizuziel¡¯s lifeless clay. The air of desolation gave him power, made him stronger in both body and spirit as he wrought the very opposite upon others.
The Inquisition would chase Baethen to the ends of the Dreadsea should he be found out to possess such a card. It did not break just a single one of the Four Accords but rather all of them. He didn¡¯t have the wherewithal then to care about anything other than the destruction he could sow upon the ranks of gobs arrayed before him.
Child bone was a poor barrier against ten stones¡¯ worth of sorrow-steel.
Baethen smashed through the living wall of meat, leaving smears in the shadow of his path. Redcap blood looked eerily similar to the actual stuff even if the bastards weren¡¯t actually flesh but rather fungus grown over stolen bone.
He struck out with his sword-spear, carving swathes like a scythe upon the feyry field before him. Havoc, wrack and ruin; hack, slash, and stomp. Heads popped like overripe grapes; limbs broke like dried and rotten twigs.
There wasn¡¯t much strategy beyond wading into a sea of foes, unmolested beneath an ocean of quicksilver and leaving the dead and dying behind you. The others had to contend against the implicit danger of the javelins but Baethen wasn¡¯t even there.
He was somewhere else and the Behemoth was in his place.
Heat was his lifeblood, accumulating through consecutive cycles of [Cycle-of-the-Crucible] as he threw out blades of burning metal forth from his sword-spear. When the sea of quicksilver grew too hot, boiling him in its argent waters and the behemoth pot, Baethen would channel the font into his forge-spells, lashing out or empowering strikes with fiery strength. Fiery ichor travelled through his veins, be they his own flesh or that of his war-suit.
He imagined this was what it felt like to be a god among men.
In five lives¡¯ time, he¡¯d correct himself: this was what it was like to be a man among children.
The seemingly-endless host of goblyns changed like the tide, going from the evenness of midnight to a leviathan wave, seeking to flood the Behemoth, to strike at every angle and every crack and every joint. From the burrows, from the furrows, from the shadows, from the leaves, redcaps came, flitting through Phantasmagoria to reach him¡ªthe drones of an incensed hive.
Goblyns were weak little things but where there was one you could see there were ten others hidden and twenty more that could be called upon in times of need.
He hadn¡¯t had any need to use [Sunder-the-Mirror] beforehand but now it was the precarious fulcrum upon which his life balanced. With his panes of reality-glass, he corralled the gobs to limit their onslaught to a more manageable deluge. Even then, so many piled on his back and arms that Baethen couldn¡¯t even swing his sword-spear any longer. He had to seal any holes to the outside world lest a gob shove something sharp through said holes.
The confinement brought him back to the sky-gorger¡¯s gullet, to the suffocation within the belly of the beast, to the walls of his world closing in¡ª
When the body cannot flail, the crook of the soul does so in its stead.
The constellations within his shadows were wrought of chains, binding the starslight within. Fetters broke to let loose a second dawn; five gods died to give birth to the all-blinding light that erupted around him.
When the first sparks took root in the closest goblyns, setting dried and patchy fungus aflame, so did Baethen¡¯s cards and arcanums. With the death he had stolen with his breath, he breathed in a second life to the second dawn, a conflagration erupting from him that scorched flesh from bone.
With the foothold, Baethen returned to indiscriminate slaughter, slicing this way and that with his sword-spear, syphoning molten metal from his suit to add to his attacks. A river of burning silver ran from the butt of his stave, pulling all the errant bits of slag with him as he advanced, an utter machine of war.
He only realised that the fight was over when, after the gobs broke rank, he caught sight of the boggart¡ªthat seven-winged, fallen angel. Not yet a true archfey, seeing as they¡¯d be dead seven times over were that the case, but still highly dangerous.
The malefic spirit simply watched, from afar as the goblyns ran past it, obscuring Baethen¡¯s view of it so that the boggart might disappear into the ether. Just as the flesh of slain godspawn sublimated into nothingness when not either used or directly observed, so too could the feyry move between realms of being.
A blink and then it was gone but that brought no relief seeing as Baethen just knew that he¡¯d only be rid of the pest when it was dead by his hand.
Which, speaking of, now that he had the wherewithal and attention to spare, Baethen brought up his Hand within his mind¡¯s eye, reading through the gnostic-glyphes that tallied the changes to his soul and the cards it held.
Hearken, due to {Clause-Strain} the {Player}¡¯s {Hand} incurs {How-the-Cards-Fall}!
[{Cards} {Collapsed}]: {[Cinderspark-Spit], [Kindlers-Breath], [Gullet-of-the-Sky-Gorger], [Forge-Maw].}
Hearken, the {Player}¡¯s {Hand} rouses with {Unbound-Arcana} and {Untethered-Gnosis}!
Scouring [Akashic-Archive] for compatible {Cards} [¡]
Compatible {Cards} found; shuffling probabilities set to {[Base]: [Two]} over {Mean} [¡]
Shuffle complete, {Single-Card: [Throat-of-Salamandara] ¡ï¡ï¡ï} {Drawn} and {Dealt} to {Player}; {Card} shuffled into the {Player}¡¯s {Hand}, joining the {Two-Card-Set: [Imp-of-Serpents]}.
A card collapse was the correct term for rivening; written in precisely that manner by the Words of the Deific-Tarot. It was mostly applied to, and had the strongest connotations with, intended breakings of a set of cards, especially to those that cannibalised the constituent cards for a pre-planned merge¡ªa set capstone, essentially, just without any cards to accompany it. There were whole inheritances based on keeping the knowledge of a card merge secret, seeing as they could be consistently reproduced to give somewhat standard results of star-parity and effect with only minor mutations to clauses and the like since a collapse was the result of clause-strain.
Baethen had no such knowledge himself so he hadn¡¯t attempted to collapse any of his sets into a singular, higher-parity card¡ªa rivening could just as well end up in card shards due to incompatible arcana or mindset or just plain incompetence. Too high risk for no reward when there was no visible path towards the latter.
Though there were some commonly known merges¡ªespecially those shared amongst members of a given class, be they artisan or warrior¡ªnone of them appealed to Baethen then much less now. The blacksmith merges sacrificed a lot of versatility and were found wanting in regards to combat while most blunt-weapon cards didn¡¯t deal in magical damage like he wanted, instead focusing on augmenting striking force, speed and impact size. He¡¯d ended up with [Imp-of-Serpents] through a whole deal of effort and scrounging, making himself a pale imitation of a forge-blade set but one that more closely resembled his skills.
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Just as the shield-wardens only accepted the best of the best, the forge-blades had an eye for the exceptional and, as a smith and warrior both, Baethen was neither. He couldn¡¯t do a triple-fold pattern weld of orichalcum and his martial forms were piss-poor at best.
Reading his newly-minted card, Baethen could help but think the lot o¡¯ them fools for not tripping over themselves to recruit him.
Card Collapsed: [Throat-of-Salamandara] ¡ï¡ï¡ï
Draw: [Two-of-a-Kind]
Drawback: [Drink-of-the-Poison-and-Live]
Arcana: [Salamanders], [Desolation], [Death]
Number: [XVII//XIX]
Suit: [Back-Pocket]
Gnosis ¦µ: [¡®Salamadara, the Worm-Reborn and Primogeny of Alheadra, cleansed Herself of the blood-sin through holy communion with the waters of Death¡¯. This {Card} grants the {Player} {Major-Dominion} over the {Arcana-of-Salamanders}, {Metamorphosing} their {Throat} into that of an {Elder-Red-Worm} which {Magnifies} {Fiery-Fonts} through {Breath-of-Lung} and {Produces} {Pyrophoric-Phlegm}; {Metamorphosis} allows {Player} to {Steal} the {Last-Breath} of the the {Dying}, thus {Empowering} them and {Imbuing} their {Phlegm} with a {Font-of-Miasma} until the next {Hand} is {Redrawn}. So long as the {Player}¡¯s {Phlegm} is {Imbued} with {Miasma} through this {Card}¡¯s {Metamorphosis}, they incur {Brand-of-Fear-and-Thirst}, halving their {Phlegm}. This {Card} is {Always-In-Play} and may only be {Discarded} from the {Player}¡¯s {Hand} through an {Act-of-Communion}; should this {Card}, through an {Act-of-Communion}, be {Discarded}, the {Player} incurs {Brand-of-Death-and-Rebirth}.]
The collapsed card, essentially, folded in all the properties and primary clauses of the previous cards into a singularity. Ash would no longer choke Baethen from the inside-out though he¡¯d not have the same potency of fire that [Forge-Maw] gave him. It was a direct upgrade of [Cinderspark-Spit], directly changing his phlegm so that it was pyrophoric.
He lost out on the ability to selectively ignite spit in exchange for a bigger and brighter spark that was magnified by the very same card so he¡¯d not have to rely on a card-chain to be able to spit flames. The speed at which he could breathe life into a gout of fire was now near-instantaneous.
Just opening his mouth and breathing through for a lick caused sparks to jump out from between his teeth¡ªharmless little lights so long as he didn¡¯t flex whatever occult mechanism was responsible for font magnification.
It would be interesting, to say the least of it, to see how Miro would react to a kiss that caused literal sparks to fly between them. Gods, how he missed him. It was, what, three Rounds or so since the last time he¡¯d seen Miro?
The parts of the card that really caught Baethen¡¯s attention, though, were the {Empowerment} and {Imbuement} clauses; the former made him stronger in every single aspect, be it good or bad as if he¡¯d gone through a star-threshold whilst the latter married his penchant for the arcana of Death with that of Fire.
His breath was now a proper weapon, sharpened from a still-dangerous-if-shorter longknife to a lethal longsword. Read in any context not martial, that would¡¯ve been quite the insult given the triple entendre.
That brought him a good chuckle, the smoking and charred goblyn remains not dousing his glee in the slightest. The feyry fiends deserved far, far, far worse.
<> Haviershan signed once again after Narancan tapped Baethen on the shoulder, the tap echoing throughout the shell now that the Feywilds returned to silence.
The cadre shuffled into their places with Baethen and Narancan at the front with Haviershan just behind them both. Behemoth did not turn well and took time to pick up speed so the Field-Sergeant took lead-point, steering Baethen so that he could remain the formation¡¯s proverbial spearhead. Though he could not outright protect the lot o¡¯ them like Escoriot or contend directly against a high-value elite, Baethen could wade into a sea of lesser foes unhindered, breaking apart formations through sheer force of onslaught and inertia.
Already dreading it, Baethen brought up his Tabula.
{Player}¡¯s {Tabula} {Read} as follows:
{492} ? [Lead-Tokens] ¡ï ({Portent}: [The-Black-Star])
{47} ? [Copper-Tokens] ¡ï ({Portent}: [The-Morning-Star])
{6} ? [Tin-Tokens] ¡ï ({Portent}: [The-Lode-Star])
{29} ? [Bronze-Tokens] ¡ï ({Portent}: [The-Burning-Star])
{126} ? [Iron-Tokens] ¡ï ({Portent}: [The-Cold-Star])
{60} ? [Damascene-Tokens] ¡ï¡ï ({Portent}: [The-Water-Star])
{31} ? [Silver-Tokens] ¡ï¡ï ({Portent}: [The-Weeping-Star])
{0} ? [Gold-Tokens] ¡ï¡ï ({Portent}: [The-Drought-Star])
{0} ? [Electrum-Tokens] ¡ï¡ï¡ï ({Portent}: [The-Dog-Star])
{0} ? [Platinum-Tokens] ¡ï¡ï¡ï ({Portent}: [The-Virgin-Star])
{0} ? [Byzantium-Tokens] ¡ï¡ï¡ï¡ï ({Portent}: [The-Evening-Star])
{0} ? [Black-Alabaster-Tokens] ¡ï¡ï¡ï¡ï¡ï ({Portent}: [The-Halcyon-Star])
Baethen had seven-hundred-and-fifty Death-God¡¯s obols before the fight; that was two-hundred-and-fifty-eight tokens worth that he¡¯d spent through [Cycle-of-the-Crucible] to keep the armour¡¯s heart beating¡ªhe was, in effect, working as the war-suit¡¯s circulatory organ, pumping cinnabar ichor throughout it and serving as the seat of its would-be soul, piloting Behemoth no different than a brain does to a body of flesh and bone. Be it repairing rents in the skin, mending cables or managing the width of veins so that they weren¡¯t clogged with coagulated metal, everything cost lead and iron. Damascene was too precious a metal for what amounted to scar tissue.
The bronze-tokens he¡¯d won from the turned boggart¡ªthe precious Yggrdrazil-shoot¡¯s fruit¡ªthereabouts three-hundred or so, he¡¯d exchanged for the cadre¡¯s coffers of lead and iron. Were it not for that windfall, employing Behemoth in the battlefield would¡¯ve been impossible. Just lugging it around alone would have turned Baethen into a pauper.
For all the myriad benefits that the war-suit provided, its upkeep cost in lead was downright usurious. Using the remnant heat generated throughout the fight, Baethen did surface-level repairs, mending the cables that piloted his digits and re-establishing mercury channels where cinnabar blood could flow.
Since they weren¡¯t safe, these basic field repairs were the best he could without leaving the confines of Behemoth.
Baethen settled in for a long, dull march of thinking about nothing in particular.
Once again, they happened upon the altar-of-refuge only once night fell, their steps having taken them Lode-of-Sunset with a greater err towards Sunset.
Just as night, stars fell from the heavens in a great shower of beautiful, radiant cerulean lances, sparkling like the purest, cut sapphires. Otherwise uncommon magical phenomena abounded within the Evergaol, the membrane between realities thinning such that the celestial realm of Leiliouria more easily surfaced, touching upon Phantasmagoria through the interstice of Babylonia.
Seeing as they were no longer being harried by, or in danger of, goblyns, Baethen opened Behemoth¡¯s maws so that he could see the falling stars with his own two eyes unhindered. Off came the visor as well.
Beyond the ephemeral lights above, coins rained in their wake, a single star among the falling host shining brightest. Just holding up his hands was enough for Baethen to catch a handful of them.
Tin-tokens did not grow like seeds sown by way of man in the manner of bronze-tokens but instead fell from the heavens of Babylon amongst meteor showers; wandering stars that had wandered too far and so lost themselves down upon the Board from on high. The Lodestar Izar, or the Veiled Lamp, was known by many a name with links to both Balphas the Magus and Alunariat the Hermit; it was a constant presence in the sea-of-night, guiding the sailors of all worlds.
Though a low token due to its sheer abundance, tin was prized for its sorcerous ability, each one a fragment of the torn veil of night. Sorcerers and sages alike took after it as many cards that dealt with magic proper by way of staves could use tin-tokens to [Empower] spells. The Alban Beacon shone strongest when the moon was black and weakest when She was full for only in the darkness can true light shine.
Not looking a gift horse in the mouth, Baethen lined his pockets in fistfuls of tin, knowing better than to wait for the others to snatch them up before he could¡ªthese were no things of Phantasmagoria, grown upon the root-soil of the Feywilds.
No man or spirit could lay claim to something so ubiquitous as rain.
XXX - Tempting Fate
The calm before the storm was always the worst part of any battle.
Dying was easy; waiting for death was not.
Baethen occupied his notch before the final battle with this rung¡¯s d?mon with training and camaraderie, his status as one of their own returned though not without its scars. There would ever be a distance between him and them for the simple fact that people were scared of the Devil for good reason.
And She had her roots in Baethen real deep.
He hadn¡¯t yet had cause to drink too deeply of the arcana of worms but Baethen knew it was not to last. Violence had a way of bringing the worst out of people which was perhaps nothing more than a truism but Baethen still felt mighty wise thinking that nonetheless.
His training focused on wielding his breath as a weapon of war.
Should he call upon his arcanums, Baethen could unleash a gout of burning balefire the likes of which bordered on dragon-breath rather than the pale imitation of worm¡¯s flame. Ghostlight and miasma entwined to dole out death at a scale that Baethen hadn¡¯t been able to beforehand.
Though card-chains were sometimes stronger than the sum of their parts, they could not beat a card collapsed from them wholesale. Although Baethen lost the versatility of being able to wield the cards individually, his power had deepened in raw force and potential.
Though ghostlight did not interact with non-living metal, it did rust Behemoth¡¯s maw owing to Baethen¡¯s blood flowing through it. The card extended its protection to the arcana of death and desolation only to the {Player}¡¯s body, not their spilt blood. The war-suit was not a true, living thing though it neared that state of being due to the cinnabar that circulated through it. Another card, perhaps one to do with imbuement like [Echo-of-Alabastron] could push the Deific-Tarot to recognise Behemoth as an ensouled artefact similar to [Pagats-Shadow]. Cards were shards of spirits and souls, afterall.
To curtail the damage, Baethen lined the interior of Behemoth¡¯s maw with what amounted to an unholy union of a horse¡¯s bit and shoes. The plate of dead metal was not welded to the main mass through which ichor flowed, instead inset with iron thorns into the war-suit¡¯s hard palate. This way, ghostlight wouldn¡¯t corrode the helm as much when Baethen opened it a notch to let out a gout of miasmic fire.
With his breath weapon sorted out, Baethen returned to his first and most dependable tool: his sceptre. He¡¯d been neglecting the sword-spear in favour of Behemoth but he was Helsbent on changing that tune right quick.
Most often, Baethen imbued [Kindlers-Breath] and [Cycle-of-the-Crucible] into his sceptre¡¯s blade. The combination was stable enough on its own to withstand battle without worry for exploding shards of bone and sorrow-steel¡ªdamascene was a right-hardy metal, perfect for enchantments and ensorcellings of all kinds.
Working in tandem with [Lesser-Juggler-of-Fire], the duo of cards enhanced any forge-spells cast through the sceptre, amplifying flame and binding metal¡ªit was the basis of the molten-lash card-chains he¡¯d employed to send out crescents of burning slag to cremate the gobs. He¡¯d had the duo within his sword-spear since stepping foot in the Feywilds but now he felt there was a need for change.
It wasn¡¯t a lack of power but rather of execution as was demonstrated with the gobs but not with the boggart. Baethen needed an extra vector for attack when all else failed given the feyry propensity for esoteric vulnerabilities. The maleficar had been all-but impervious to damage until he had broken its barrier of moth¡¯s wings.
At first, Baethen had the idea of making disposable sceptres, each one prepared to explode at a moment¡¯s notice but then decided that was too foolish, even for him. Then, he thought of making more weapons, one for each situation he could think of but that would be far too difficult to fold into even unarmoured combat let alone wield while also piloting Behemoth.
In the end, Baethen decided on a mix between the two previous iterations, but for that he needed Escoriot¡¯s help and the man was a miser when it came to his time and trust.
¡°No.¡±
Baethen expected that so he brought with him a blank slate sceptre and just said: ¡°Watch and then I¡¯ll ask you the question again.¡±
¡°The answer will still be¡ª¡±
Down came the hammer, burning with a fire that rivalled a forge.
¡°[Open Thine Eyes].¡±
Baethen¡¯s grasp on the Language was tenuous at best. He did not know many Words-of-Power as was required with grand workings, instead simply propping up his will with Omniglot rather than using the Words to their full effect. A proper magus might¡¯ve made the sceptre sprout eyes and even endowed it with a soul.
Instead, the long stave swirled with veins of ember, the already-carved images of eyes lighting up as gnostic-glyphes smoldering within his mind¡¯s eye.
Artefact-Card Forged: [Herald-of-Sights-End] ¡ï
Draw: [One-of-a-Kind]
Drawback: [To-Reveal-is-to-Destroy]
Arcana: [The-Sceptre], [Fire], [The-Eye]
Number: [XIII//XX]
Suit: [One-at-Dice]
Gnosis ¦µ: [¡®The Eye of Alunariat knows all secrets just as Nagalfaram abhors all falsehoods¡¯. This {Artefact-Card} possesses {Minor-Dominion} over the {Arcana-of-Blindness}, {Imbuing} its {Vessel} with the power to {Reveal} the {True-Form} beneath {Illusions}. For this {Artefact-Card} to be {Brought-Into-Play}, the {Player} must {Strike} a {Illusion}. After this {Artefact-Card} is {Brought-Into-Play}, it is {Discarded} from its {Vessel}, thus {Banished} to {Babylon}.]
Baethen had echoed [Strike-While-the-Iron-is-Hot] and [Clouded-Fiefsight] into the artefact, already knowing that a mixture of the two would produce something that would banish illusions¡ªa necessity in the Feywilds that he used many a time lest he fall where he thought solid ground lay.
For the inlay, Baethen had used gold, the metal¡¯s connotations to the arcana of light and truth further reinforcing the chance to produce what he wanted. He was no arteficier that could wring cards into being inside of arms and armour and neither could he make true relic-cards like those found within an Evergaol but this was the closest any of the cadre would get until they brought death to the archd?mon at the Tower¡¯s heart.
[Herald-of-Sights-End] was a long needle that tapered to a point where it would meet with the ground, hollowed-out so that something could fit within.
Baethen flipped the sceptre in his hand and then extended it to Escoriot.
¡°Whether or not you take me up on my quest for you, this is yours as a reward for your teachings. Just be sure to inscribe a brand-of-sloth upon it lest the spell falter at midnight.¡±
The cantankerous shield-warden scoffed at the reference to the feyry-tale of Cindrillan but otherwise made no move to take the artefact.
¡°When were you gonna share this ability of yours with the rest of us?¡±
Baethen almost smacked the man with the damned thing. The operative word being almost.
¡°Tell no lie, I want to break this thing in two over your dense head.¡±
Just before the Lieutenant shot back a scalding retort, Baethen lifted a palm.
¡°Trust is not given but earned¡ªyou told me this yourself, Escoriot. What have you done to earn mine? You of all people should know better than spit upon an yggrdrazil branch.¡±
A thousand words died on his tongue just as soon as they were born. The shield-warden really did not like Baethen and saw him as nothing more than a reckless, fool-hardy lad which, though accurate, was a too-simplistic view. You could be clever and a fool, all within a single soul.
¡°Very well, son. Seems you¡¯ve taken my lessons to heart, truly. To throw my own words back at me is no mean feat.¡±
¡°O¡¯ course it was no mean feat; you barely talk in the first place so there are little words to be thrown back in the first place.¡±
He let out a long-suffering sigh before he relented but relent he did.
The main problem of [Echo-of-Alabastron]¡ªbeyond, of course, the [True-Name] drawback¡ªwas that its simulacra decayed with time. All simulacra, by definition, were but temporary echoes destined to die. Though powerful, they were short-lived¡ªcopying all properties of a card but none of its permanence, but pale shadows upon shifting water.
With Escoriot¡¯s skill in binding, that drawback was null and void. A few well-placed rune-brands could make an imbued sceptre into a near-replica of an artefact, the card entrapped within its amber preserved for so long as the physical {Vessel} remained.
Since the artefacts could be stabilised, more cards could be added into each before they reached the critical threshold for implosion. Escoriot could also tweak the runes just so, reading between the lines to make what amounted to magical triggering mechanisms like an invisible steeljaw trap.
Though Woedenites were loath to employ any contraption wrought of infernal sulphur, even Escoriot was chomping at the bit to get his hands on the newly-minted torch-bombs. Each one was strong enough to take out a good chunk of soil, having specialised flavours of arcana so the cadre would cover the gamut of weaknesses that the coming d?mon could possess.
Baethen hadn¡¯t told the others of his enchanting capabilities beyond Tratvgar and now he shared the fruits of his labour freely, enhancing whatever equipment they gave him with whichever cards they entrusted him with. Though Baethen could only imbue sceptres, Escoriot and Haviershan could mould the artefacts into other forms so long as they fit with the imbuement¡ªas a result the limit of strain available was reduced so only a single card could be placed upon certain pieces of kit.
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Baethen almost shed a tear when Haviershan trusted him with the [Gaolsaint-Idol]. Unfortunately, it hadn¡¯t been possible to replicate the seraph slumbering within, the card resisting any efforts to imbue it into a sceptre. Made sense given its level of divinity.
Now having access to a greater library of cards, it was a hard pick for Baethen on which he would imbue into his gladius-bladed spear or even Behemoth though he could layer on more than a single imbuement for each limb.
The best of the cards were as follows:
[Shrive-Eot] could carve furrows into any bit of substance so long as it was corporeal, so long as it was corpus. Ensign Lac used the card to augment her strikes, a signature, as it were, for her set [Path-of-the-Blade] which functioned similarly to [Cycle-of-the-Crucible], giving her control over her sword-slab through will-of-mind.
[Brand-the-Spirit] was the foundational pillar for Escoriot¡¯s [Tablet-of-the-Eld] set, allowing him to etch those rune-brands of his upon thin air. Imbuing this into a sceptre could give Baethen access to inscriptions of all kinds, as if he were a rune-speaker or rune-smith. Just as {Word-of-Mouth} clauses
[Whisper-Slice] was the set capstone for Narancan, allowing him to control fonts of severance through word-of-mouth so long as they were not heard by another. Compounding cards related to the Language had a cumulative effect and might make the coming battle with the boggart easier as Baethen could bait the goblyn into discourse in the Language only to slit its throat with a well-timed whisper.
[Varunas-Living-Cloak] was not, unfortunately, able to be imbued at Baethen¡¯s current power. Though only three stars, the complex spirit that dwelt within it was too much for him¡ªnot dissimilar to the same problem with [Gaolsaint-Idol]. Tratvgar would keep his familiar for the moment.
[Sup-Upon-the-World-Root] instead was available and drew from the life-force of plants so as to {Empower} the player. The Feywilds was lush with flora and verdor so such a card could further strengthen Baethen along with [Throat-of-Salamadara] as he doled out death.
In the end, Baethen chose all four cards: [Shrive-Eot], [Brand-the-Spirit], [Whisper-Slice], and [Sup-Upon-the-World-Root]. With Haviershan and Escoriot around to help him stabilise the magicks therein, he could forge something he could not otherwise forge by himself.
Huddled over a ritual circle inscribed with runes, at the centre of which lay a crucible of molten gold, three men chanted, two in the Language and one in the sailor¡¯s tongue of swears as the heat scalded his fingertips. While Baethen spoke, Escoriot wrote, their spell long since having been practised until either of them could recite it in their sleep.
¡°[Hearken] O child of Babylon, [Mend] thine broken self [Whole] once more. [Rouse] O child of Babylon from the sleep of thine Father¡¯s demise. [Awaken], O child of Babylon for wayward brothers, poisoned by the poison of shadow, await the [Cold-Mercy] that only death can bring.
¡°[Come], open thine eyes O child of Babylon for the [Scales-of-Retribution] balance upon the [Fulcrum] of thine [Blade] alone; there is no vengeance but that which is wrought by thee, O [Blade-Alone].¡±
Baethen¡¯s mastery over the God-Tongue could only affect things like heat and the like and he¡¯d been limited to Words-of-Power that had to do with fire and forge before climbing the Evergaol with the cadre. Now, though his reach was still constrained to swelter and flame, his tongue could weave many more Words, stunds of contemplation upon the arcana and repetition of praxis showing their worth.
So long as he could weave the spell back into his domain of smithing, he could Speak Words-of-Power otherwise impossible to him through [Imp-of-Serpents]. This was not a moment of power through revelation like with his card-collapse incited upon cursing the goblyns and exterminating them utterly, but instead the culmination of dedicated study and application of theory and help from his fellow man.
With each Word, he brought down the hammer with cinders trailing its wake, enunciating with the deep speech of the anvil as much as that of the mortal tongue. Baethen finished the incantation with a single command, a single Word that he felt reverberate down to the bones of his very soul: ¡°[Rage]¡±
Next, Haviershan tipped the chalice that held the threefold blood offering atop the sword-spear. [Strike-While-the-Iron-is-Hot] set the final score, the hammer melting into liquid slag with the last strike to join with the crucible.
The gladius¡ªset atop a small anvil of damascene that stood in the middle of a crucible of molten gold like an isle circled by storm¡ªopened a single eye at the centre of its fuller, the wires of purest aurum that wrapped around it sinking in. The flames that licked at the blade turned cerulean blue, the concentrated magicks changing its aspect such that the Damasc pattern weld became an iridescent Bifr?st.
No doubt that was Phantasmagoria¡¯s influence, that.
From the short-blade¡¯s pommel grew seeking roots that wrapped around the handle of behemothsbone, entrenching itself to become a sword-spear proper. From the crucible below, streamers of molten-gold ribbons wove around the entirety of the weapon so that it shimmered a beautiful platinum amber.
The azure flames still yet burned upon the sword-spear¡¯s form, heatless and with shadows of incomplete rune-brands within. With his mind¡¯s eye open, Baethen scried the weapon¡¯s name and soul.
It was disaster, the blackest of stars that would rival even Death¡¯s Usher, Cepheus.
Artefact-Card Forged: [Cruciata-the-Curse-Fire] ¡ï¡ï¡ï
Draw: [Three-of-a-Kind]
Drawback: [Poison-of-Shadows]
Arcana: [Wyrd], [Fire], [Curses]
Number: [XIII//XIX]
Suit: [Triumph]
Gnosis ¦µ: [¡®Babylon, Babylon, how far you¡¯ve fallen. Once the mightiest of the Twenty-One, you were struck down for reaching beyond the heavens; thus, you were hollowed out and made to be trodden upon, a broken Tower, now but Babel¡¯. This {Artefact-Card} possesses {Major-Dominion} over the {Arcana-of-Curses}, {Imbuing} its {Vessel} with the power to {Brand} {Curses} through {Burning-Flame}. For this {Artefact-Card} to be {Brought-Into-Play}, the {Player} must {Burn} a {Sigil} upon another {Player}¡¯s {Cast-Shadows} with the {Artefact-Card}¡¯s {Vessel}. After this {Artefact-Card} is {Brought-Into-Play}, the {Player} incurs {Brand-of-Avarice} which {Poisons} their {Cast-Shadows} until the next {Hand} is {Redrawn}.]
To reveal was to destroy and so upon reading its gnostic-glyphes, the weapon broke in three: a blade, a stave with a blossom-shaped head, and a fourfold cross-guard¡ªall ebbing in invisible, formless etheric winds. Each was a distinct relic-card, wrought of a strange and fey-touched metal that seemed to be covered in an unguent of stone-oil but was dry to the touch, its skin dancing with rainbow flame that burned cold.
[Cruciata-the-Curse-Fire] ¡ï¡ï¡ï ({Three-Card-Set} {Artefact} - {Unlinked})
[Budding-Bifrost-Blossom] ¡ï¡ï ({Single-Card} {Relic} - {Unlinked})
[The-Blade-Alone] ¡ï¡ï ({Single-Card} {Relic} - {Unlinked})
[Fourfold-Cruciform] ¡ï¡ï ({Single-Card} {Relic} - {Unlinked})
The danger of artefact-cards and relic-cards was that once a man died, they were guaranteed to be taken by the killer by right of conquest; the Deific-Tarot rewarded wars fought upon the axis of artefacts.
For that simple bit of fact, envy¡¯s green evil-eye reigned supreme. The Gods might scorn Scaduphomet yet still They played with the Devil Their little game, scheming just as deeply and insidiously, inciting just as much if not worse violence to rage across the Board, war ravaging countless lives as men and women and sybilant alike raped and pillaged with the righteous justification that the Gods willed it so.
Suffering, pain, despair left in Their unseen wake.
A convocation of angelic hymns blared through the ears of the three men like the trumpets of Judgement Himself and they came to know true terror that beggared that of Ruination¡¯s presence and even of the nameless thing that dwelt within Baethen¡¯s shadow.
Awoken gods were scarier than those that still yet slept.
Hearken, the [Dealer-of-Fate] stirs awake at the {Player(s)}¡¯ {Act-of-Creation} within the {Cast-Shadow} of the [Realm-of-Phantasmagoria] invested into the {Second-Rung} of the {Akashic-Tower} of {Al-Reth?m}! As {Eldest}, [Fata-Morgana] takes {Rearhand} as {Dealer} and plays {Nudge-the-Odds}.
Scouring [Rota-Fortuna] for compatible {Cards} [¡]
Compatible {Cards} found; shuffling probabilities set to {[Base]: [Three]} over {Mean} [¡]
Shuffle complete, {Card: [Curse-Fire] ¡ï¡ï¡ï} {Drawn} and {Dealt} to {Artefact-Card}¡¯s {Vessel}; {Artefact-Card} put into {Vessel}.
One by one, they fell to their knees as the presence of the demesne they inhabited opened its all-encompassing eye to gaze upon them. Baethen felt the influence press itself upon him, the baleful oppression that comes from a greater will witnessing you for the first time and the world twisting around it for you were lesser¡ªless real, less important; a figment found wanting and easily erased should the greater will decide so.
They were ants that had crawled atop the skin of a god and had accidentally made too much commotion, awakening the slumbering intelligence of {Phantasmagoria} Itself. It was, perhaps, a tenth of a tenth of a tenth of the Tenth-Arcana¡¯s awareness that saw them but that was almost enough to snuff out the light of their souls. The mere askance sight of a god could kill a mere mortal.
The implication was easy to grasp even as their beings began to unravel like so much rotten thread: they¡¯d gotten Her attention and She was curious to see how¡¯d they fare in the coming fight with the rung¡¯s Gate-Guardian. So, Fata-Morgana the Lady-o¡¯-Luck-and-Misfortune tipped the scales of Fate Itself, meddling such that the forged artefact would become more than it would have been otherwise, investing a card from Her personal archive the {Rota-Fortuna} into [Cruciata].
Through the meddling with destiny, the past conformed to the future such that [Cruciata] always was now as it¡¯d been. Not merely the mind but reality itself bent before Her will. Seeing as this realm was but a figment of Her otherworldly imagination, She had greater authority over than, say, in Eot proper. Causality and universal law, within this place, adhered to Her will and Her will alone.
Whatever Fata-Morgana, Tenth of the Arcana to be born, had found in them of interest, She would have. And Her attention honed in on Baethen¡¯s shadow, the realm warping around him like a blanket of sky.
¡°[Come O Brother, Brother mine.]¡±
Each word struck his soul like a hammer to hollow tubes of bronze, bending the foundations of Baethen ¡®Sore-Loser¡¯ Locke as the Tenth Hand sought to coax that which lay within him. Whatever clung behind the two-fold mask of pyrite did not deign to respond, uncaring and then the Goddess¡¯ presence vanished like so much smoke, blending back into the realm but not before letting out an all-consuming tut-tut of disapproval that made Baethen want to beg for mercy.
She was playing a game with them and they were but pawns dancing to Her whims. Little gears inside a gargantuan, ineffable machination that would most likely spell their deaths through Serendipity¡¯s own quill.
The artefact was a masterwork that would never be replicated so long as this vessel still existed¡ªdivine inspiration had guided its formation within the demesne of Phantasmagoria and so it carried with it a piece of Imagination¡¯s Womb. The Wyrd near thrummed with its presence, making it so that even the three men could grasp the arcana of binding-and-weaving.
They¡¯d been inside an altar-of-refuge but they¡¯d not speak about what they¡¯d witness.
The three men would keep their mouths shut until the next rung, knowing better than wag their tongues and tempt the literal Hand-of-Fate.
Tempt, that is, once again for they¡¯d done so one too many times already.
Interlude - Misero
In the deafening silence of the sanctuary, the cadre of adventurers shared a meal, speaking of times past and tales both tall and small. Though Lac, Narancan and Tratvgar hadn¡¯t taken direct part in the forging of Cruciata, they¡¯d witnessed its birth and what that entailed. For them to lend Baethen their cards, they needed to be near as the materialised construct would vanish from a distance.
Being visited by a god meant nothing good. Not even Merciful Sybil was without blemish in this regard, Her appearances that of a plague doctor in the wake of a plague. Gods left only sorrow in Their wake.
¡°What was Whiteshore like?¡± Baethen asked. ¡°Do they really make sandships from glass there and sail them across the Alabaster Desert?¡±
¡°Aye, lad, they do.¡± Haviershan removed a pouch from the many belts at his side. He¡¯d removed his breastplate, instead donning just a simple undershirt that left his barrel chest bare, the hair crawling up his sternum before stopping just before his collar bones.
¡°Take a look ¡®ere, lads. I bottled up some of their famous lucent-sand that they use to make the prows and bodies of their vessels. They call the lands between Whiteshore and the Caliphate of Al-Kazazakatan the Great Empty. Ain¡¯t a single oasis between the Lucent Gate and the walls of the City-of-Shrouds.¡±
Baethen took the pouch, opening it to take out the bottle that lay within, a diminutive ampoulette filled to the brim with translucent grains. The sands of Whiteshore reacted alchemically with the salted waters of the Dreadsea such that they became glass and were easy to work with to make great works such as the spires of the caliphates and even the City-of-Mirrors of Assiah.
¡°It reminds me of etheric-glass.¡± Baethen said, twisting the bottle about to catch the rainbows that the grains reflected into being. ¡°Since you showed yours, let me show you mine.¡±
He took out his glass-box device and removed a rectangle from within. A single snap of his authority over the arcana of mercury and fire melted the metal frame off the fragile wafer of ether. Rather than simply throwing it away, Baethen caught the bit of slag and pocketed it for later¡ªmetal was rather precious to him and his magicks.
¡°It scorns heat just like sorrow-steel but breaks worse than sugar glass.¡±
And then it was Narancan¡¯s turn to share something.
¡°In R¨naria, each primogeny¡ªthe firstborn of every divine bloodline¡ªis given a bit of the scarlet clay of vermillion.¡± The lump of red dirt in his hands was smooth and streaked with veins of crimson, leaving not a single trace on his frost-bitten fingers. ¡°It isn¡¯t true primordial, Qadmonic ichor, mind; it¡¯s more a keepsake than anything else. A good luck charm¡¡±
The mood soured a bit after that but Baethen did not blame the R¨narian much if at all. It was clearly a sore spot for him to speak of his banishment. The man was slow to speak, shying away at more than a few words every round. That he spoke was cause enough to understand that he too was unnerved like the rest of them.
¡°Me family gave me a trinket, too.¡± Baethen said to fill the void of speech. ¡°A card of Morophesh. [Celestial-Dew] it was called. Saved me rump after the sky-gorger.¡±
¡°Oh yeah, ye did get eaten by a dragon that one time.¡±
¡°Well, apparently I taste like the Devil¡¯s taint because the bugger spat me out.¡±
¡°Poor Miro.¡±
After the chuckles died, Lac told them a yarn about how her girl¡¯s parents had once hosted an angel and only known so after the thing blessed their bedhouse so that it would never grow infested with pests, be they bloodfly, wyrd-toad or errant feyry.
Though the story came close to the thing which everyone was trying to avoid thinking about, it proved a nice reprieve nonetheless. Apparently, they¡¯d renamed the bedhouse The Angel¡¯s Rest; it was located on the opposite side of Reordran and Baethen ran in different circles to boot. He¡¯d never seen it himself but had heard of wandering spirits walking amidst men and blessing and cursing in accordance with their nature and that of their hosts.
Misero, God-of-Beggars¡ªborn of secretive Alunariat¡¯s deprivations as an archangel of the abyss and arisen to the status of deity by Unnumbered-Loken¡¯s capriciousness¡ªwalked in the shadow of every vagrant. ¡®Forget not to show love unto strangers: for thereby some have entertained angels unawares¡¯ was the god¡¯s one and only tennent, motto and scripture, carved into the threshold of every hostel and bedhouse from the Risensea to Worldsend.
Everywhere and anywhere where one sold lodgings, there was at least a single misero within, sleeping soundly. There had been many a time when Misero was denied hearth and, in so doing, wrought wrack and ruin upon the miserable so that, in the end, when they are without home and wanderers once again like the Nephalem, they understand. By Fata-Morgana¡¯s hand and the Wyrd¡ªthe Weave of Fate Itself¡ªmany a prideful man and woman were brought low so that they might learn and know what it is like to crawl upon the dust on your belly.
All it takes is a single wrong step and the ensuing tumble brings you to the bottom of the pit where wits and strength of body are all that separate dead men from living monsters.
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Charity alleviated the woes of another for, either way, those woes would find their way shared with you whether you liked it or not. A child not embraced by the village will burn it down to feel its warmth and all that.
Of all people that Baethen expected to visit him in the night, Narancan was not one of them. Still half-asleep in Broken-Babylon¡¯s Land-of-Dreams, Baethen had said: ¡°No offense, you¡¯re handsome and all but you are too thin a twig for my taste. Thicken up a bit and then I¡¯ll reconsider.¡±
The man sputtered something fierce before he explained that he came just to talk. Last time Baethen saw a man trip over so many words, that man had been Miro after he bedded him the night before he left for the Evergaol.
¡°Oh, so you came for some tongue waggin¡¯, not wrestlin¡¯. I¡¯m of a mind to do that.¡±
Well, truly, Baethen wanted to swear at the man for interrupting his sleep¡ªslumber hadn¡¯t come easy, what with the weight in his shadow, be it old or new. But he had a feeling that Narancan really did need to talk.
¡°What was it like in the belly o¡¯ the beast? If you don¡¯t mind me askin¡¯, that is.¡±
Strange, why was he interested in that, now of all places and times?
¡°Well, it weren¡¯t comfortable. A bit too humid and dark and suffocating and horrifying. I heard these words that the devil spoke, somehow¡ªa whisper in my mind like wind through hair. It spoke of Azabre-Dul. The word seemed like maybe a title of some sort. Perhaps even the name of a person or place? It reeked of a mix of Woedenite and Pharamese. Maybe even Old Kolithil.¡±
Narancan¡¯s rose-coloured skin went ashen like a funerary flower, all the blood draining from his face. Baethen hadn¡¯t realised the reaction until the silence caught up to him, his eyes turning to catch the Field-Ser¡¯s features. It was worse than the time that he¡¯d become a devil, if only for but a lick.
¡°Never speak that name near a R¨narian.¡± He said, softly, like the trees had ears and they did, owing to the events of before. ¡°It is sacrilege, it is forbidden, it is a sentence of death.¡±
Now that woke him up.
¡°What¡¯s it mean?¡±
Narancan looked up to the host of stars above.
¡°¡®Azabre¡¯ means ¡®the bones¡¯ in my tongue and ¡®Dul¡¯ is¡ well, you know the name of the place in which we tread.¡±
Rimare-Tul, in modern parlance, was Deadman¡¯s Point. In the old Woedenite language¡ªa branch of the Kolithil which all nations of Kataban spoke some variation of¡ªit was the Crags-Where-Men-Go-To-Die.
Though Baethen already understood the general direction where he was going with it, Narancan spelled it out for him.
¡°It is the graveyard of the Gods, the place where all souls go to die once the last game is played. A vast tomb of salt, the ash of the stars fallen to Eot.¡±
Narancan kneaded his clay lump with fervent terror and did not say a single thing more before he stole away into the night to sleep alone.
Slumber had come slow before and now it came awfully quick, no matter how much Baethen felt spooked by the exchange. As if the jaws of Babylon closed around his head to devour him into the Land-of-Dreams, he closed his eyes and surrendered to Babylonia¡¯s inexorable pull.
A masked figure silent-still lay within a host of dust and listened to a choir of devils sing, each and every fallen angel horned with the wages of their original sins, their halos long since broken for Sol would not suffer the Fallen to possess His light, that purifying, all-consuming flame.
Mother, O Mother Mine.
The devils cavorted and danced with abandon, their cloven hooves beating upon the dust so that great clouds billowed ¡®round and ¡®round about them, the eye of the storm.
The flesh burns black under the midnight sabbath.
Like shadows, they were, reflections of something, somewhere else.
Seven mouths sing the lament of Azabre-Dul.
From among the throng of dust, seven faces looked upon the devils, each one a primarch fear of humanity made flesh. First among them was that of Darkness for there was no worse terror than that which the mind conjured for itself. Second among them was that of the Deep, for fathoms and falls alike hide within them the jaws of Death, the Third Primarch.
Death to the Gods, the devils sang, beating their fists upon their chests as drums and wielding instruments wrought of desiccated cadavers. Shrunken, brainless heads shook hissing cacophonies and sinew-string ouds strummed the dirge of Gehenna, that of damnation.
Death to the Gods.
From the Fear-of-Death comes that of Disease, the rotten and the putrid, and after all has dried and hunger claws at the bowels and thirst at the throat, Drought is that which Man fears.
Thrice, We say, death to the Gods.
After five fears, there is the second-to-last, that of fear itself. It is the bedfellow to the scared and the craven and the coward and the victim and the killer; it is the slow Dread of pain to come, that no matter how far you¡¯ve run, I will catch you.
Mother, O Mother Mine.
Last of the Seven Primarchs was Damnation, the ultimate fear wrought of the previous six and made one under the Fifteenth Hand. Though the others were older, and invoked deeper primacy, they could not contend against the fear of the eternal, of the neverending.
When at last, their dreadsong was done, the archdevil at the centre of the cavortation turned to look at the masked figure in silence. They remained this way until the masked one retreated into the nothingness of the dust, neither acknowledging the other if but for their stares.
When the mascaracsam disappeared, the archdevil sagged in relief.
Of all the firstborn progeny of the Major Arcana, there none more feared than that of the Unnumbered One. Death might be nameless but this was not and it was known by all those who feared It so. This was what Fear Herself feared, that which She could not predict nor understand, beyond the ken of even immortals.
Though devils dwelled in darkness, they, too, like all mortals feared the moonless night for in the moonless night there lay Goghiel the Watcher and you do not wake the Watcher.
XXXI - The Scales and Blade
At the centre of the sanctuary, Baethen knelt, his hands on his knees, meditating on the new weight that he now bore within his soul. Where [Stigmata-Mundi] levied the shadow and made the breath shallow, this was like wind in the hair and lightning in the spine; invigorating and utterly intoxicating.
His mind¡¯s eye illuminated the words like light passing through a thousand-coloured mosaic. Rather than the fair white of the previous cards or the ashen script of the Devil¡¯s arcana, the gnostic-glyphes shone with Bifr?st, rainbow radiance shimmering through the artefact-card¡¯s gnosis.
[Cruciata-the-Curse-Fire] ¡ï¡ï¡ï ({Three-Card-Set} {Artefact} - {Unlinked})
[Budding-Bifrost-Blossom] ¡ï¡ï ({Single-Card} {Relic} - {Unlinked})
[The-Blade-Alone] ¡ï¡ï ({Single-Card} {Relic} - {Unlinked})
[Fourfold-Cruciform] ¡ï¡ï ({Single-Card} {Relic} - {Unlinked})
Artefact-cards occupied a separate Hand which also possessed a limit of three. Physicalised vessels for cards also used this very same Hand, that of the Right like with, say, [Petty-Femur-of-the-Eoten] or [Pagats-Shadow]; those were not ¡®real¡¯ artefacts seeing as their power was paltry, temporary, and they could not be dephysicalised to fit within the Right-Hand. True artefact-and-relic-cards could be borne within the soul and manifested at will; they couldn¡¯t be taken or stolen or broken without either the consent or the death of the wielder. You could balance a mountain atop an artefact-blade¡¯s point and you would be the first and last to break.
The process of manifesting an artefact held within one¡¯s Hand was similar to removing a token from the Tabula or semi-materialising a card to play it through [Echo-of-Alabastron]¡ªthe universe tricked into believing your illusions real, thus making them so. Sleight-of-hand was needed, usually a flourish, or through the use of the cast-shadows as a summoning medium. Scabbards functioned as both and could be fit with a hilt so as to hold a relic-blade; an artefact need not be conjured in its entirety, afterall.
To make use of the artefact capstone, that was required, but for the individual pieces?
No, not at all.
At his hip lay a bladeless hilt scabbarded in a single mass of steel. A thought and a touch of influence was all that was needed to heat the metal that bound the weapon; in a flash of fire and mercury, [The-Blade-Alone] manifested atop the guard, pooling like liquid into reality.
Baethen performed a simple sequence of martial forms, immersing himself in the feel and balance of the feyry shortsword. He was no swordsman, no master truly, but the weapon would make even the feeblest of serfs into a formidable warrior so long as they did not think themselves invincible and overextend. It imparted no intrinsic knowledge on how to wield it as a martial tool but its power alone left nothing to be desired.
Should he take the time to learn the more mundane side of warcraft from his companions, the artefact¡¯s true potential would be reached. Not in a single turn of Eot, mind. Byzantium was not built in a day and all that.
The relic¡¯s shape was like that of the damascene gladius that had been used in its forging. What had changed was the texture, the metal roots subtly shifting to the sight yet still to the touch and paradoxically smooth as if the blade was a portal into a different realm, one in which an ocean of iridescent quicksilver dominated. Baethen recognised the substance as the very same that constituted the feyry rivers they¡¯d forded to get to the present altar-of-refuge.
Just as Yggrdrazil¡¯s roots connected the realms of the Gods below the firmament, so too did Bifr?st¡¯s band bind above. What this meant for [The-Blade-Alone] was not explicitly said¡ªfeyry-fire could blind the senses with visions, could change the natures of things it touched, and all sorts of other even stranger effects.
Relic-Card Forged: [The-Blade-Alone] ¡ï¡ï
Draw: [Three-of-a-Kind]
Drawback: [Cold-Mercy]
Arcana: [Hoarfrost], [Feyries], [Burning]
Number: [X//XVI]
Suit: [Sleight-of-Hand]
Gnosis ¦µ: [¡®The Bridge-of-Ice-that-Binds-All-Things is wrought of the reflection of the mirror primordial, severed to shards that seek to mend what cannot be¡¯. This {Relic-Card} possesses {Intermediate-Dominion} over the {Arcana-of-Wyrd}, {Imbuing} its {Vessel} with the power to {Manifest} {Feyrie-Frost-Fire} along its {Edge}. So long as this {Relic-Card} is {In-Play}, the {Player} incurs {Brand-of-Sloth}, {Chilling} their {Blood-of-Vein} until the next {Hand} is {Redrawn}. After this {Relic-Card} is {Brought-Into-Play}, the {Player}¡¯s {Reflection} incurs {Brand-of-Sloth} which {Freezes} their {Reflection} until it is caught in {Thrall-of-Sight}.]
At rest, [The-Blade-Alone] was hypnotizingly beautiful and sharp enough to cut through a falling leaf without dulling or catching in the veins. Owing to its status as a deific artefact, a deified object, it would never rust or collect dust or dew or hoarfrost.
That is, until Baethen sent his will into the shard of Bifr?st and it froze over with subliminal, quicksilver flame. Whatever the fey tongues tasted began to crawl with rainbow hoarfrost. His hand chilled in contact with the relic, even with the hilt in between Baethen and [The-Blade-Alone].
The [Cold-Mercy] drawback could not be avoided¡ªto summon frost-fire, Baethen had to pay in blood. The heat of his blood to be specific, submerging himself in hypothermia.
To offset the chills and shortness of breath, the flames were not actually cold. They had all the same effects as ¡®mundane¡¯ feyry-fire¡ªif it could ever even be called mundane¡ªthough slightly muted in favour of the more fiery aspects. Paradoxically, any ice created by the shard of Bifr?st did not douse actual flame but rather strengthened it as if the same thing.
Weaving the relic-card into his fighting-style was easy seeing as it did not interfere with his Left Hand¡¯s cards. At his current level of mastery, be it martial skill or arcane insight, over the relic, [The-Blade-Alone] was nothing more than a direct enhancement to his arsenal. Baethen had yet to find anything more to it than what lay at the bewytching surface, as it were. The {Brand-of-Sloth} did not inhibit him either¡ªBaethen did not need his reflection for his magicks beyond having to avoid it being held in thrall.
The only true problem with the relic-card was that Baethen couldn¡¯t use it as a sceptre, its martial focus evident¡ªit was a sword and no more; too sharp to be a wand, too short to be stave. A minor, easily-forgettable problem as Baethen could simply call upon [Budding-Bifrost-Blossom] which he did just then, sheathing the rainbow shard.
As for the stave, it unfurled from around Baethen¡¯s waist, having hidden itself as a belt of roots. It stood about the same size as that of the behemoth bone from which it was wrought, only that it could be elongated at will and so bore form only so far as it could draw from Baethen¡¯s imagination.
At its top was a sleeping bud with metallic skin that shimmered a pale imitation of [The-Blade-Alone].
Relic-Card Forged: [Budding-Bifrost-Blossom] ¡ï¡ï
Draw: [Nine-of-a-Kind]
Drawback: [Day-Dreaming]
Arcana: [The-Fulcrum], [Balance], [Syzygy]
Number: [X//XVI]
Suit: [Sleight-of-Hand]
Gnosis ¦µ: [¡®Born of a confluence of Yggrdrazil¡¯s root and Bifr?st¡¯s ice, this sleeping bud is neither and both¡¯. This {Relic-Card} possesses {Intermediate-Dominion} over the {Arcana-of-Syzygy}, {Imbuing} its {Vessel} with the power to {Conduct} {Fonts} and {Arcana} through its {Spine}. So long as this {Relic-Card} is {In-Play}, the {Player} incurs {Brand-of-Hypnagogia}, which {Empowers} {Liminal-Arcana} but {Hypnotises} them until the next {Hand} is {Redrawn}. After this {Relic-Card} is {Brought-Into-Play}, the {Player}¡¯s {Reflection} incurs {Brand-of-Hypnagogia} which {Glamourises} their {Reflection} with {Figments-of-the-Imagination} until it is caught in a {Body-of-Darkness}.]
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Relic-cards of [Budding-Bifrost-Blossom] were known quantities, cultivated by orders devoted to the Celestial Lotus, the one and only sleeping, stillborn child sired between Zartaxia and Fata-Morgana, known as Aurora in the Sunbreak. Even before being forged into artefacts, they were prized as alchemical reagents for grand workings of sorcery and the like.
On the rare occasion that such a sleeping bud well and truly blossomed, losing its {Budding} prefix, it ascended directly to five stars. The Matriarch of the City-of-Mirrors was said to possess a true [Bifrost-Blossom]; whether there was truth to that, Baethen would only find out in another life when he ventured beyond the Dreadsea and across the alabaster shores to the Queendom of Assiah which still yet venerated Loken as Goghiel the Moonless.
The stave¡¯s slumbering blossom gave it the status of sceptre, too, the Investitures of Magus, Communion and the Tower evident in its physical trappings. It was a thing that wanted to be seen, to be witnessed and so it performed as a tool both imperial and martial and magical.
The {Conduction} clause seemed to be underwhelming at first glance until Escoriot asked Baethen what happens to a dart put into a pipe. It, essentially, functioned as a means to generate pressure and condense magicks through itself. With it, Baethen could cast a bolt of molten slag with nearly twice as much power at the cost of a longer channelling time as he gathered arcana inside it¡ªthis dragged on the spirit, sapping him of will faster than he was used to. He had no cards to bolster his mind against the rigours of spellcraft so he would take care to disabuse himself of the notion that he was a sorcerer proper.
As for the dominion it granted, liminal arcana was any arcana that dealt with thresholds, doorways, and in-betweens. So far as Baethen was concerned, it wouldn¡¯t really help him beyond being a way to counteract the {Brand-of-Wrath}; {Brand-of-Hypnagogia} being its opposite in many ways. He could employ one rune-brand to fight in melee and the other to do so at range, switching between the two to bleed-off either sleep or rage but that might be too much to handle in the heat of battle.
Most of his arcanums now focused on singular, tide-turning effects as their magnitude prefix grew ever more encompassing¡ªnot necessarily bad and not necessarily good. Losing access to minor dominions meant not being able to do simple magicks, losing subtlety in favour of grandiosity. He would have to buy cards for arcana fodder and cultivate them into a Jack-of-All-Trades deck to aid him in day-to-day tasks but that would only come into play, as it were, once the boggart and Guardian of this rung was slain.
If it were, Baethen corrected himself.
Last and certainly least was the [Fourfold-Cruciform], a relic-card that was disappointing if still useful in its own manner. Baethen wrapped the living, rainbow root around his bicep before he removed the folded cruciform from his pockets¡ªit did not fit inside them but that was easily ignored so far as the universe was concerned.
The crossguard¡¯s quillons¡ªor better said, tines¡ªbent around a tight circlet to meet at their tips so as to appear like the skeleton of a roundel, its metal flesh flensed to bare the structure. A clockwork of feyry machination was the backbone of the piece, providing the axis upon which it could rotate.
Rather than by physical mechanics, Baethen could will the cruciform to depress into a fourfold cross or fold back into a roundel. Its metal, though duller than the other constituent relics, shared their iridescent lustre, shimmering as if dipped in oil.
It was a barbaric, brutal weapon that would leave ragged wounds in its wake.
Relic-Card Forged: [Fourfold-Cruciform] ¡ï¡ï
Draw: [Four-of-a-Kind]
Drawback: [Balance-the-Scales]
Arcana: [The-Fulcrum], [The-Scales-and-Blade], [The-Jurist]
Number: [VII//XV]
Suit: [One-at-Dice]
Gnosis ¦µ: [¡®Just as there is no honour among thieves, there is no justice among men¡¯. This {Relic-Card} possesses {Intermediate-Dominion} over the {Arcana-of-Law}, {Imbuing} its {Vessel} with the power to {Negate} an {Attack} upon the {Player}. To bring this {Relic-Card} {Into-Play}, the {Player} must be {In-the-Right}; if the {Player} is {In-the-Wrong}, the {Attack} is instead {Doubled}. After this {Relic-Card} is {Brought-Into-Play}, it is {Discarded} until the next {Hand} is {Redrawn}.]
Where the last two relic-cards were sleight-of-hand suites, this one was an ace or one-at-dice. It was similar to a triumph or trump in that it would take precedence over other cards in playing order, even discounting its numbers, but differed in execution. Aces and trumps both tended towards once-per-Hand clauses but aces were, always, stronger and less versatile.
[Fourfold-Cruciform] was not a back-pocket suite because its powers need not be brought into play should their bring-into-play clause be activated. Besides also not providing a always-inplay passive ability to qualify as one, the relic-card was absurdly powerful for its stellar parity¡ªback-pockets tended not to exceed expectations.
Baethen could wield the relics by themselves, bind them in different combinations such as using the crux¡¯s roundel as a spear-head and the Bifr?st root as the stave, or assemble them into a singular artefact. Just as sets required all their constituent cards to be brought into play, so too did artefacts proper¡ªto call upon [Cruciata]¡¯s gnosis, it would need to be wrought in its entirety.
Like second nature, Baethen threaded the rainbow root through the cruciform, the tines opening through will alone and the hoarfrost blade beneath blazing into existence. When sheathed at his hip, [The-Blade-Alone] was not really there, only using the scabbard as a summoning medium. For so long as the universe was concerned, it did not exist until he wanted it to and provided an excuse for it to look the other way.
Cruciata was a spear-blade with a fourfold guard, a strange and fey mixture between clockwork fishing tool and stunning implement of war. Tongues of subliminal, feyry frost-fire licked along its edges with a promise for only the coldest of mercies.
Being more adept at the forms of a stave, Baethen executed a common cadence taught to him by the expedition¡¯s many members and men-at-arms. Subtly, even though it was not explicitly writ within its gnosis, the artefact made him swifter of foot and stronger of arm so long as it was to further an act done through it. The spear would not make him run faster unless he was charging with it to impale someone and even then the advantage was minor.
For all that they appeared fortuitous boons, the age-old adage of ¡°if it¡¯s too good to be true, it¡¯s only good enough to be a lie¡± came to rear its ugly-if-honest head.
Well, maybe that was a bit rude. Haviershan was not an eye-sore¡ªmore like a sight for sore eyes, actually, but maybe that was just Baethen¡¯s lust speaking. He found that his reservations in regards to taste in bedfellows dwindled right quick when the pressure mounted.
¡°Don¡¯t trust in that thrice-damned thing, lad. What the Gods give in one hand, They take away with the other.¡±
¡°Aye. Don¡¯t trust it more than I can throw it.¡±
The jest cut through the tension just enough to elicit a few chuckles and then they returned to silence, saying nothing more of the topic lest they wake the mind in which they walked. Haviershan simply observed as Baethen practiced with the spear-blade, giving pointers on form and stance and execution as they were needed.
Whenever Baethen held the artefact in his hand, he felt it bending his path, subverting his fate to whatever design Fata-Morgana willed¡ªthis was the subtle feeling of having eyes at the nape of his neck, of spiders crawling along the edges of his skin, of shadows at the corner of his vision. Each step erred not where he wanted but rather always towards some hitherto-unseen horizon in the distance. Frequently, without thinking to do so, he found himself at the threshold of the sanctuary, having walked there without memory, rhyme or reason, Cruciata in hand.
How vexing it was to have exactly what you wanted and it taste bitter rather than sweet. Here, he was, with a divine relic of a bygone age in hand and he loathed its very presence, recoiling from it like a hale man scorns the red-leper. The dragon-greed that drove him to delve into the Evergaol in the first place saw the reward as nothing but a justification to gather more power while his better sense knew that it was the herald of his end.
Baethen threw the spear-sword to the wayside like refuse, the holy object falling under the shadow of a shrub. But, alas, it would never disappear, not truly. When no living soul had sight of it, the artefact would return to him, would slither back into his shadow like a parasite into a wound. He could not remove Cruciata from himself, the artefact-card binding itself to his very soul¡ªjust as removing a card too long left within the psyche could incur a rivening, this accursed thing was stitched tight to him, bound through act and thought and spirit; to excise it, he¡¯d have to wound himself in ways that none but the Gods Themselves could heal, this he knew down to the marrow of his foolish bones.
He¡¯d much rather the God he knew than the one he didn¡¯t so Baethen did not pray to any divinity to save him. There was no instead, seeing as he felt hopeless and would tread this path until the end, whatever there lay.
His father might have raised a liar but he did not raise a coward.
This deific artefact was not a boon but rather a Damoclean blade hanging over his neck. Like the sword of legend, the wages for [Cruciata] could be exacted at any time; a poison gift. Rather than a single strand of horse hair, the thing that forswore the falling sword was the fickle amusement of capricious Fata-Morgana.
Nightmares of a suffocating golden mask awoke him earlier than the others.
As of late {Stigmata-Mundi} itched something fierce at the back of his mind. Ever since he¡¯d taken up its wages, his sleep had been fitful but now it was piecemeal. The weight dragged at Baethen¡¯s wits, dulling his sense of self such that when he roused from slumber he forgot who, when, and where he was for a blink.
The fugues never lasted but they left unease in their wake all the same as he found himself at the threshold of the refuge, ready to stumble asleep into the Feywilds with a single misstep. There, beyond the dark of the treeline, moth-eyes looked back at him; that of the boggart.
Relief came only once Baethen invoked [Lesser-Narguile-of-Night], burning away the last shreds of his shadow so that he could breathe without the burden put upon his shoulders. He¡¯d taken to doing so ever since crossing the Gate to Phantasmagoria¡ªeven if he could no longer make use of the smoke-burst card-chain, he could at least breathe.
To keep his mind occupied from the unnerving spook that¡¯d he just been subject to, Baethen took to his hands, doing the last bits of maintenance on Behemoth. It was mostly smoothing out any crags leftover from the field-repairs, nothing much.
He¡¯d already scrivened his stars and prepared his spell reagents for the coming battle. Baethen would leave nothing to chance if he could help it. Unfortunately, Lady Chance had Her own opinion on that matter.
XXXII - Poison-Gift
Power easily gotten is poison to the spirit.
Baethen knew this readily, his descent into madness having begun with [Lesser-Wormscale-Hide]. For every new card of greater parity, for every leap in might, he paid for in the debt of fate and an increased appetite for risk. Slow and steady increases were sustainable, they were safe.
Even though he¡¯d not set out to forge something which would make nations topple each-other to possess, Baethen had none to blame but himself. Could a fool really justify himself that it was not his fault for lack of knowledge? No, he¡¯d remain just that.
A fool.
Beyond the intoxication that comes with the trappings of power, he¡¯d also garnered the attention of a goddess. At best, he might end up being turned into a wyrd-toad that need only be kissed by a prince or princess to return to his humanity. At worst, he would serve as the eternal thrall of an archfey.
These were paths that his mind trod as his body ventured across the Feywilds towards the Gate-Guardian¡ªa mixture of hopeful hopelessness where the sense of power in his veins raged against his flagging spirits, body and mind at odds.
The cadre forded more feyry rivers, forcing Baethen not to Redraw prematurely or else be left without use of his most useful cards. Slowly, the root-ground grew sparser as it transitioned to actual soil¡ªa verdant, rich loam filled to the brim with mushrooms of all kinds, each more poisonous than the last.
The more colourful a cap, the deadlier and all that.
Having broken through the treeline into a clearing, their furthest foes were hunchback matriarch goblyns known as hags. Upon their backs were great fungal hives infested with feyry-flies while from their cast-shadows swarmed blood-flies, Yurnmagog¡¯s realm bleeding into this one through proximity. The cadre had fortunately brought with them fey-repellant so they¡¯d not risk any sort of wyrd-plague, having already slathered the stuff before leaving the sanctuary.
It reeked of rotten tallow but would otherwise repel feyries and, should that not be enough, stop any would-be sores from gestating more of their ilk.
There were feyry-rings about the clearing, already summoning lesser goblyns in the form of eyeless redcaps and bigger trull-like forms. Subliminal, rainbow flame burned around each circle, binding light and shadow to call creatures from the deepest recesses of Phantasmagoria.
<> That last bit was aimed at Baethen, seeing as he was the only player with a solid grasp over that arcana.
Though the feyry-rings were invested with fey-fire, they¡¯d not resist either water or flame. The mushrooms were and would-ever be weak and easily destroyed¡ªthe only problem lay in getting through the advancing hoard and razing each and every one of the myriad rings before they drowned under a sea of monstrous fey.
Even with such vast foes arrayed before them, Baethen did not yet Redraw, knowing that the boggart, that maleficar spirit, still yet awaited them at the end of this road. It had goaded him in the night just beyond the sanctuary for notches now and Baethen was going to kill the thrice-damned thing even if it was the last act of this mortal life.
Without [Lesser-Juggler-of-Fire] there was no [Imp-of-Serpents] and instead he drew upon the poison-gift of Fata-Morgana, calling it to his hand through a flourish of cinder and smoke.
[Cruciata-the-Curse-Fire] was a thing of sudden and striking beauty, enthralling any foolish enough to stare at her in the midst of battle. With the sword-spear clutched tight in Behemoth¡¯s lockjaw claws, Baethen charged into the fray.
He¡¯d already heated up his war-suit before fording the rivers, most of the remnant swelter still cooking in the armour¡¯s guts. Through arcanum and card, Baethen cowled himself in flame, becoming nothing more than a walking meteor crashing through the gigantic feyry trulls and redcaps alike.
Without the Language, Baethen made due with [Cycle-of-the-Crucible] and his dominions, using the limited casts per Hand sparingly. He would only Redraw when it was time to face the Guardian.
Driven by fear and fire, he cut through the goblyns to reach the first feyry-ring, an errant gob having just poked its head through the aperture between realms. Even without them, the fey creature still had a wide-eyed look about it as Baethen stomped down with Behemoth¡¯s clawed-foot, rendering its head into bloody, fungal paste.
A fiery whirlwind wrapped around him from the stomp, courtesy of [Run-like-the-Wind] and [Throat-of-Salamadara]. Death was beginning to build in his throat though not yet thick enough to release.
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The problem with Behemoth was that it was a lumbering mountain of metal and took time to turn and pick-up speed once again to reach the next feyry-ring. Baethen was halfway to his third out of ten when the goblyns mounted a strong-enough defense fast-enough to matter between him and his quarry.
The larger trull-like goblyns, known as wart-ogres in many a bestiary, could rival ten men in strength and weighed about half as much. These were the corpses of gluttons reborn in Phantasmagoria that craved to eat the flesh of their previous vessel so they might attempt to become human once again.
Knowing better than to charge a wall of wart-ogres, Baethen instead opened Behemoth¡¯s maw to spew out a gout of balefire; ghost-light, miasma and worm-blood mixing together to produce a poison so foul that a devil would run from it.
His breath misted out in the wake of the stream of balefire, black and umber like burning sulphur and reeking of rotten eggs, burnt hair, and carrion¡ªreeking of death.
Though it did not outright kill the trulls, the miasma did blind their senses and take their breath from their would-be lungs, boiling their skin all the while. With a thought, Baethen spent his arcanum over wind, pushing the miasmic font towards the matriarchs to cull the coming storm of feyry-flies and bloodflies.
With the trulls distracted or otherwise weakened, Baethen prodded at them with [Cruciata-the-Curse-Fire], poking at flesh and shadow both. With each stroke and thrust, he left burning lines of burnished amaranth, festering with curse-brands that sapped the body of vigour and the mind of energy. The tongues of hoarfrost from [The-Blade-Alone] and the illusions from [Parlour-Tricks] mixed together so that his sword-spear blazed like a rainbow sun, smoke collected and turned into flame once again.
Had he God-Tongue to complement the curses, the trulls would¡¯ve shrivelled into husks in a few spells¡¯ time. Instead, Baethen held his ground as he brought death to them in a thousand cuts. The wart-ogres did not possess clubs but rather the very same grew from them, bone and meat twisting under fungal duress to produce tumour-ridden pillars that struck like stars fallen to the earth.
Each blow that Behemoth took roiled the mercurial sea in which Baethen floated, the sorrow-steel denting the layers of amalgam below crumpling¡ªthe latter was a purposeful design choice, making it so that the armour absorbed force that it could not deflect instead of transferring it directly into Baethen.
Dodging with Behemoth was not possible and so Baethen had to make ample use of [Sunder-the-Mirror], conjuring planes of reality-glass to shield himself from the blows and striking at them to dispel them so he could once again call upon the arcana of the Mirror.
The card-chain had earned its name as the shield-maiden for its inspiration. It was the stalwart and fierce protector that forswore Baethen¡¯s demise and doled it back upon his foes twofold. Slowly, he came to realise something rather interesting about the card¡ªit reflected any physical force applied to it exactly so as to make it unbreakable; why not amplify that force?
He¡¯d devoured the dying breaths of so many feyries, {Empowering} himself in body and soul¡ªwith the increased power, certain limits of cards could be eschewed, the lines could be read between and the rules made for thee but not for me.
This was the Wyrd realm, the place of strangeness and where arguments could warp reality so long as you had the rhyme and will to do so. For every strike that he received from the trulls, they too suffered, reflected across the axis of the Mirror. A blow that hit the plane¡¯s reflection cotermination-point that coincided with that of the wart-ogre¡¯s shoulder also struck the ogre upon the shoulder.
For every attack, his enemies weakened themselves, retaliation brought on by their own folly. Bone by bone and joint by joint, Baethen broke the trulls down until they were but quivering heaps that could be felled with a single, well-placed downward thrust of Cruciata.
In this manner, Baethen broke through the blockade of bodies, going after the next feyry-ring and then the next. For every ring, he had two or three trulls to defeat, the hive mind of the gobs having bae them to defend the apertures into Phantasmagoria.
With each swathe of the dead and the dying, power accumulated in his chest, breathed-in through the [Throat-of-Salamadara] the Worm-Reborn. Life taken from death fomented in his lungs, aching to be released so that it might reap more.
It was a battle in and of itself to temper his use of miasma, each exhale leaving him breathless from restraint alone. The cards in his soul wanted him to burn bright and fast, to expel all that he kept tightly controlled but still Baethen held himself back, channeling his magicks through the [Budding-Bifrost-Blossom] so that the waters of Hypnagogia calmed his spirits of their restlessness.
When his lids became as heavy as the lead coffin he found himself in, he invoked [Scoric-Wormscale-Hide] so that he might rouse from the clutches of slumber. When Baethen began to realise that the sin-brands were cumulative, he stopped drawing on either of the cards that produced them, his mind addled by the effects such that it was difficult to think and each thought came oh so very slow.
There was one more feyry-ring to destroy but it was heavily guarded by the goblyn matriarchs and the last remnant wart-ogres and redcaps. It was their last stand before annihilation, the bastion that staved off the cadre from culling them in a single swoop.
Rather than charge into it, Baethen retreated back to his comrades, not showing his back to the gobs. He knew he reached them when Narancan tapped a sign into his armour.
<>
Baethen did so, stitching back his wits into order and smoothing out the scars of battle within Behemoth¡¯s metal flesh. He yawned and flexed the gauntlets again and again, a strange numb dumbness and raw, visceral hatred about him. It was like someone woke Baethen in the middle of the night to call him craven.
Confused and a little mad, in both senses of the word, he marched lockstep with cadre once the signal to advance came.
XXXIII - Scamander’s Tendon
As one, the cadre advanced.
Within Behemoth, Baethen could wade into foes without need for a dedicated formation, ignoring the redcaps and matriarchs in favour of contending against the ogres, his only equals in brute strength. Now, he was needed to guard the others, to be another shield along with Escoriot so that they could best the last of their foes.
They knew that the goblyns hadn¡¯t exhausted all their cards¡ªthe matriarchs were hiding an ace up their metaphorical sleeves so caution would serve them best. Where running springs a trap, walking might reveal it before it springs.
With the shield-warden conjuring domes of solidified-air to corral them and Baethen spitting out balefire to destroy them, the feyry-flies were taken care of. Their dark brethren, the bloodflies, were more difficult to destroy, owing to their ability to dwell in shadow. Incorporeal, they could not be cut by mundane blade wielded by mortal hands.
Cruciata was no mere mundane blade though the hands that wielded her were very much mortal. With every scythe of the sword-spear through the coming plague of locusts, Baethen cursed through fire, proscribing death by flame. A single brand did not kill more than the one bloodfly it was branded upon but when the swarm¡¯s cast-shadows overlapped, they shared the wages of their curse.
Frost-fire spread through them, freezing and burning both in cascades that turned them into smoking shadows fallen to the ground. It was too perfect an offence against the bloodflies, having been spun by the Lady-of-Fate Herself.
Then came the drawback; Baethen felt his shadows festering with the very curses he¡¯d wrought. Though he¡¯d burnt them away to ease the burden of [Stigmata-Mundi], there were always a few dregs, a smattering of shadow-sinew that could not be done away with.
It was through these veins that the poison did its work, dulling him in the aspects of his soul. Were it not for the dying-breaths in his lungs, his spirit would¡¯ve shrivelled into a husk then and there, irrevocably damaged by the foulness that suffused him.
By the time that the cadre reached the line of trulls, Baethen had long stopped to use Cruciata¡¯s artefact-card, relying only on its physical vessel. The curse-brands had already run their course, spreading from bloodfly to bloodfly¡ªa plague devouring its own kind.
Now, only the swarms that infested the hags were still present. The matriarchs did not send them one by one as, by themselves, a bloodfly couldn¡¯t do much but irritate. It was only in vast numbers that they could drain a man into a husk. The cadre would have to slay the broodmothers right quick lest they launch another salvo of Yurnmagog¡¯s spawn.
<> Haviershan signed. Escoriot had to relay the message through taps due to Baethen¡¯s limited sight.
His mind was slow to the take so it took some time for Baethen to even remember what his call sign was, much less what a ¡®manoeuvre¡¯ meant. Onslaught was just a pretty way to say: ¡®attack recklessly with all the cards you have in your hand.¡¯ Variation one meant to conserve some energy for afterwards and not let yourself get too caught up in the melee.
Lac played her aces, becoming a whirling force of nature, each swing of her sword-slab sending out corruscating arcs of azure. Each one was an echo of her weapon, branded by runes and suffused with enough magic to beggar a sorcerer. When they struck the gathered trulls, they staggered them like an unexpected slap, ringing their bells something fierce and cutting in deep. Once their damage was done, the conjured constructs broke into rune-brands and then evaporated into the ether.
Baethen played two of his strongest arcanums¡ªcrucible and phlogiston¡ªalong with that of:
[Arcana-of-Scoria]
[Intermediate] I - [Resonant] III
Origin ¦µ: [{Once} per {Hand} {Player} may, through a {Strike} to the {Body-of-Eot}, {Crack-the-Earth} in a {Locus} around the {Strike}, {Transmuting} {Earth} into {Scoria} in their wake.]
? [As the first contra, {Player} may {Transmute} a {Locus} of {Earth} into {Scoria} so long as they¡¯ve {Trodden} upon it since {Redrawing} their {Hand}, {Once} per {Hand}.]
? [As the second contra, {Player} may {Condense} a {Font-of-Scoria} into a {Tephratic-Seed} {Once} per {Hand}.]
? [As the third and final contra, {Player} may {Imbue} a {Font-of-Scoria} that is held in {Thrall-of-Gaze} with a {Font-of-Phlogiston} through {Will-of-Mind} {Once} per {Hand}.]
Down came Cruciata, limned in fire, striking while the iron was hot.
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The earth trembled under Baethen¡¯s might, crumbling into brittle and ashen scoria. The arcanum charge enhanced [Strike-While-the-Iron-is-Hot], making it greater than it was and further staggering their enemies so that they¡¯d be caught flatfooted. Phlogiston nursed the billowing wave of heat, transforming fire into concussive wind.
The arcana of the crucible wove it all together so that they fed into one another, veins of molten and ember-laced mercury flowing through the impact like the conflagratory birth of a vulcan-mount, spilling Eot¡¯s innards bare.
Oh, how intoxicating the power was to make the very world quake in your presence.
A flash of blackened bone-flesh was all that two of the five hags saw before death claimed them by the heart. Narancan¡¯s suite of cards made him easily forgotten so long as none had him in their sight, lulling the mind into complacency. Now that he revealed himself through the attack, he had to retreat lest he be swarmed and turned into a husk by feyry and bloodfly alike.
For this, he played [Tattered-Mistveil-Cloak], hiding himself under a blanket of fog through which only he could see. He hadn¡¯t been fast enough to escape all the flying pests without a few bites but he¡¯d been faster than his death which mattered more. And then Baethen forgot who had killed the two hags in the first place.
Huh, what was that?
With their foes harried by the two hags¡¯ sudden death¡ªprobably a well-placed bolt by Haviershan or some roguish gambit by Narancan¡ªthe trulls were whipped into a frenzy.
[Sunder-the-Mirror] reflected their blows back against them while hoarfrost laden with subliminal feyry-fire coated their skin, spreading insidiously along with verdant roots that erupted into thorned spears. A slab of greatsword pushed the trulls back so they¡¯d not get at any weaker member of the cadre easily. Bolts infused with dragons-flame struck joints and disrupted attacks but still, the might and resilience of an ogre was not to be underestimated.
Rarely did brutes of their ilk have any triumph- or ace-suite cards, at least at this star parity. Instead, they relied on physical qualities entirely, forgoing special attacks in favour of brutal and consistent strength.
Misfortune struck for Man plans and the Gods laugh.
It took less than a blink for Baethen to forget where he put his last plane-of-reflection, the chaos of the battle having blinded him. As such, the thing ceased to exist with none to witness it, breaking the chain of [Sunder-the-Mirror] and Baethen¡¯s ability to play it again before he Redrew his Left Hand.
Forced to call upon Cruciata¡¯s artefact-card once again, he couldn¡¯t help from thinking himself a fool¡ªthe feyries had well and truly learned his weaknesses, the boggart¡¯s constant surveillance hamstringing him. Without [Imp-of-Serpents] to give him access to spells, he had to rely on curses lest he die. Though the latest drawback had been brought to play coincidentally there was no coincidence in Phantasmagoria.
Again and again he cut through shadow and flesh both, branding maledictions through Cruciata¡¯s blade. He did not possess either the skill or card to control the hexes beyond runes of weakening and illness and death¡ªhe simply wove through sword-spear forms, parrying when possible and taking places when not.
The lacerations proved the undoing of the trulls though that undoing was coming rather slow as the poison in his shadow nipped at his heels, taking his ability to form coherent thought beyond ¡®protect those behind you and attack those in front¡¯. Magicks became unwieldy and strikes clumsy but that did not matter for trulls were nothing if not enormous targets of lumbering sloth.
Damned if he did, damned if he didn¡¯t¡ªand so the only question to be had was whether to die now or die later and everyman but the most hopeless wretch chooses later even if to live for but a lick. Like a man fishing for answers at the bottom of a bottle, Baethen drew himself deeper and deeper still into the poison such that he felt himself adrift from this mortal coil.
The moorings of his being were becoming undone, layers of soma and psyche unravelling at the seams and spilling whatever ephemera that lay within. Inside his mind¡¯s eye, gnostic-glyphes bled into the darkness, never to be seen again, taking with memories both precious and then not for he could not even remember their absence.
And then threads of purest gold like silk spun from sun bound the fleeing gnosis and dragged those it could back from whence it came, binding it lock and key behind a mask of fool¡¯s gold that the holymen of Assiah called Tentramon the Erudition. There, within the womb of imagination that all ensouled beings possessed, the gilded face ebbed affix¡¯d, cleaved in twain with one half crying and the other laughing, euphoria and sorrow made one.
All of this happened in the blink of an eye and then Baethen was brought back to near-lucidity, having forgotten all of what happened in the manner of dreams¡ªfinest sand through the cracks of his fingers. He did not remember where and when he was for a moment, that is, until a trull whacked him upside the head and flung Behemoth a good two strides back.
By then, another two hags had died, taking their bloodflies to the grave with them. The remaining feyry-flies fled further into the wilds, not being bound by shadow. There were too many to kill and too weak to be worth it when three trulls and a hag yet still drew breath.
Like a giant awoken from its slumber as a hillock, Baethen puppeted Behemoth so that the war-suit would stand. Its sinew and tendons were near-all either torn, shredded, melted together or frayed like old rope. He could barely pilot the armour and any repairs were rendered impossible without his full faculties, be they of mind or soul. The reverberations from the strike still echoed in his skull, a ringing bell inside his ears that would not abate.
Without warning, Narancan appeared in his sight. <> Were it done by word of mouth rather than sign of hand, Baethen wouldn¡¯t have understood a single lick of what the Field-Ser wanted to communicate.
Baethen did as he was bid, the confusion that plagued him making his head whirl. His attention and mind both escaped him then and again as he caught only snippets of the fight like flashes of lightning in the night.
XXXIV - Coxcomb
Fie, why am I standing ¡®ere like a comb on a cock¡ªI should be in fight, he thought and then a little part of himself held him back, a diminutive inkling that warned him that he¡¯d been through this before and should stay still and wait it out.
He¡¯d later learn from Narancan that the Field-Sergeant had had to return three more times to remind him that he wasn¡¯t needed to finish the battle. The latest card he¡¯d gotten from the cubic stone did not discern from friend or foe, blinding all to his presence so long as it was in play.
The last trull fell from a blow from Lac, her sword cleaving the feyry ogre down the middle from the temple to the toes. Even Behemoth wouldn¡¯t have fared much better under such sheer, nigh-unstoppable might¡ªthat was her ace [Scar-and-Sunder], a once-per-Hand deck capstone that allowed Lac to completely and utterly annihilate any resistance in her path. Its deadliness was that of the double-edged blade she carried, making it so that should she {Mistrike}, all her healed wounds would come undone.
Warrior that she was, Ensign Lacariah was held together by scars and grit alone.
Perhaps it was his blood having been riled up and his general lack of wits but Baethen decided then that he wouldn¡¯t mind a valkyry such as her ferrying him away to the Merchant-of-Death¡¯s embrace. Not at all.
Snapping fingers dragged him away from his day-dreams but it was by mere sight than actual sound, the incessant ringing still robbing him of hearing.
<> Escoriot signed, the others behind him taking note of any spoils of war, be they cards, card-shards and the like. The Wyrd wouldn¡¯t take too kindly to them taking anything not won through blood and sweat and that meant food as well¡ªthere was an awful lot of trull meat lying around that Baethen realised he¡¯d surely be eating in place of rations.
Well, at least it''s good fodder for arcana.
Phantasmagoria did not distinguish between flora and flesh, instead marrying the two through fungal growths and wyrd chimeras. Though the others had avoided it so far, they too had cards like Baethen¡¯s [Leaden-Stomach] to allow them to digest spirits. Godspawn generally did not taste all that good given the fact that they were wrought of gnosis and so more akin to ephemera than lasting matter, prone to releasing noxious rainbow vapours.
Baethen wasn¡¯t an alchemist so that was where his knowledge ended¡ªhe knew his metallurgy, how to bind a threefold alliage, and when not to fold weld more than was reasonable lest the internal scaffolding of the steel disincorporate into the ether.
Trull meat¡ªspecifically that of a ¡®wart-ogre¡¯¡ªtasted like piss and reeked of vinegar. It was too chewy, too stringy and filled with a nonsensical amount of sinew and nerves with miniscule worm-like organs strung throughout the fibres. After some amount of mastication, the substance gave way, sublimating directly into ephemera and gnosis, feeding flesh and soul both.
Hearken, the {Player}¡¯s {Arcanum} rouses with {Unbound-Arcana}!
Scouring [Akashic-Archive] for compatible {Dominion} [¡]
Compatible {Dominions} found; shuffling probabilities set to {[Base]: [Two]} over {Mean} [¡]
Shuffle complete, {[Minor-Dominion] over the [Arcana-of-Hexes]} {Proscribed} upon {Player}¡¯s {Arcanum}.
[Arcana-of-Hexes]
[Minor] I - [Resonant] III - [Dissonant] IV
Origin ¦µ: [{Once} per {Hand} {Player} may, through {Will-of-Mind}, {Hex} an {Object} that they {Hold} in {Thrall-of-Arm} so long as no other {Player} {Holds} said {Object} in {Thrall-of-Gaze}.]
? [As the first contra, {Player} may {Empower} {Accursed-Arcana} {Once} per {Hand} through {Expenditure} of {Tin-Tokens} and an {Act-of-Sacrifice} by {Burning} an {Effigy-of-Loathing}.]
? [As the second contra, {Player} may {Magnify} the {Manifest-Locus} of {Accursed-Arcana} {Once} per {Hand} through {Word-of-Mouth} in the {Form} of {Malediction} so long as no other {Player} {Witnesses} said {Malediction}.]
? [As the third contra and final, {Player} may {Hex} a {Confluence-of-Fonts} so long as it already possesses {Accursed-Arcana} {Once} per {Hand} through an {Act-of-Sacrifice} in the {Form} of {Bloodletting}.]
Another forbidden arcana¡ªBaethen wasn¡¯t surprised one bit by that turn of events. Seemed that evil took a liking to his soul like leeches took to water serpents. Just as flame was a branching off from fire, hexes were an offspring of curses. The more specified an arcana, the greater its authority over its given element, even for concepts there were seemingly synonymous.
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Shame that artefacts didn¡¯t grant {Dominion} to a {Player} instead restricted to only the relic¡¯s physicalised {Vessel}. The arcana-of-hexes would¡¯ve synergized well with that of curses, like completing a hand of cards in a game of Regicide.
Perhaps it was a matter of resonance or exposure or some other deep set of rules, but the rest of the cadre did not become spellscarred for their efforts of wolfing down the feyry flesh. Baethen had a sneaking suspicion that it had something to do with star parity¡ªtheir soul-decks were too strong and so entirely resisted the foreign arcana whereas his crumbling Babel had many breaches with which spirits could take root and roost within.
If he had to guess his overall parity, it would be one and six-tenths or thereabouts. Baethen didn¡¯t yet have cards of high enough star parity to be considered a two-star {Player}¡ªa fourth-rank, as they were called. But he, sure as Gehenna was hungry for souls, was closing in on that threshold.
Due to the manner in which star parity was calculated, all {Players} by definition were at least one-star or fifth-rank after their Lynchpin ceremony. Having a Lynchpin meant having a single card within one¡¯s deck, setting one as the denominator¡ªhaving more cards did not necessarily mean more power, up to a certain point, that is, as diminishing returns closed in and it became hard to juggle all those cards into proper plays.
Though quantity was a quality unto itself, it could not transcend a qualitative jump in strata.
At the threshold of two-stars, a {Player} would become something more than a mere mortal, would hearken back to the grandeur of the firstborn of Leizuziel, the pillar-men, the Seneschem¡ªno longer possessing magic but rather being wrought of it, remade and reborn in the image of one¡¯s arcana. Even having taken a flesh-warping card did not yet put Baethen over the first threshold. It was a matter of saturation, of density, of purity.
Not even Haviershan had crossed the first threshold though he would most likely pass it by the end of the Evergaol if not this very rung. That man had a deck of thirty-two cards with sets that nearly beggared Baethen¡¯s in quantity of cards alone. Two twelve-card sets and one with ten. Everything from warding against heat and cold to improvements on gaining proficiency in new tongues; [Wanderers-Bindle-of-Many-Things] had, as its name suggested, a little bit of everything in it.
With his thoughts mirroring his own vagabond march, Baethen and the cadre threaded through the thick woodland of Phantasmagoria like snakes through grass.
Where the gigantic trees of before left great cavities, the underbrush of this section of the Feywilds was dense and tight. Brambles and briars, ashen of bark and ivy, writhed at their feet, attempting to breach their armours like slippery leeches¡ªhagroot was what they were called and they were a pest and a half to deal with, spawned whenever a wytch was hung, drawn, and quartered for trafficking with powers most wicked.
A final curse cast at the time of death by all those compacted with Addolorata the Sorceress, Archfey of Misfortune, Daughter-between-Fate-and-the-Devil, Sister to Urd the Doom-Herald, and Mother-of-Blights.
Hagroot didn¡¯t burn owing to the fell blood that ran through its veins and whenever a limb of it was hacked off, it would wriggle back into the ground, spawning more of itself. To deal with the blasted carnivorous plants, Baethen soaked the ground in his wake with amalgam of lead, poisoning the hagroot to death.
Since hagroot did not breathe, its dying breath could not be stolen and so Baethen couldn¡¯t use miasma to hasten their forward march; he had to sacrifice a whole lot of blood to boot as the weeds wouldn¡¯t drink up the poison otherwise. This didn¡¯t mean the rest of the cadre were useless either.
Lac took the front, slashing her way forward through the host while Narancan scouted ahead, unmolested by the hagroot. Haviershan gave orders ¡®ere and there, steering the cadre towards the convergence point of his compass-clock¡ªsomething to do with scrying fate through the use of star-roads.
Escoriot held back the sea of hagroot from overwhelming the cadre entirely, his planes of protection fending off the worst of it as his temples sweated profusely and the tendons in his neck stood in stark relief. The [Heavy-is-the-Head] drawback transferred the weight imposed upon those invisible scales to the shield-warden¡¯s shoulders, burdening his bones just as [Stigmata-Mundi] did much the same to Baethen¡¯s shadow.
The difference lay that a man could live without a shadow but could not without his head. There was no reprieve for Escoriot as he maintained the barrier throughout their march. Every lick or so, great writhing horrors with glowing, scarlet taproot hearts emerged from the lesser masses of hagroot, helsbent on slaughter. Corrupted verdor elementals with a skew towards rot and a hunger for blood to boot.
Tratvgar hadn¡¯t been sitting on his arse as all this happened, sapping away the strength of the hagroot and guiding it away from the cadre. Every time an elemental approached, he¡¯d distract it by draining the life-force of a section of it and then go for the kill with [Varunas-Living-Cloak], burrowing under the ground and spearing the taproot cores with pin-point precision. He had to lull the corrupted elementals into associating his physical presence with [Sup-Upon-the-World-Root] so he could slither through their otherwise impenetrable defenses.
Baethen couldn¡¯t yet Redraw his Hand as another feyry river could appear at any time and force him to discard as he forded it. So, in essence, his more fiery abilities were lost, the sheer destruction he could wreak nipped in the bud, as it were.
When it would seem that Escoriot would fall limp to the poison-slick soil from exhaustion, Narancan returned and signed <>
XXXV - The Sacrifice
At the clearing, the cadre set up a killing tunnel through the use of Tratvgar¡¯s cards, moulding roots into walls. Lac waited at the end of the tunnel, acting as bait to corral the hagroot through it so that the others could cull them as they passed through.
The path they could follow towards the end of the rung forked, a signpost placed at the crossroads with a spirit sprawled upon it. The signpost¡¯s letters were writ in some forgotten and flowery feyish script, one arrow pointing left and the other right. There wasn¡¯t a single Woedenite rune which they could read and neither was it a glyph-o¡¯-gnosis which could be read by even the blind.
The blind-cat godspawn that sat atop the signpost was known as a sphyntrixes, its feathered-fur rippling with rainbow lustre as it stretched its wings in languid sloth. It had no eyes, the sockets filled with fur instead and it spoke in Omniglot as most other spirits oft did¡ªits voice was that of a whispering child, tinkling like a little bell in the dead of night as it spoke in riddles and rhyme.
¡°[Hail, my good sirs.
¡°[Pay me my toll,
¡°[And I shall tell, ybor,
¡°[The way the winds blow.]¡±
It was a polite bugger at least. The last d?mon hadn¡¯t been so amicable, wanting instead to kill them and be done with it. Sphyntrixes were babylonic spirits that had turned coat after the death of their liege, the Broken Tower, becoming instead bedfellows to Fata-Morgana as the goddess had assumed half of the mantle of dreams, sharing that function of reality with Nagalfaram Boatswain-of-Souls. Sphyntrixes or will-o¡¯-fates guided lost souls to their destinies and were seen as good omens to the desperate for they could not lie unlike a caitsith which could only speak in untruths.
Baethen wouldn¡¯t trust the sphyntrixes as far as he could throw them. Not being able to lie did not mean they told the truth proper. He knew as much, liar and fool that he was. Omissions could be just as black as the blackest falsehood and twice as difficult to spot.
<> Haviershan signed, his brows twisted as they looked back at their compatriots fighting a slog of an uphill battle against the hagroot. Seizing a moment of clarity amidst the chaos, the Captain shot an exposed taproot, hitting it bullseye. They wouldn¡¯t hold the line for more than a quarter stund.
<>
With a nod from Baethen, Haviershan returned to the spirit and spoke with it, careful not to utter anyone¡¯s names lest the Wyrd tighten its shackles around them. The boggart might be anywhere beyond the clearing and names had power that it might use to capture the cadre in thrall.
¡°Tell me, O will-o¡¯-fate, what is the payment you desire?¡±
He¡¯d been smart about it and clever to¡ªjust asking the spirit what it wanted might imply consent to its bargain. The fey followed no explicit writ of law afterall, damning any and all through implication alone.
¡°[Why, my good sir;
¡°[I need only that which I have none of,
¡°[And ye of two possess,
¡°[And may live with but one of,
¡°[If so have ye the largesse.]¡±
Haviershan and Baethen shared a look as they stepped back to talk amongst themselves. They spoke in sign then, arguing this way and that. Stuck between a rock and a hard place by the auspices of fate, they were.
Either one of them lost an eye or the lot o¡¯ them would be overwhelmed by hagroot. They knew that there was no winning against the blasted pest as it inexorably grew with each cut head, sprouting more of itself like a seven-necked leviathan. They could choose either path but it might mean fighting back a retreat if they happened upon a dead end¡ªleaving it up to chance would mean their quite literal dead end, too.
Already knowing that Haviershan needed both eyes to shoot with his boltcaster, Baethen sighed and then gestured: <>
He¡¯d been so eager to volunteer because cards were cards. Baethen had gotten a three-star set on the first rung¡ªthe second rung would be a beaut¡¯ and a half and he was chomping at the bit to get an extra card. Losing an eye was nothing compared to another three-star; besides, the hagroot was beginning to overwhelm the cadre so it was do or die, as it were.
<>
Baethen unhinged Behemoth¡¯s jaws and approached the sphyntrixes and said four simple words as he pointed to his left eye.
¡°The sacrifice is mine.¡±
The blind-cat smiled, its whiskers wide as it starred with those vacant sockets of its, full of soft downy like the underplumage of a sybilant dove reared on nothing but milk and honey. Baethen knew better¡ªthe feyry had a second set of teeth just below their human ones as it grinned its wicked grin, all fang and sharp toothed about the maw. Though it hid it well, It was a meat-eater through and through; give it the chance and it would be gnawing on their bones.
¡°[Come hither, my good sir.]¡±
Dreading whatever pain that was to come, Baethen stepped forward and the sphyntrixes laid its paw on ontop of his left eye as he closed his right. When the will-o¡¯-fate removed its paw, Baethen couldn¡¯t see it a single thing from his left eye. In its place was a polished river-stone, an opalescent obsidian orb that shimmered with rainbows and oil-slick night.
The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.
There was no sharp tug, no stabbing, only an aching loss that would follow Baethen ¡®Sore-Loser¡¯ Locke to the end of days and back.
Hearken, the {Player}¡¯s {Arcanum} rouses with {Unbound-Arcana}!
Scouring [Akashic-Archive] for compatible {Dominion} [¡]
Compatible {Dominions} found; shuffling probabilities set to {[Base]: [Two]} over {Mean} [¡]
Shuffle complete, {[Utter-Dominion] over the [Arcana-of-Hypnagogia]} {Proscribed} {Thrice} upon {Player}¡¯s {Arcanum}.
[Arcana-of-Hypnagogia]
[Utter] III - [Resonant] I
Origin ¦µ: [{Thrice} per {Hand} {Player} may, through {Focus-of-Spirit}, {Scry} another {Player} to gain {Insight} of their {Gnosis}, {Arcana}, {Drawback} and {Divine-Number} so long as they {Hold} the other {Player} in {Thrall-of-Gaze} with a {Blinded-Eye}.]
? [As the first and final contra, {Player} may {Empower} a {Blinded-Eye} {Thrice} per {Hand} through {Expenditure} of {Tin-Tokens} and an {Act-of-Sacrifice} by {Drowning} an {Effigy-of-Regret}.]
Another spellscar joined the growing throng of others within the host of Baethen¡¯s soul and he welcomed it like an innkeep welcomes a vagrant for he was not so unaware to mistreat an angel in disguise¡ªthis dominion was more than worth its weight in gold.
The feyry spirit touched its left socket with the very same paw that had taken half of Baethen¡¯s sight and then it stared back at him with his own left eye, steely iris beset with a round pupil. Deals with d?mons were something else, alright.
¡°[Time for me my dues to pay, good sirs.
¡°[Hearken, O weary travellers,
¡°[For mine is the truth and the truth is thus:
¡°[The left-hand path, that way lies death.
¡°[The right-hand path, that way lies madness.
¡°[Choose between certain sleep and the convocation of angels fell¡¯d.
¡°[O good sirs, thank ye and fare ye well.¡±
The sphyntrixes did a little twirl, its wings wrapping around its feline body before it disappeared in a puff of feathers and fur, having stolen one of Baethen¡¯s eyes. Babylon¡¯s d?mons were not known to be so wily or mischievous but rather stoic and placid¡ªbecoming a feyry had corrupted the spirit and turned it trickster.
Tell no lie, the jest was on it rather than the other way around.
Having read the gnosis of his newest spellscar, Baethen didn¡¯t regret the exchange one bit. He¡¯d been hankering for a spirit-sight card of some sort for the longest time and he¡¯d gotten it by exchanging the sight of his flesh. Had it been another one of their cadre, they wouldn¡¯t¡¯ve fared near half as good.
Baethen smiled at Haviershan with much the same grin as the disappear¡¯d cat spirit, unnerving the older adventurer something fierce such that he sent a shiver down the man¡¯s spine, evident even under his suit of plate. It just wasn¡¯t right to be so excited after becoming half-blind or so he reckoned
<>
The Captain signed to Narancan who was going this way and that to stab through the risen walls of loamy earth, targeting taproots. The Field-Ser carried the order to the others and they beat back a fighting retreat to the right-hand path.
Lac cut down any particularly aggressive verdour elementals that tried to capitalise on their withdrawal. Hagroot wasn¡¯t particularly fast but it was stubborn so it would follow after them to the ends of Phantasmagoria but no farther than that.
As they withdrew, Baethen took the time to acclimate with his new-fangled arcana as he poisoned the earth with cinnabar blood. {Hypnagogia} was the realm of Nagalfaram, the waters that surrounded Babylon¡¯s shore and encircled the Tower. It was the place all souls returned to after death and there they awaited the Boat-of-the-Damned to pick them up and ferry them to their next life.
As an arcana, it was not dissimilar to Akasha, being a prime dominion which couldn¡¯t be abstracted any further. Where Death was a first-order arcana, Hypnagogia occupied a rung just below it in regards to metaphysical weight, as it were. It was the stuff of half-lidded dreams and visions of the yet-to-be, the shifting of shadows as you stared off into the night and the dawn breaking in the Rise.
This wasn¡¯t anything that Baethen picked up from the expedition or even something he learned during his apprenticeship¡ªthis was the intrinsic knowledge of the arcane that had been stamped upon his very soul. He knew its meaning down to the marrow of his bones for it forwent flesh entirely.
To draw upon the dominion, he needed only to will it into being, and it would be so. Where the {Will-of-Mind} clause required conscious assent, {Focus-of-Spirit} could be called upon even during sleep which was fitting for the dominion¡¯s arcana.
Implicitly knowing that he needed a target for the spell, Baethen picked a particularly large verdour elemental and then flexed an imaginary muscle inside his soul. Gnostic-glyphes etched themselves inside his mind¡¯s eye, illuminating the form of the creature he held in thrall of blindness.
Player Scried: [Scarlet-Rotted-Hagroot-Briarwomb] ¡ï¡ï
Drawback: [Undone-by-the-Blood]
Arcana: [Ichor], [Sickness], [Roots]
Number: [III//XII]
Gnosis ¦µ: [¡®An elemental spirit given physical form, inhabiting a vessel of once-verdant flesh now blessed by the scarlet rot of Yurnmagog¡¯. This {Player} possesses {Intermediate-Dominion} over the {Arcana-of-Transubstantiation}, {Imbuing} its {Vessel} with the power to {Metamorphose} {Corpus} into {Scarlet-Rotted-Corpus} so long as said {Corpus} is {Bleeding} and in {Touch} with their own. For every {Scarlet-Rotted-Player} in the same {Locus} as the {Player}, they gain a {Brand-of-Gluttony} which {Empowers} {Cards} with the {Consumption-Clause}. This {Player} must {Consume} {Blood} every {Blink} lest they incur {Brand-of-Dessication}.]
Baethen¡¯s blood ran cold as he grasped the connotations of what now lay bare before him. The bloodfly wyrd-plague was just another synonym for scarlet rot and it was an abomination. Though the ointment would protect from the worst of, say, bloodflies, being caught under the deluge of briarwombs would spell certain and horrid immortality.
Bloodflies could only infect so much as a wyrd-plague vector, needing to overpower low parity carded and uncarded players alike. They could not, wholesale, transform others into scarlet-rotted abominations just through touching a bleeding wound. Generally, only the cast-aways and destitute succumbed to the rot.
His {Blinded-Eye} couldn¡¯t scry the Hands of the briarwombs so the particulars of their abilities would remain hidden. The gnosis provided more than enough information to get a basic understanding of a player¡¯s capabilities, including their three major arcane dominions and prime drawback. Though Baethen did not know each and every card¡¯s Scamander¡¯s tendon, he did know the hagroot¡¯s most glaring, general weakness: starvation.
They¡¯d have to fight a war of attrition against them, seeing as they could share corpus with one another¡ªa signature of scarlet rot. It had to be excised root and stem as even a single remnant of the wyrd-plague could act as a vector. The problem lay that scarlet rot wasn¡¯t supposed to infect plant-life but hagroots were not truly so, instead a mix between flesh and verdour.
Baethen had yet to see any sickness about the colourful trees of the Feywilds but he¡¯d not be sticking around to find out.
XXXVI - On the Wings of Moths
<> Baethen signed, Behemoth¡¯s thick and lumbering fingers not nearly deft enough for more than a few simple words. He¡¯d had to remove a gauntlet when talking with Haviershan about the feyry spirit and now there was no time for subtlety, only fast escape for fear of a fate so much worse than death.
The Captain caught on quick as Baethen gestured frantically towards the briarwombs and then his blinded-eye. Haviershan was no fool and took to promulgating orders for a single file formation with Baethen at the back¡ªhis flesh-warping cards would protect him from scarlet rot, the arcana of the Crucible of Daedolon having taken root such that it left no quarter for the Ichor of Yurnmagog. Even beneath the near-impenetrable living suit of sorrow-steel, he could call upon the Devil¡¯s scales to clad him for a time should the worst come to pass.
Their withdrawal was a fast and furious affair that bought time for the cadre to react to the coming threats of the right-hand path. They paid for it in blood, Baethen a good ten strides behind the throng, cutting through hagroots like a madman. He¡¯d trained with Lac a few martial forms dedicated for retreat, the footwork weaving such that he never crossed his feet and tripped, even walking backwards.
It was all diagonal slices and then spin and reset from the opposite direction, building momentum until it reached a fever-pitch. [Cruciata] sung in his hands a keening war-dirge, wicked and cruel and joyous with each limb of hagroot severed.
The little bit of flame and heat he could kindle with his half-discarded deck and half-used arcanums, Baethen sacrificed on the altar of [The-Blade-Alone], chilling his blood so that the briarwombs¡¯ vanguard slowed in their march. The frontline became a choking point as feyry frost-fire spread through it, freezing scarlet-rotted elementals into dry ash-mounds lambent with cerulean cinders.
Even with the spread of the wyrd tongues of fire, the briarwombs were not abated, not truly, only slowed and only for a while before Baethen sapped the last bit of warmth from his veins. But they did not need to last for eternity, only until they reached the cubic stone.
The right-hand path was a serpentine affair, winding this way and that through the Feywilds though for Baethen it was all but a blur of colour, vibrant viridians and vivacious vermillions mixing and clashing. Rather than a peaceful stroll through the woods, it was a frenetic rush marked by fire and sweat.
They were not yet where they needed to be and Baethen had no choice but to sip upon the Devil¡¯s offered chalice. His sparks, dying things with nary enough warmth to light dried tinder, blazed with a second wind as scales crawled along his skin like snakes for serpents were the spawn of dragons.
Perhaps it was a trick of the light but Behemoth¡¯s features sharpened, devolving into a bestial rictus grin. The eyeless head had no eyes with which to see yet its predatory gaze was felt nonetheless, the hagroots writhing before the presence of the Fifteenth Hand. This did not stop the briarwombs from their offense, instead doubling their fervour as they snarled back for feyries suffer no snakes amidst their court.
They had enough of those already, afterall.
Drunk on anger and branded with the sin of wrath, Baethen took upon the draught of sleep, that dreamless ignorance of Hypnagogia¡¯s waters. [Cruciata]¡¯s haft shone all the colours of the Bifr?st, tongues of subliminal feyry-fire licking at its length, arcana bleeding off of it in droves.
A rainbow conflagration spread from his ministrations, the arcana of feyries like locusts upon ripe crop. Baethen¡¯s mind teetered on the precipice of waking nightmare, visions of half-born fantasies and realities superseding his grasp of what was actually in front of him.
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The hagroots turned into serpents, a thousand-thousand eels copulating in a bacanal that would beggar even the orgies of Lust Herself. The trees grew hands upon their limbs and crying faces upon their trunks, reaching out to grasp him in their thrall, wanting nothing more than to caress his temples and tell him that Mother knew best. The skies, oh how the skies bled, the firmament weeping cerulean blood that dried before ever touching the earth.
Just a moment before oblivion, Baethen let go of the cards he held so tightly in his Hand. He did not Redraw them, simply not putting them into play upon Eot. His head still swam with a quagmire of fantasy and unreality, both his eyes betraying him, even his one good one. Shadows and colours swam about him and he did his damndest to parse what truly was from what he conjured up himself.
By sheer luck¡ªwhich was a fickle thing within Feyrie, within Fate¡¯s domain¡ªhe got his wits about him in time and did not drown under the coming host of hagroot and briarwombs, taking once more to the retreat, not routing but neither succumbing as he almost had just a blink ago. Lumbering and stumbling his steps as his footwork was ravelled back into their bolt, Baethen returned to a semblance of discipline, striking out without calling upon [Cruciata]¡¯s many poison-gifts, treating it as a simple weapon and nothing more.
Sin-brands snuck up easily upon the soul; just like the vices from which they sprung up. Wrath bade him to violence and Hypnagogia to slumber¡ªcombine that with avarice¡¯s insatiable want to steal all that he possessed and it was a recipe for disaster. Though he¡¯d averted his demise just a hair before perdition proper, he knew it was only time until it happened again.
One does not play with fire without being burned.
He knew this intimately, having been the first lesson that Big Yldira taught him. To respect the power of the flame, that it could and would maim and kill and destroy if given the chance.
Funny how simple things were the hardest to remember.
It was a long and turbulent withdrawal, with Baethen almost falling in exhaustion many a time as his strength failed him and his might fled. Were it not for Behemoth functioning as a lead-maiden without the spikes, he would not still be standing. Moros wept, that little bit o¡¯ allegory might come to bite him in the arse.
It might end up becoming his coffin proper like that of a death-saint of Nagalfaram, an unliving martyr brought forth through sacred necromancy to recount stories of old. Just as many bloodlines kept their accumulated ken strictly guarded, so too did the ranks of clergy.
The end of that morbid thought coincided nicely with Baethen turning around and taking in the sight of the clearing. This was what lay at the end of the right-hand path: a great twisting skeleton of a tree, its roots mimicking the above boughs perfectly such that it was difficult to divine which came first. A reflection of itself, caught between two mirrors that no longer were.
The phantasmagoric vegetation encircled the barren waste of a clearing with the bone-white, leafless tree at the middle of it all. The division between the ashen soil and the rest of the Feywilds was stark, as if Feyrie Itself was scared of approaching the Yggrdrazil shoot. Rather than entrenching within soil, the sapling was halfway submerged within still-waters that were translucid and crystal-clear, hosting a night sky rather than the dayful firmament of this part of Phantasmagoria.
Baethen knew that substance down to the marrow of his bones, having used it to save his life before entering the evergaol¡ªit was a whole pool of [Celestial-Dew], sequestered away within the shadow of a shadow. Just touching a carte-blanche to the stuff would be enough to form a card and there was enough there for all of the expedition and then some.
There was no ziggurat, no large ruin that a Guardian might protect. There, affix¡¯d the cubic stone lay above the placid waters, one of its corners alighting upon them just so, as if balancing upon the waters.
And between the cubic stone and the cadre, between damnation and salvation, between Yurnmagog and Babylon, was the fallen angel. It flew on the wings of moths, its ivorywood bones now apparent. Each one was a branch of Yggrdrazil, each one a divine limb of the World-Root, of the Tree-of-Life.
The boggart¡¯s faceless face had but a single great trumpet of an ear placed upon the middle and from it, a Word sprung forth. It was the shifting of the seasons under order of Gwynedd-Sol, a proclamation from the Unseelie Court that it might wage war, the weeping of the stars as they were ground into salt for trespassing upon Eot.
¡°[Duende.]¡±
XXXVII - Decadence
The boggart, once a housley spirit of the Seelie Court, there to bring fortune and merriment to its hosts, had Spoken a single Word-of-Power. Through the Turns of acting as serf and bondsman, it had come to resent its masters, the children of Leizuziel. It wasn¡¯t a single insult that had turned the boggart into a gob; it was a thousand little slights, left to linger and fester for a millennium of Turns.
One day, it snapped.
There hadn¡¯t even been a mistreatment then. There needn¡¯t be. Rancour turned into disgusted pity and loathing for the lesser creatures that the feyry served, their short lives and grievances but dust in the wind of its sevenfold wings.
In that single Word of [Duende] was all the rage and indignity of a millennium, petty things brought together to become so much greater than the sum of their parts. This working of magic arcana was a thing of the old ways before Man made game of the spirits of the world, before He played miracles upon the Board and when only the Twenty-One Gods and That-One-Without-Number could cast their lots upon Eot.
The hate of a broken thing, refined over long enough to see a bezoar tighten within the belly of an ancient hillock, was fuel to this sorcerous fire¡ªact the role long enough so as to become a river stone upon the river of existence and the waters of fate must part before you, causality and all the rules of reality acknowledging the weight of such a thing, paling before it.
No-Longer-Serf-but-Master was what the spell meant and it impressed itself upon those that stood before the fallen angel of Fate. They could not help but obey, to kneel before the boggart, their joints buckling and hardening, their mortal minds bending lest they break.
All but one.
For how do you make a god kneel?
Baethen would only know the answer to that question when he did battle with the Grey Hordes of Nezarrem in the life after, after this; when the demigod born of War Himself, Hazadriel the Unbroken-Spear, was brought low by the shadow of Pagat, the God-Killer Blade. Right now, in this life, there was only the thought of how to fell, once and for all, the fey spirit before him.
There were no more battles after this one in this rung and so, he Redrew his Hand, both Left and Right. Arcanums, dry and without a lick of water to their wellsprings, grew to the point of overspill. Sets that could not be brought into play for their lack of certain cards now ached to be set upon Eot or, better said, Feyrie.
How intoxicating it was, to have power in the palm of your Hand.
¡°[Burn. Smoulder. Sunder.]¡± He said in the Language, each Word the rattle of an asp and the hiss of a serpent. They burned in his salamander throat, low and terrible.
The boggart had been clever, clearing away the vegetation around the Yggrdrazil sapling. It wasn¡¯t enough, not nearly.
A single step brought the fires of Hel to the surface, scoria cracking apart the earth to bare the molten ichor of Gehenna that dwelt beneath all things. The spell was woven along with the manifest arcanum of Scoria, empowered by the bellows that were his lungs and scales. {Brand-of-Wrath} sizzled against his mind like a raw wound plunged into saltwater, and how it hurt so good.
But Baethen was no fool¡ªnow, at least¡ªand so he did not mindlessly charge after having conjured a vulcan-mount around the feyry. Instead, he drew upon his {Blinded-Eye} so that he might {Scry} the fallen angel before him and know its weakness just as it knew his own.
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Player Scried: [Decadence-Lieth-On-the-Wings-of-Moths] ¡ï¡ï¡ï
Drawback: [Once-a-Serf-Always-a-Serf]
Arcana: [Wyrd], [Decadence], [The-Traitor]
Number: [III//XII]
Gnosis ¦µ: [¡®A feyry spirit Turned goblyn, courtier wicked of the Unseelie and cast-off¡¯d from the auspices of Fortune to that of Ruin; defiler of the earth-bones and the Convention, a fallen angel knows only malice to the shape of scars¡¯. This {Player} possesses {Utter-Dominion} over the {Arcana-of-Decadence}, {Imbuing} its {Vessel} with the power to {Decay} {Metals} to {Rust} so long as they are {Held} in {Thrall-of-Wing}. For every {Servant} in the same {Locus} as the {Player}, they gain a {Brand-of-the-Master} which {Empowers} {Tokens} of any ilk. This {Player} must {Obey} the {Commands} of the {Children-of-Leizuziel} lest they incur {Brand-of-the-Lesser}, {Lashing} their {Spirit} with the {Burning-Light} of {Serephic-Castigation}.]
A three-star card was nothing compared to a three-starred player.
The sphynx, Ruination, had been a parity of three Themself and it hadn¡¯t been an easy fight either though They were decidedly weaker than the boggart after having been doused in flame by that nameless god that had possessed Baethen then and slept insensate in his shadow now.
He did not count on divine intervention to see him through the battle, especially after the poison-gift that Lady Luck had saddled him with.
Baethen recognised the {Serephic-Castigation} clause from the [Gaolsaint-Idol] card; a near-relic but not quite there yet. Though Judgement, especially that of a soul, fell under Nagalfaram, it was done by Gwynedd-Sol under order of the Merchant-of-Death. Punitions of the flesh and other physical tortures were the commission of Yurnmagog while damnations of the spirit were the commission of the Empyrean Sun.
¡°[Melt the Chains.]¡± He said in the Language. ¡°And set them free, unharmed.¡± He spoke in Woedenite. To commune with a feyry was to argue with a corrupt magister who¡¯d writ the law to benefit only themself; Baethen was doubly careful so that his own words, be they of Power or mortal tongue, could not be used against himself or his fellows.
Godspeak did not leave room for interpretation, intent branded onto it and then laid bare for it was a tongue of the spirit and the soul and all such naked functions of the psyche. It was in the vernacular that he might damn himself, he knew.
The feyry obeyed his command like a common sorcerer¡¯s familiar, letting his companions free of its thrall. Just as the cadre staggered to their feet, the goblyn did not remain idle, instead casting about spells and hexes from the cards in its Hand.
Most recognisable among their host was that of the rounded barrier of moths¡¯ wings that now encircled them all within.
<> Baethen signed, his fingers not possessing the word for moth. Though he could not {Scry} the barrier itself, as his arcanum could only sight a player proper and not their Hand or the cards {Brought-Into-Play}, Baethen had a suspicion about its effects. He¡¯d broken it once before and would do so again.
Feyries of all types loved a good reckoning, using an enemy¡¯s own attack against them through the use of reflection and the like. With its Yggrdrazil wings now bare to the bones, any strike done to it would instead become a curse spat back upon the one who dealt the blow.
The perfect sphere that gaoled them would ignore any attacks not potent enough to stick upon the surface of feyry skins and iridescent insectile wings and shells. They were smooth and utterly without purchase.
In one well-practised motion, Baethen sleighted tokens of iron and lead into his furnace-mouth and breathed out, unhinging Behemoth¡¯s jaws to set loose a gout of molten slag. Even occupied as he was, he could still Speak in the Language, weaving the spell with a single intonation.
¡°[Break]¡±
The maleficar¡¯s gaol broke like glass as the incandescent spittle melted through it. Trapped within shards of sublimating ice, the moths writhed and blackened having come too close to the flame they¡¯d so desperately sought.
With the initiative taken back by Baethen, Haviershan returned to the command, his orders tapping away at Behemoth¡¯s shell by way of Narancan. It was a simple plan and one that Baethen agreed with readily and wholeheartedly¡ªwaylay the maleficar, do not let it recover its wits and distract it at all cost but for life and limb.
On raged the battle.
XXXVIII - Equilibrium
The fallen angel¡¯s wings burst once again aflame, tongues of Bifr?st leeching at the armature of ivory so as to clad the feyry in a fiery, diaphanous cloak. A great mass of moths blotted a shadow before Baethen as they descended upon him, alighting on Behemoth and making roost there.
While some curses cast did not penetrate his war-suit, a spell or two did, uncaring for the physical barrier between him and the maleficar. A {Brand-of-Decadence} weakened his joints, making it so that the bones ground against the cartilage as if coarse sand had found its way in between the sockets of his limbs. Some illusion of one sort or another attempted to trick him into crossing a phantom river though his {Blinded-Eye} saw through it.
Rather than black ignorance, the magicked stream also appeared in the strange sight of his, clueing Baethen that it was a fey jilt for his eye caught only things not of this world. While his right saw a colourful river, his left saw a skeleton thereof stripped of its flesh and substance, parallel lines wending in tandem as if roots drawn to a lodestone unseen, carrying with them a series of glyphs in Godspeech that meant [Bones taken from the bed o¡¯ the grave, run once again clad in the deathshroud of flesh unrotted; clamour the lament of drought from time out of mind; hearken the Dealer-o¡¯-Fate¡¯s summons and return to the fold.]
The cadre¡¯s formation blossomed out as they encircled the feyry, Baethen at the fore, marching with Cruciata in hand, trailing pearlescent hoarfrost in his wake. Each step was a lesson in agony, reminding him of the frailties of the flesh, of every shortcoming that a body possessed as it came to know the harsh truth of life.
You will die.
War-suits of Behemoth¡¯s ilk did not turn quickly and put more than its fair share of strain on Baethen¡¯s already-cursed joints. Dodging the streams o¡¯ spirits was no easy feat without crossing them¡ªthat is, until Baethen realised that his drawbacks required running water.
And so he plunged Cruciata into the serpentine, living rivers, freezing them over so as to cross them unimpeded. He had to pull strength from his other cards to empower the hoarfrost, increasing his flames¡¯ heat and thus the cold¡¯s reach as it sapped his blood of life.
Afflicted by banes both from within and without, Baethen reached the maleficar and struck at its breast. It was dogged, Twelve-Hels-bent stubbornness that saw him through so many footcatches and he was thrice-damned eager to take the pound of flesh he was owed.
The feyry was fast enough to esquive Baethen¡¯s cut but not near up to par to do so with the ensuing attacks from the others. Haviershan had been casting bolts about with his wyvernarm since being freed from thrall, putting pressure on the maleficar so that it couldn¡¯t split its attention any further than Baethen in regards to offence. Elementally-infused dragonpowder payloads exploded all about the Turned fey, washing over Behemoth¡¯s scaled hide.
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Lac and Tratvgar approached from opposite directions, from Baethen¡¯s left and right, respectively, and pincered the fey with blade and spell. Spears of root grew from the fallow earth, lancing the winged beast and entangling it in briars suspiciously alike that of hagroot¡ªmayhaps a meld that the footman picked up in their mad dash to the cubic stone though that would remain to be seen after the dust settled.
The Lieutenant swung a flurry of blows with her magicked steel, forcing the feyry to play whatever defensive cards it possessed. Wards like domes of glass sprung to life only to shatter into moths wings before her might. Behemoth would be hard-pressed to survive such an onslaught, much less a naked Baethen.
Cornered and near-close to being felled, the maleficar spun about its wings and played an escape card of some sort, translocating seven strides away. Tratvgar¡¯s roots lost their grasp on their quarry and Lac had to reposition lest she shear Baethen in half¡ªa mistrike from her could split him from side to side right easily.
Having slipped through their grasp, the feyry took to the air with its sevenfold wings, flitting there and about, to and fro, never settling and never stilling. For to remain in a single place meant death.
Why then, had it remained motionless at the start of the battle and only moved after nearly dying? Why hadn¡¯t it opened its wings first thing and not risked such unfavourable odds. A drawback, it had to be. Baethen hadn¡¯t ordered it so all that was left was a card¡¯s curse of some sort.
Perhaps only having the ability to move when it was attacked? No, that did not make sense. The boggart had been a servile spirit before so by that reckoning it had to have drawbacks owing to its previous nature as a bonded familiar.
Baethen, focused as he was on the fight before him, he didn¡¯t realise the creeping rust that lathered Behemoth¡¯s skin until it was nigh too late to salvage. The arcana of Mercury and that of the Crucible though sympathetic to that of Rust and Decadence could not so easily contest them, especially so against a card or arcanum of higher parity.
As a means to curtail the infection that threatened to wither Behemoth into a dried husk, Baethen released the floodgates of his suit. The quicksilver pool he floated in acted as a secondary reservoir in regards to elemental font; with it seeping out from between the joints of the armour, it could subsume the decay that gathered there, acting as a medium like oil around a blade so as to ward off rust.
The equilibrium would only last so long, seeing as without the quicksilver pool, Baethen wouldn¡¯t be able to fully pilot the suit. Behemoth functioned off of the expenditure of mercurial fonts to move so much mass and use its momentum effectively; no metal to burn meant no movement and no movement meant death.
And so, as they played Ring-Around-the-Rosie with the fallen angel, Baethen wracked his brains for a solution. His inner compass-clock ticked away as new thoughts branched into being only to be discarded once he realised that it would bear no fruit.
He risked commands for the fey to ¡®wait¡¯ or to ¡®be still¡¯ but those quickly lost their edge as diminishing returns set in¡ªthe maleficar¡¯s wings weren¡¯t part of it, not truly. Instead they were dragged along by a host of moths which were separate entities from it. They were not even card summons but rather a working of Phantasmagoria and so did not fall under direct dominion of the maleficar which could be usurped by a command.
It was only when Baethen asked himself the right question that he found his answer.
Why does a servant stay still?
XXXIX - Trespass
To await new orders.
Baethen¡¯s kin hadn¡¯t either the coin nor the inclination for servants beyond some hired hands needed for heavier work like clearing away any fallen hailstones or brimstones after the Rounds of Sumarot and Fulzun, respectively.
But, from the little he¡¯d shadowed his mother Volentia at the dye vats, those that toiled took to remaining ready for new commands once they¡¯d done their own individual part. It was a matter of coordination, of being able to time the various pools of pigments and divine spices and gemstone dust so that they wouldn¡¯t curdle or go too thin.
The maleficar hadn¡¯t moved after the first command, caught off-guard by Baethen having scryed its {Gnosis}. It had then quickly adapted, letting its host of moths ferry it around as its namesake implied.
¡°Pluck out your wings.¡± Baethen bleated out, his lungs on fire and his throat hoarse from all the yelling and kindling¡ª[Salamadara], though reformed, was still greedy as any dragon, exacting Her usurious toll and shrivelling him up from the inside-out.
The order took hold, the rainbow flames scouring its ivory bones of any erstwhile moth or insect, felling the angel as if it were being cast out of Heaven for a second time. With Rounds of experience coordinating manoeuvres, the cadre worked like a well-oiled clockwork machine; Lac was there when the feyry was about to touch down, dismembering its left leg and arm from the rest of its body with a cut that rivened the scoric earth and sent a series of widening cracks out from the epicenter.
There was no flesh or bone within the spirit, only unfired alabaster and porcelain, the wet clay threaded with thousands upon thousands of festering worms and wriggling maggots with the faces of crying children; they wept a clearish, brackish liquid like milk-o¡¯-the-poppy. The maleficar¡¯s hand that had a mouth from which extended a long prehensile tongue shrunk into a mummified, black charnel the moment it was severed just as the same happened with its left leg.
The maleficar screeched a shrill scream in response that raked across their souls, staggering the cadre one and all. It was a queer, alien sound that spoke of unimaginable pain for physicalised spirits of its ilk were gestalts equal parts body and spirit and so felt excruciation across both unlike with mortals which possessed a greater divide between the tangible and intangible.
Its escape card activated again, translocating the feyry another seven strides away from its attacker. So it functions off of damage or threat and sends it away from the latest attacker or greatest danger. With that information in mind, Baethen began to plan out a play he might use, drawing and discarding them as he searched through his arcanums.
<> Haviershan signed out, having caught onto the window of weakness that Baethen hadn¡¯t thought of. He¡¯d focused more on how to play around the escape card instead.
With him already having a play in mind, Baethen was the first to use his triumphs.
[Scoric-Wormscale-Hide] in a moment of apophanic ecstasy clad his skin and armour both. The Devil¡¯s own accursed arcana burned oh so very good in his throat, burrowing from the outside-in into his being; that comfortable discomfort like prodding at a mouth ulcer with his tongue.
He charged straight to the maleficar with a mind on fire; it hadn¡¯t the time to set up spirit-rivers and so he was unimpeded in his chase.
Baethen hadn¡¯t had the opportunity to use them afore and so for the first time he called upon the arcana of Betrayal and that of the Worm; whatever font that was under the feyry¡¯s dominion was {Extinguished} from this world like so much dust thrown to the five winds.
His eyes were twin portals into Gehenna¡¯s fiery Hels, {Branding} the feyry with {Fear} itself and {Sealing} a random card within its soul. Oh how that power felt natural, to take what belonged to another, to steal something right out from under them at their weakest moment and leave them none the wiser.
And then, Behemoth was upon it, breathing-out wormfire and miasma in a great gout that festered midnight blue and xanthous scarlet. His metallic maw was unhinged such that it rested against his chest, the lips rusting and rotting away as the Helsfire ran its course.
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Oh but he was not nearly satisfied to just burn the fallen angel. No, Behemoth wanted to rip and to tear, his claws reaching out to grab the fey in its iron clutches so that it could not escape what was to come.
A kill-thief was coming in hot from his left and that just would not do¡ªthe feyry was his prey and he did not share. With a backhand parry from [Cruciata], the sword-spear¡¯s butt against his armpit so as to hold it one-handedly, Behemoth played [Fourfold-Cruciform].
It would prove to be his fourth mistake since entering the Tower and it would not be his last.
The Fool witnessed the Folly and did nothing to stop it for a court jester cannot stop the king nor stay his hand, only condemn him after the fact with mockerous tongue and cutting wit. The Sceptre and the Crown and the Cloak were not Loken¡¯s vestments of office but rather the Mallets and the Mask and the Motley.
The irony of it all was not lost on the Unnumbered-God but it was played-out and a tad clich¨¦. A balatro knows better than to believe that history repeats¡ªthey know that it rhymes and does so to the detriment of those that have the most to lose by the will of those with the most to gain. This song and dance, oh how it was oh so very old.
Exempli gratia: unwitting betrayal orchestrated by a schemer to ease their need for utter and total control.
[Fourfold-Cruciform] required an internal sense of self-righteousness in a given exchange to be brought to bear but this was only half of its course run. The other half was recognising the wronged party and deciding whether to {Negate} an {Attack} or {Double} it.
A beast, no matter how cunning, is still but a base creature and so knows right and wrong only from the axis of itself; of pleasure and pain, of exultation and fright. Animals do not hearken to the arcana of Justice, only honouring that of Strength and the Many-Horned-God.
So then, how does the card decide who is {In-the-Right} if its own player cannot be called upon to arbitrate?
Outside¡ªwithin Eot, that is¡ªit would weigh the collective world-spirit¡¯s sense of morality, especially that of the Sapphire-Isle, against that of both the player and its attacker. But the Beast was not in Eot but rather Feyrie and so the final word, the arbitration of which would spell someone¡¯s likely end, was that of Fata-Morgana.
And how fickle and cruel a mistress was Fate Herself.
The scales were Hers to tip and She decided¡ªfor no other reason than petty child-like spite and curiosity¡ªto choose the worst of all outcomes. It had been, afterall, Her doing to put these cards into play, so why not see it to the end?
This song and dance, oh how it was oh so very old and sisters like Her loved breaking toys They thought precious to Their brothers. No matter that said toys were not toys at all but rather living, breathing souls invested into vessels of flesh capable of suffering and higher thinking and art and war and so much more.
Only a fool would seek to break the mirror through which they saw themselves just because they did not like the image within.
Ensign Lacariah Engalsdotter had been a hair away from decapitating Decadence, the fallen angel o¡¯ fate in a deliciously precarious position. As Folly was parrying her attack so as to defend the feyry so that he might kill it himself, Phantasmagoria reckoned that he was in the right; the Wyrd ignored any fact that was not to its liking, any argument or line of thought that would not see to Its own selfish designs: the strike was negated and so a mistrike. Her trump card, [Scar-and-Sunder]¡¯s drawback came into play as a result.
Warrior that she was, Ensign Lacariah was held together by scars and grit alone and when those came undone, so was she.
Phantom lacerations unseamed her from the nave to the chops. Tendons snapped and fingers fell dismembered, having remembered the wounds of times since past. Her belly wore thin such that her guts spilled out in a glorious shower of arterial spray, baptising the Folly in the most horrid of ways.
It was enough to see the Man-Within-the-Beast awaken and despair at what he¡¯d done, at what he¡¯d wrought. To see the bloody lucre of his actions and know that he¡¯d chosen the wrong path a long time ago and was too far along to change course.
Anger did not make you do anything you didn¡¯t already want to do and the Folly wanted power for its own sake, to deal the killing blow that might make the Dealer-o¡¯-Fate award him through the Hearkening of the All-Tongue.
And so was how the cards fell: the Folly got exactly what he¡¯d wanted and would hate himself for it forevermore. No matter how many times he would submerge into the waters of Death, to Dream again of lives thereafter, he would never find himself clean of this sin.
Guilt was his warden, thoughts his accusers, and himself his own prisoner.
Mayhaps this one had some potential afterall