Bruximus d'Anathen: Stories

[Sveja]

The Wayward Brux

Part One: Averlane

Averlane...? That old elf? Yeah, I know Averlane. Yeah. I do.

He saved my life. No other way to put it.

To most of you he is just the old codger living far outside the respectable confines of our quarter. No, not along the manicured edges of our managed and sustained forests. Not among the comparably immaculate houses of the working class. But further out yet, out near the wall in a place no one likes to go. In an old human part of town, from what I can tell. People must have used to live there, a couple of their generations ago. But not any more. These days its mostly vagrants, and those with nothing better to do, and nowhere better to be.

I'm not sure that he lives there truly by choice, but it suits him. Plenty of space, and no prying eyes.

I was up to some form of trouble. I cannot remember exactly what - the whole day before I ran into him was a little hazy. To be honest, most things back then where a little hazy. I do know I was with two of my mates, brothers in crime as it were, petty though it was. One of them was an orc, the other a human. I remember both: they were among the few I counted as friends back then. Still do. I won't incriminate either by recording their names here.

I was running, I remember that much. He seemed to jump out in front of me; though I am sure it was the other way around. Either way, I bumped into the old man. Ran into him really. He must have been in town for the market, for he was carrying a bundle that he dropped in the collision. On worse days I might have claimed that bundle for myself, the spoils of the advantages of youth. Mayhap that is what I was trying for: truly I cannot remember.

But as I turned around the old man fixed me with his stare. An instant marked indelibly in my mind. His look of disgust changed almost immediately to one of curiosity, or interest. I preferred the disgust, to be honest, and the change was not a welcome one at the time. I was used to disgust. Someway, though, I felt those eyes bore straight through me. Those steel gray eyes, unclouded despite his age. It was as if he could tease out the pattern of my soul through the mere effort of his eyes. The more I have learned, the more I have wondered if that wasn't the truth of it.

From here I'd like to say he grabbed me by the scruff of the neck and dragged me, kicking and screaming, to a better life. But he was too old. -I- was too old...



Before we get any further, there is the matter of how I got there in the first place. I'm not much one for biographies, least of all my own. What? The scion of a family of note, beggarly pretenders though they may be? The butt of jokes, well earned. Who has still had it better than he deserves, and never done a damned thing to improve the lot of others. Yeah, if anyone deserves to have their life recorded it is not me. But, here you are, and the purpose demands it. So here we go:

Ironically, the most interesting thing about me happened before I was born. At least, the most interesting thing as far as most people are concerned. Seeing as you're my friends, and you've earned my trust, I'll bring myself to admit it: the rumors, to the best of my knowledge, are truth.

My mother, before I was born, confronted a horror. Most surmise she was an unfortunate victim. Others claim she brought it on herself. I know that she studied the dark arts. I have seen the notes left in her hand. I have touched the pages of her tomes. I have claimed her grimoire: at least what is left of it. That's a story for another time, but I can say it is all possible.

Regardless of the why or the how, she was assaulted: physically, mentally, spiritually. I know this. I experienced the attack first hand. Doubt me if you wish: I do not claim to remember it, but I do recall the sensations. The feeling. This was my welcome to the world. It haunts my waking hours. It stalks my sleep.

What happened next I cannot say. My father refuses to speak. When I ask, he offers naught but tears. His jaw clenched tight. He shuts out everything and every one. I have never made any progress with him. Sometimes I glimpse this moment in my nightmares. I cannot speak for their veracity. But I see my father strike her down, as a second. As an unwilling executioner. Was it her will? Was she possessed? Did he only wish to save his unborn child (all that would be left of my mother, the woman he loved more than anything)? Or are the visions fabrications meant to to shake my confidence. To give rise to doubt about the very meaning of my existence. When you are visited, nay, live with the presence of Horror, it can be difficult to tell which memories are real.

In the end. I lived. Mother died. The Horror, as far as I can tell, escaped. It lives on, to haunt my existence.

Knowing what I know now I can still wonder just what happened. What became of me. It is a struggle, I admit. Some days I think it best not to know. To ignore the darkness lurking within. Perhaps unbidden it will shrivel and die - giving me peace. Other times I think it better to explore and to know. To call the the thing by its name. To fix it in place, to defeat it. To win. And thus to live.

But, from what I gather, I was not marked. The Horror did not recognize my presence. If it had, an unborn child like me, would never have survived. But through my mother, it reached me. Its tendrils tore through her spirit, as it murdered her. They crossed the barrier from her to me, but their effect was weakened in the process. While it failed to mark: it managed to scar my pattern regardless. It is a scar, an unseen one, that refuses to heal; perhaps it cannot. I feel it, at times, like a chip in a suit of armor. A back door into the the fortresses the story tellers describe. A hidden entrance to the vault, just small enough for notions--feelings to slip through.

It is through this that the nightmares come. They assault in waves. They mar my earliest memories. Visions as vivid as any day of living. Visions of fear and terror: sometimes of my mother. Sometimes of Horrors, never quite taking visible form. The worst, by the Passions, the worst, are those of me. Watching the debauched assault of a horror unfold before my mind's eye, only to recognize its hands are my own...

But this chip, dangerous, crushing, nightmarish as it is, did more than open my dreams, waking and not, to them. It also opened them, to me. I can sense their presence when they delve within me. Feel their desires: dark, corrupting. I knew even then: the scarring connects me to them, as strongly as it connects them to me. It gives me sight. It gives me vision.



My father. Generous of spirit. Blessed with patience, has never been the father to handle a son like me. But he did his best: squandering all that remained of the family fortune to fund our life style. To fund the education of my youth. For a time I enjoyed the company of my 'peers' among the prominent families of the Kaer. Here I first met the Brothers Madeara, though I doubt they remember me so clearly. I'd say its typical nostalgia: but, truly, these were the best years of my life.

I had not yet come to terms with who I was. Indeed, I fought that instinct every step of the way. Here my father's generosity won the day. It at least gave me happy memories to cling to. Thoughts of what life could have been like... what it was like, for a time.

I had a passion for the arts from an early age. I think their pursuit gave succor from the turmoil that raged within. I always knew I was different, in some way. But when I put my mind to work on the craft: paint to brush to canvas, chisel to marble, ink to parchment-forming the art of word, hewing ideas and inspiration into physical form, I knew not that difference. I felt only the release of creativity. The energy I craved. Peace, in the pursuit of a goal higher than myself. Even, at times, the acceptance and the praise of my peers and my betters. It helped that I had an easy charm . I made friends quick and easy back then, father claimed I got that from mother. I can't say, of course. But despite these friends I hand only one close companion: my art.

I found my work exhibited and published by those with in interest in the youth of the Kaer. These were my moments of pride, and of joy. Where father and I could both exult in what we accomplished. His father, very much a part of my life then as now, is an artist of some repute. They spoke as if I would exceed him. As if I might become the Song Smith he had wished to be. Perhaps, indeed, my talent would rescue the family.

Me? I was engrossed. Enthralled. It was everything to me. I would be a Song Smith. Not only a Song Smith, but a great one. I would create beauty from base stone. Forge art from pigment. Through creativity, through beauty, the horror within was driven out. And I would contribute to the heritage and memory of our people. Things like that meant a lot to me back then. I felt that the greatest of dreams could come true.

But, hah, obviously, that is not what became of me. As everyone in the Kaer knows, I think, at least if the insults I hear are any indication. I did finish prep school, barely. My marks outside of art were not so inspiring. Father had taken on great debt to pay for it all too. I can clearly remember that day when the brokers came to claim the furniture. It seemed like everything would go. But, he fought to hold onto anything that reminded him of her: the rest went. His own desk and office dismantled and sold off for copper on the gold to pay for my prestigious education. The folly of pretense. Good money after bad.

Already the whispers were at my back. I did not belong among them, the prestigious scions of our city. Not only was my family a joke, said the rumors, I was impure. Who knew, I might even be dangerous. The Blood Guard themselves declared me free of Taint. They could not see what I knew to be the truth, but even that did not spare me, or my family.

Still, to my greater misfortune, I was accepted. I attended. I would be trained as a Song Smith.

But things were not right. Somehow doubt had crept in during the tense lead up to my start at the academy. I watched my father sinking into poverty to fund my pursuit. I suffered the derision of my fellows and the masters: I knew it could not all be earnestly intended, but how could I tease out what was real and what was meant to wound?

As doubt crept in the creative energy slipped away, and sweeping in to replace it were the nightmares. The Terror. The Horror. I could no longer focus. I could barely think. The walls of creativity and beauty I had built around myself crumpled. I had thought it perfect and unbreakable: if only my energy and spirit could maintain it. The effort had taken its toll, and after those long, wonderful years of trial and success: I broke down. They announced that I was incapable of being an adept. Such things are usually said in private, but I had the fortune of having it broadcast in public: "Once Promising Artist, Latest Failure in Family." Maybe not in so many words, but the subtext was written in the obituaries of my dreams.

With hindsight I better understand what had unfolded. If my masters had taken my charge as their duty, if they had helped me form, structure, and defend the pattern I was weaving, things may have been very different. Instead, they seemed intent upon my failure. And that they achieved with tremendous success.

Talent and patterns are delicate things. I know this now better than anyone. Perhaps, even more so for me, with that hint of hungry chaos always lurking at the edge.

I descended into darkness. I embraced despair. I seized my cups, and filled them with my tears as quickly as I drained them of their bitter droughts. All the while my talent withered and escaped. I destroyed all but the barest hints of who I had once been.

Looking at me now you might ask: could you really be him? Brux d'Anathen? The Scultpor? The Painter? The Poet? My work is still in one of the periphery museums. I barely recognize it. I cannot sense the genius that created it. I am no longer him.



I returned to living at home. I abused my father's generosity. I took advantage of my grand parents love and support. While they paid for my expense, I squandered their gifts on drink and play. Play at what? At dice - at women. At anything to take my mind off of the colossal failure I had become. These are hard times to remember... let alone to tell about.

Eventually I started to make the wrong sort of friends. With no prospects, and believing myself incapable of being any sort of adept, let alone living up to my family's expectations, I started to do what I thought I should to get by. When father's misbegotten largess was not enough, I stole. When I had the opportunity, I stole. When I was bored, I stole. Perhaps worse. Was a I a scoundrel? A rogue? No, I think I would have been a disservice to both.

We were not exactly organized. These were not thefts of grace or elegance. They were petty, in every meaning of the term.

Meanwhile, we delved into all the rot that is common to such petty criminals. To say that I am not proud of these days is to understate my shame and my remorse. To make matters worse, I felt the -urges- strengthening. They would come suddenly and unpredictably: the desire to inflict pain, for no purpose but the thrill of it. The urge to rob; to beat the helpless. To assert dominance over those I could. I would tell myself it was revenge for those who had done the same to me: but I knew better. This wasn't simple rationalization: these were baser instincts, and darker callings.



So... when I say that Averlane saved my life, I do not mean it lightly. He saved me. He may have saved others.

What he saw in me that day, I cannot say for sure. You could ask him yourself, if you want. Though I cannot imagine he would offer the full truth.

I have my theories, but all I know for sure is what he said: "You, boy. Have you ever held a bow?"

He had already fixed me in my tracks with the power of his stare. Steel gray eyes that may as well have been daggers pinning my boots to the crumbling pavement beneath my feet. And, despite every inclination I had at that moment: to lie, to deceive, to run like hell, I found myself answering his question honestly: "No. Never." I did not shake my head. I could not shift my gaze.

"Have you ever thought about it?" He asked. The tone in his voice rang in my ears. There was power to his earnestness.

"No..." I hesitated. I could see my two friends backing away. They were waiting for the next opportunity to make a run for it. To leave me to deal with the repercussions. I have no quarrel with them: I would have done the same if I'd been them.

"No? Why Not?" He asked me, as if somehow my learning the bow was the most obvious thing in the world and I must have been an idiot not to know that already. He was not entirely wrong, but I did not answer him. How could I?

"You have vision. You see the truth. You have the eyes of an archer."

I recall blinking in confusion. 'These eyes?' I thought. But I also remember how -awake- I felt. As if I had been slumbering through a dream, only to awake suddenly when confronted by the piercing gaze of this old man. Everything exploded with vividness. Everything was sharp. Detail stood out: the look of his eyebrows. The twitching of his cheek. Everything was clear, and I knew that instant was one I would remember forever.

And I knew. I do not know how. But I knew. This was meant to be.

"Teach me." Those were my words. I do not remember thinking them, or considering them. They simply rushed forth from some part of my mind that knew, somehow, that this was a gift. A path of salvation. More than I deserved.


Old Averlane? Yeah. He saved my life.

[Sveja]

Averlane

Part Two - Way of the Archer
Averlane is an old hand, that's for sure. And I imagine his methods are unorthodox, but I cannot really say not knowing any other Archers. That first day I followed him back to his place, carrying his goods which I had knocked from his hands. Which I had probably meant to steal. It was really little more than a hut or a hovel, but he called it home. It was a rickety thing, but there was room for a stove and he lined the floor with well-made, if worn, straw mats. It made it more comfortable than it looked.

From the back yard you could not see any other Namegiver around. Sometimes they might wander past, and gaze at you curiously, but most days I would see no one stroll by at all. He had room to chop and store wood, and enough scraggly wild trees grew nearby to keep his fires fed. There was also room to set up his targets. That first day I didn't see a sign of anything, but eventually hay bails showed up in force. I think he must have had them delivered in bulk by some unwary teamster expecting to find a small feed lot, rather than an old man living on his own with nothing but a few chickens.

He explained a few things to me immediately: the first was that he would not simply be teaching me to use a bow. That was something meant for soldiers and bowmen. He would be teaching me how to be an "Archer" - he stressed the word as if it carried some great significance, which I know it did.

From what he has told me he lived before the Scourge began. He speaks of the outside world in dreamy tones: tells me that some day, if I am fortunate, I will see the glory that is the real sun overhead. Spreading its light everywhere. He spoke of sunny meadows, and autumn trees. Of the smell of a true spring, and the feel of sun on the skin.

To be honest: I do not like the sound of this at all. I have never much cared for light, especially not bright light. I find the Shadows far more comforting - but I indulged an old man's fancy whenever he spoke of it. That is, after all, our world he is speaking of. Even if it is just a dream to me.


He insisted upon a few things. One was hard work, without question. I was not to question the pace, or the rigor of what we were to practice. Though the art itself was shrouded in mysticism, the physical aspects were necessary to open one's mind and touch in order to sense the patterns within all things. With too little strength, too much focus is spent upon the drawing of the bow, there is not enough renaming to feel and weave the threads. The art will fail. With too much strength, it becomes so easy to meet the physical challenge that one can ignore the complex, draining, and difficult art of weaving the threads. The art will fail. Success is to be found in the balance of all such things, and my practice and training were centered on achieving that balance.

He also demanded dedication. I would not learn the art part time. He took the training upon himself, I had not the money to pay for his time, and had I been forced I would have had only recourse to the meaner things to pay my way. My dedication was what I was to offer in exchange. I would meet his demands for hours of training and of practice.

Lastly, he demanded that I not be impatient. That I not reach for the bow itself. That I not move too soon, or too quickly. He taught how being an archer was less about the bow, and more a way of life and action. This was the most difficult lesson to understand, and the most difficult rule to follow. I will not claim to have always managed. I think anyone would feel impatient under these circumstances.



"The key to being an Archer, is to understand the concept of the 'Arc'. That is the trajectory that connects two things, or two concepts. The Arc is not always the most direct path between them, but it is always the shortest. Seeing and discovering the Arc is the Archer's goal, and the Archer's secret."

While I chopped wood, stood for hours on one foot while balancing pots on my arms, and sought the tiniest of objects hidden in the fields around the house, he also taught me to meditate on life's challenges. He encouraged me to open my mind's eye to the truth of everything before me, and to search for the Arcs connecting them.

Under his guidance I brought order to my life again. I was put on a schedule. I no longer had the time or interest to pursue the deviance that had become my life. I grew to recognize just what I had become, and how deeply I had fallen.

With time, he drew my attention to the most important objective of my training: to discover the goal which I am to seek in life.

"Without a goal, you cannot observe the Arcs of your own life. You cannot determine a method of pursuit, if you have not something to pursue."

"This is a great moment of personal meaning to all Archers. For some it is set in stone for life, or it is the thing for which they choose to die. Others live long enough to see theirs change. Their eyes follow the Arcs long enough to see their trajectory must be altered. Whatever yours will be: you must settle on a target in order to know your course."



I came to understand what he meant. Hard work cleared my mind. Meditation cleared my conscience. I could not push the nightmares away, but I could manage them through purpose. I dealt with them. My interest and pursuit of his training gave me something greater to reach for. I no longer merely existed; once more I lived for something.

With time, my focus came to me. Though I knew it from the moment of my birth, it meant a great deal to articulate it at last. Despite my best efforts I could not keep the Horror at bay with art. Beauty, no matter how much I once desired, was not mine to create. However, the torment I had been cursed with, also gifted me with sight. And that sight allowed pursuit: I would hunt the Horror. I would fight it. I would bring it down. One. Others. All that threatened this Kaer. And if my life allowed, even those beyond its walls. I might yet be a monster, but I would be one that hunted greater monsters.

"I am ready, Master." I announced, at the end of one of my meditations. "I see the objective clearly in my mind."

"I see..." he said, with that calm smile he managed only when greatly pleased. "You need not share what your heart seeks. But know now that you must find the Arc, connecting you and it and then you must follow it."

I nodded as he continued. "Only then you will achieve your purpose."

He took a deep breath and then stood upon the mat that lined the floor of his small hut. He walked to the wall with purposeful movement. He seemed to be enjoying himself, as if acting out a moment he had long imagined.

"Many possess the strength to draw a bow. Many too possess the grace to aim it. They may use it to hunt. They may use it for war. But few possess the vision to be an Archer. Few understand the Arc an arrow must follow."

He slid open part of the wall, revealing a closet. Within, hung an old-looking bow, and a collection of dusty arrows.

"Tomorrow." He announced, and then slid the door shut.




The old man was true to his word. That next day he taught me how to string, hold, and aim a bow. We worked out the fundamentals. We did target work, over days slowly pushing the targets out to greater range and challenge. He still refused to allow me to practice with the bow outside of training hours: practice remained meditation and exercise. Preparation for the art, rather than honing of technique and skill.

As I began to learn basic marksmanship and aim, be began to weave in the core concepts of the art itself. How the concept of the arc related to the shot.

"You must understand the patterns you observe. Your eyes are your source of power. You see. Then you understand. Then you connect."

He beat these concepts into me. I had been a fast student, at least I had thought up to this point. But on this, I struggled.

The lessons continued, often I thought fruitlessly. But where I flagged he encouraged. Where he became frustrated, I redoubled my commitment.

And at long last, the day came:

I stood before the target with bow drawn. I had attempted the same countless times before. I mentally repeated the old man's advice like a mantra: I relented my aim. I relaxed my grip. I focused my vision on the target. I focused my concentration on my vision. I attempted to deconstruct what I saw with my sense into a pattern. To weave a thread, mentally linking the arrow to the target. Weaving the two together along the arc connecting them, so that the arrow could not but fly to the target.

It came like a moment of inspiration. I know not how I knew, but I felt a power surge through me at felt the linking of the threads, their coming together. The Arc, just as he described, flashed before my eyes. My aim shifted with an effortless precision, I knew exactly where to aim. I loosed the shaft without thinking, and watched as the arrow struck the target dead-center.

I had done this before, but Averlan knew something was different this time. He must have seen it in my eyes. He jumped up from the hay bale he had been seated on and nearly shouted with excitement, "Again!"

I did as he asked. I pulled another arrow from the stand and knocked it to the bow. I drew back, leveling the shaft and took aim along it. This time the relaxation of my aim came more naturally. It was almost a casual effort to visualize the pattern of the arrow, and then than of the target. I felt the same surge of energy course through me, surging through my pattern as it guided my aim. As I loosed the second shaft it tore through the center of the first, splitting it with a loud crack.

"AGAIN!" the old main leapt in his excitement. His hands tensed into fists. I had never seen him so excited, or so stressed.

I drew the third shot, taking aim once more. This time I did not draw upon the target, but upon the second arrow still lodged within it. As it had been so close to me just a moment ago this almost felt easier, more natural: again I split the arrow as if it were the easiest and most natural thing I had ever done.

This time Averlane leapt and, I swear, wept with joy.

"That's it! That's it! You have done it! You are an ARCHER!"

Somewhere in the back of my mind come the deadening realization, "I could have been a Song Smith after all..." but now I walked a different path.



More lessons followed. He explained what it all meant: how my initiation meant that through his tutelage I had weaved a portion of the pattern that defines all archers, into that of myself. All of the effort we had been going through had been my blindly searching for the threads of that pattern, and then haphazardly dragging them into my own. By repeated focus and action I had slowly woven them together. He explained that as I worked to refine them I would reach a deeper understanding of the pattern, and what it would enable me to do.

Still, he insisted that I was not to carry. Not to have a bow. On this ground we argued. I threatened to simply buy one for myself. He could have threatened then and there to stop teaching me, but he did not. He had something greater in play, I think. A fear, a worry. He had finally found a student, and he did not want his effort to only unleash a terror upon the world.

Only then did I begin to fully understand the path:

"The bow is a dangerous thing in the hands of an Archer. A weapon craft for war and for killing. Finely crafted arrows almost call out for blood. Their patterns know their purpose, and seek it out. If you give into their temptation you can be lead down a path as destructive as any monster. As any horror."

I relented, but barely. I seethed at the idea that all of my effort and training still left me unable to live my new purpose. That he still failed to trust me. "What is the point of all of this then?!" I shouted, barely restrained.

He stood more quickly than a man of his age should, and glared with a ferocious look in his steel eyes. "The point?! I would think by now that you would understand!" But like any good archer he had one more shaft in his quiver.

He returned to the wall in which he stored my training bow, and with a sweeping motion brought down an angled pillar of wood that I thought had been holding up the hut. For a moment I prepared to cower under the collapsing house: the crashing sound was immense. But instead of the house crashing down, a large display case had opened up, it front door swinging down on a hinge. The wood work, in majestic warm golden hues, was vastly beyond the quality of anything in the neighborhood let alone the house. And held upon an ornate stand was a massive War Bow, intricately carved and devotedly cared for. Even my novice eyes instantly recognized it as a bow of surpassing quality.

"This..." he announced, breathing heavily as he struggled to becalm his own anger. "This, is my bow."

He took a moment to compose himself. Standing next to it in his rags, and with his thinning gray hair amidst the untidiness of his derelict home, the bow could not have stood out with a greater contrast.

"It is an ancient weapon. I know not how old." A wry smile drew across his cracked lips, "I knew it predates me by several generations. I have come to know some of my forebears, the latest of whom was my own master." He turned to admire the bow, immense sadness welling up in his expression. "But that is something for each bearer to learn for himself."

He took a deep, ragged breath as he tried to rally himself through the memories of those dear to him and long dead.

He drew his hands up, palms facing upward as if he were revealing a long hidden truth.

"This is what I am training you for."

He waited a moment to let the gravity of that sink in.

"This is what I saw in you. The purpose, I know, it sees in you. For even now your threads intertwine."

"But, if you would rather buy some hewn yew from the market, by all means..." he started with rising aggravation.

I interrupted with a swift bow of apology. My fore head touched the mat, my palms tried to push through it.

"I am sorry, Master!" I cried, shedding tears of my own.

Shame is an emotion I know well.



Later,

"When you have a quarry deserving of its attention, you shall know." He nodded, as we walked. "We shall know. The two of us, and I daresay, the bow itself."

I looked at him with some skepticism, "And what if we don't?"

He put on that big grin of his he likes to wear when he knows I am being foolish, "We will know. We will know."




[the bow is just a normal, unforged Elven War Bow with nice carving. It need not be a thread item, and the old man is just anthropomorphizing the most important thing in his life for a couple of hundred years (not surprising). It could also be a hook for a thread item. Whatever works.)

[Sveja]

On Becoming a Blood Guard

The change in my life began when I started to train with Averlane. I did not speak of my training to many, and I did not mention it at all to my family. I did not know what reaction they would have: they could well have been offended that I was spending so much time, let alone studying at the feet of a man most people seem to consider a kook. Even if they accepted that, they would probably put themselves at great pains to reward or pay him for his time. This would only have made the situation more awkward.

No, I studied in secret. I told them only that I had found work. I revealed a false job as a clerk, and they seemed to be happy enough that they did not wish to dispel the good news with investigation.

But the change in my life was obvious to them. I seemed to return to some modicum of normal. I was gone for many hour of the day, but I was keeping to a schedule and staying out of trouble.

My father had long campaigned to find a position for me in a service of some fashion. He entertained a misinformed view of his own importance and the esteem in which other people held him.

His efforts, not surprisingly, were mostly to no avail.

But, as one can imagine since this story is being told, he somehow struck success at last.

Perhaps, he thought, the Blood Guard was just the perfect place for me. The Horror-Survivor helping others face the Horror Thought. Perhaps it was the best he could do. Sometimes I wonder if they did not relent just as an easy means of getting rid of me.

Whatever the circumstances, I found myself appointed to the Blood Guard.

By now I was already well advanced in my studies with Averlane, but still without bow - long story.

Unbeknownst to him, or anyone else, I had also started my study of Nethermancy under Guide. This is another long story.

So, I was not exactly thrilled with the appointment. What I had learned about law enforcement during my roguish days did not exactly leave my expectations very high. Still, I knew, they might teach me something of value in the fight against Horrors. And that was, in the end, my goal. It was not the Arc I wished to follow. Bun even the greatest of Archers must adapt to circumstances, and I am merely a Novice without a bow.

I took the position. I trained. I do my best to give a little bit back to the community, while I hope for opportunities somewhere to join the battle against the Horror threat. I am sure, sometime, I will have the opportunity...


[While training in the Blood Guard, Brux was taught the rudiments of melee combat, in addition to strengthening his techniques for combating Horrors. He also bulked up through the hard physical training they required of him, and they equipped him with weapons and armor.

He has made some associates and friend in the Guard, but he is difficult for people to get used to given the general unnerving sensation that seems to surround him.]



On Becoming a Nethermancer

Having set upon the Path of an Archer, with a goal of combating Horrors, Brux began to consider what the "Arc" for that path would look like. Realizing that he barely understood the subject of his hunt, he realized that is where he must begin. He turned to the old tomes of his mother's hidden away in the family's basement. He studied many late nights. At some point he was approached by a ghostly apparition introducing itself as "Guide". Guide did not hide that it itself was a Horror entity, but tried to convince Brux that it was mostly there as a matter of curiosity. It wanted to observe what would happen if he studied the art of Nethermancy. It is interested in the thrill of the hunt, and would encourage it for its own ends... with less caution than it deserves Brux took the risk figuring that he was ill equipped to kill the Horror and would be able to better deal with it when the time came if he studied the creatures more deeply.

[Sveja]

Part Three: Horror Slayer

It did not occur how I expected it to. Just what did I expect? I had walked my way through the mental exercise so many times before. It is only natural, isn't it? To mentally prepare oneself for such dramatic moments. I had seen the hunt unfold before my eyes. I would carry the bow I had trained to bear. It would be a moment both deliberate and determined. I would focus my attention upon the beast, and I would strike it down with every fiber of my being. Years of torment released in a cathartic moment of vengeance; and one of victory. For me, for all of us.

The visualization was of even greater emphasis as this had become my life's goal. I had set myself upon this course under my Master's tutelage, with his guidance. And ff there were anything that being an Archer had taught me, it was that in order to achieve my goals I must first visualize them. They must be seen in order to be understood: so yes, I had imagined what it would be like to confront and do battle with a Horror. I had walked through the scenario again. And again. Always I was alone. Always I had the upper hand.



Having joined the Blood Guard was not exactly a side-track to this goal. We are tasked, among other more menial duties, with the protection of this Kaer from all Horror threats and influence. Beyond the physical training to prepare us for combat, mental and spiritual preparations for confrontation with a Horror are also stressed. Although my fellow trainees approached these efforts with varying levels of seriousness and commitment, I found the instructors to be earnest veterans of the struggle; warriors who knew what it was to face these nightmares in the real world.

"Although Horrors manifest with unpredictable, and powerful forms, their most dangerous threats are always those less obvious. Thrashing appendages, and glaring maws may cause terror and fear, but the assault upon the psyche are more perilous and threatening. None more so than the subtle manipulation that turns friend upon friend. Not only is it an effective tactic, but they seem to thrive on the act itself. You must always be on your guard for their influence."

The methods they taught were to help us close our minds to this pernicious influence. To build up walls of mental strength and fortitude. And how to channel our resistance into the struggle for control. They tried to prepare us for what might confront us.

I felt prepared. I did. Prepared for that moment when my goal would become reality. When I would stand face-to-face with the nightmare, and banish it from this world.

How wrong I was.




Of course, it would have been impossible to predict the exact circumstances of my first encounter with a Horror as a Blood Guard. But that the Brothers Madeara would be involved should come as no surprise, I suppose.

You know of them, I presume? The sons of the Elf Councilor. Children of privilege, of course. And they show the arrogance and pretense of their class. I have known them since my school days - 'known' is perhaps too strong a term. I have known of them. I doubt they remember me all that well.

The eldest is Mes'llayah, mostly known as 'Mes and I have always found him equal parts mysterious and distant. I understand him to have an excellent sword arm, but I always found him to be more of an intellectual. Scholarly, and prone to an over-weaning manner of speech both informative and trying. When you meet him you tend to think of a professor plumbing the depths of some obscure topic in greater detail than you could ever hope to comprehend. I would imagine he applies this intellect to the martial arts just as well, if the stories are true.

Malinous is the brother whom I feel have known the best. Rather more steady than either of his brothers, he possesses a keen eye and the patience of a true craftsman. I find myself wishing that our paths had better aligned when we found ourselves as peers. I have a suspicion we might have been friends. But such are the vicissitudes of life and missed opportunity.

The youngest, Mawaris, is something of a trouble-maker. Known more for his jeering insults and practical jokes than for his scholarship. It always seemed that if anyone needed cutting down, Mawaris was there to do the job. The haughty and vainglorious both wilted before his rapier wit. From what I understand, he has taken the rapier aspect to heart and is now one of the Kaer's up and coming swordsmen. Yet, if the rumors are true he has also not abandoned the joker's path: mastering illusions and putting them to work for his games. Some amount of his arrogance seems justified - I count myself fortunate to have not yet been the target of his mockery.

Among the children of their class I do not think you could ask for much better. Hubris and a sense of superiority have always seemed the rule rather than an option, and at least in their case it is softened with a genuine sense of duty and the talent and energy to contribute to society rather than simply benefit from their position. I have never really doubted them, or had much reason to suspect their intentions. Even Mawaris.



Despite that, their reputation among some circles is not so sterling. The Blood Guard in particular seems to take a dim view of their exploits. I have often wondered how much of this is due to the political conflicts involving their father, Councilor Madeara, and the Verdant family. Most of the Guardsman are more than happy to play along, all the better for their careers after all. So they are more than ready to believe any ill of the brothers passed along as hearsay, rather than coming to a conclusion as the result of careful analysis or study. I give this little credence.

So, when I first encountered the brothers that mid-day, I expected their may be trouble: but not from them.

Vranoff, my recently assigned partner, and I were tasked with arresting the known lay-about Aelthor. A consumer and part-time trafficker in illicit goods, this would not be his first run-in with the law.

The brothers had already apprehended him, it seemed. I say 'seemed' because what we found were two Mawarises. Given his reputation I wouldn't exactly call it surprising - but the trickster's trick was improbably convincing. Vranoff, in his usual manner, seemed entirely put-off by it. I found it rather easier to tell the real from the false - probably because the real Mawaris is dynamic and incapable of missing an opportunity for mockery. Not to mention, they were defending themselves against a group of assassins when we rounded the corner (sorry I missed that detail, it does not seem out of the ordinary for them). One Mawaris handled a sword with preternatural ease. The other... eh, did not.

Either way, I failed to convince Vranoff that we should go to their aid, and it did not turn out to be necessary. They handled the threat with ease and aplomb. There was still the matter of arresting Aelthor, but truly my heart was not in our efforts at extradition; still shirking direct orders is made much more difficult without at least a tacit effort to fulfill them. The brothers were kind enough to let me attend their questioning of Aelthor, while Vranoff went to report the presence of assassins in the city.

While we were questioning Aelthor, the most sensible of the brothers, Mal, suddenly glared at the prisoner with a look of anger. This was a notable shift from his calm and reasoned attitude mere moments before, "Its all your fault!" he shouted aggressively, drawing his weapon. There was just a moment before he swung away, and I expected the brothers to fall in with him and murder the poor fellow. To my great surprise they actually leapt to Aelthor's defense. Selfless of them, I think. Or perhaps just a recognition of his value.

While Mes and Mawaris attempted to contain their brother sudden and unexpected violent outburst, the whole block began to spring into chaos. Citizens shouted in fright, while others seemed to erupt into more outbursts like Mal. I had not yet realized it - but I had just encountered a Horror.

Squirm

I should have recognized the signs sooner, but I had been distracted by the confusion. As I now observed the unfolding chaos, my vision provided the truth my heart had resisted: I could see the astral tendrils descending a flight of stairs. It was as the worst we could expect: life-long fear realized. In that moment I found that I did not hesitate. Despite what would have been more prudent council, I dismissed all thought and allowed instinct to take over - I dashed up the stairs as fast as my feet would carry me.

On the roof I found it: a writhing mass of indescribable flesh, like a ball of roiling tentacles. No mouth, no eyes. No discernible features at all beyond the tentacles. It was horrible, as horrible a thing as one can imagine. Made all the worse for the dual-nature of the tentacles, whipping about physically even as they snaked through the neighborhood latching on to victims and driving them to do its bidding. It was responsible for the violence and mayhem now embracing the street. Responsible for the fratricidal conflict below, and for who knew how much worse occurring in the homes around the building.

This was not, like I said, how I had imagined it. I had thought to track, and to hunt. To fall upon a Horror before it could strike. Yet, in truth, I was the one surprised. Caught blind and dumb like a mewling fox confronted by a pack of hounds.

Still, I remembered my purpose, and drew resolve from that sense of vengeance that gnaws away at me: I reached for my sword, my fingers clasp the hilt.

That is when it hit me. Like a flash of lightning in the darkness. I felt that part of me, that piece: the scar, the chip, that the hungering maw of Horror left me with when I first drew breath. It burned, and I felt it move. While I tried to put into practice the mind-clearing techniques the Guard had taught, I could feel my defenses being subverted from within, the wall I was building was being undermined. A gap was opened and it was enough. I could feel the tendrils reaching straight through and grasping at my inner being.

I could compare it with hypnosis, but I do not think that is quite right. For several long moments I simple ceased to be, at least in any meaningful sense. All I could feel was an intense and overwhelming calm. I could not move. I did not want to move. If anything, it seemed pleasant to allow the thing to wriggle its way in and take control.

But resistance is born in defiance and somewhere an internal voice cried out that this was a nightmare. Like the ones before that woke me in cold sweats in the middle of the night. Like those that descended upon me in broad daylight with debilitating clarity. I had felt this before. I had seen this before. Every nightmare has an ending: I had fought them then, and I could fight it now.

I do not know how long it took, you would have to ask the brothers. All I can remember are my fingers finally closing around the hilt of my sword. As I drew it out I realized that the thing had not only dug its mental tendrils into my mind, but had wrapped me in all-too physical ones. I lashed out in a mad effort to break free both mentally and physically. I shouted, uselessly, as I sliced tentacle after tentacle as it tried to keep me bound, and pummeled away with staggering force.

Meanwhile, Mal too had broken free of its control. And together the brothers went on the offensive, cornering the thing and assaulting it from every direction. Maw watched their back, and did his best to keep the enthralled civilians safe while his brothers fought the horror itself, amidst my struggle simply to break free.

...

They might not understand it, but I cannot describe the fullness of my pride in that moment. They were not friends, at least not yet. But they were my fellows: classmates, Kaer mates. Together we not only stood firm against this invader from another realm - we drove it back. I would like to say I contributed my share, but all I could manage was to keep it from overwhelming me. The defeat of the beast is to their credit. The three of them fought like demons in the defense of our city, and I am thankful to have seen it with my own eyes full of clarity: beneath the assault of Mes's precise blade the thing seemed to exhale a final terrible breath, its physical form slumping and expired.

But I already knew that Horrors possess a dual-nature existing on both our plane, and again on the Astral plane. Defeating the physical form was but one half the battle.

Here, the curse again became a blessing. My sight followed the thing's escaping astral form. It moved quickly, but not quickly enough. I followed as best I could, racing along the roof top. I did not want to let it escape, and in that moment- at last - I became the hunter I was born to be.

My eyes sought out the Arc in that moment. The path between myself, and my quarry. The most direct route to its death and demise. Master would be proud: in the heat of the moment I put into practice everything he had taught me, even if he would not have recognized the weapon I choose.

I knew that a physical weapon would be of no avail, not against this form. But like any good Archer, I had another arrow in my quiver. An alternative it could not so easily escape. This was a weapon formed of spiritual energy, drawn from the latent energy of the spirits who resided in the area. I began to weave the magic I had practiced only in the isolation of my study. I drew the energy to my hand, encouraging the latent spirits to give up a touch of their power for my need. Their misty emanations swirled around my hand as the the pattern held within my most accomplished matrix came to life.

Meanwhile I continued the pursuit, leaping across the alley below to close the distance between us. My eyes strained to plot its course. Following its every movement. It was not an arrow, but the concept would be the same. I sought out the patterns, weaving a thread that would link the two. I felt the surge of karmic energy rush through the pattern enhancing my sight.

The mist hand formed the goal of my manipulations. A shaft-like spear of spectral nature, barely visible its existence was linked to the astral plane, like-against-like. A weapon that could damage, no, destroy the last vestige of the beast.

I drew the spear back as I reached the far edge of that next roof, an in that instant I felt the patterns connect. The same scar that gave it access to my mind, now gave my eyes access to it. I cannot explain it any better than that: I knew at that instant the strike would land true.

It was not quite the weapon Averlane had imagined I would use: but the truth of the lessons, and their application to the situation could not have been more clear. I unleashed the spear with all the energy I could muster. The spear struck true. It cut through the Horror's foul form, destroying it entirely in a shower of astral energy unlike anything I have ever seen before.

...

It was done.

I - we had done it.

Nothing could be the same again.

[Sveja]

Walker in Shadow - Part 1

Knowledge guides us
Shields us, leads us,
And in the darkness binds us.
Through it, we find our purpose.
-Commentary in the d'Anathen Grimoire

What can I say? Averlane is a fine teacher. A better teacher than I am a student. Since he had taken me on a great many things had changed. At times I could not recognize myself - though shadows cling with long fingers to those who know them best. There was to be no exception in my case. And, as we shall see, playing dangerous games just seems to run in the family...

Under the tutelage of my Master I had resolved myself upon a few facts. None of these were new, but all required a certain clarity of mind and experience of failure to admit. The first is that I was not, and would never have the opportunity of a quiet life. This had been my dream once: to channel my energies into art and creativity. To submerse myself amidst beauty, and thus escape the darkness that lurks in the back of my mind. But there was no escape, the only path open to me is to embrace who I am rather than pretend I may be someone else.

And, if I am to be a monster, I would rather be one that pursues even greater monsters than myself. Left alone in the darkness with no aims to pursue I already saw what would become of me. Instead, I steeled myself to pursue that which had tarnished my life, consumed my mother, and even now devoured our world outside the protective walls of the Kaer. I possessed unique opportunity, and unique ability to pursue and destroy these demons: Horrors would be my quarry. In here, and out there.

Having committed myself to this resolution, it was left to me to put Averlane's training and philosophy into action. I long searched for the 'Arc' that would take me from where I stood to that hunt. While meditating and considering the questions before me I came to realize just how little I truly knew about my quarry. Its true, I had something of an intuition about the Horrors - something I would dare wish upon even the worst of enemies - but about them, other than story and rumor passed among the folk of the Kaer, I could say nothing. This, of course, is a common ignorance. True of the vast majority of Namegivers, and perhaps all who are reasonable and sane. But, then again, these Namegivers do not seek to hunt out and destroy the Horrors as I do. As I shall.

In the darkness then - I delved into the question with my mind's eye. I contemplated how and through whom I could uncover such knowledge, and set myself on the path to my goal. In the back of my mind I already knew what that course would look like, though I resisted it strenuously. I knew it was a curiosity, a morbid curiosity, pulling me in that direction. It gnawed at my conscience proposing a host of questions better left unanswered for everyone's sake. But I also knew it was the most straight forward option at hand - at least for exploration.

Given my reputation it seemed unlikely that any of the recognized Nethermancers in this Kaer would consider me as a student. Even expressing an interest in the art could well find me in trouble, especially given my new found employment with the Blood Guard. To sacrifice that position in the pursuit of knowledge of Horrors would not only betray my father once more, but could well result in punishment more severe than my other crimes. I walked through the scenarios and options, but I knew in the end what had to be done.



Breaking into my father's basement was no mean feat. I count myself fortunate that the passage of the years has worn away his alertness. I picked an evening when I knew he would be asleep - for he is known, on rare occasion, to visit the basement and reflect on the nature of his loss - though these occasions are rare. I had attempted the locks before and found them challenging. No less so because I know the old butler likes to walk the house in the dark hours: just making sure that everything is alright. He is a good man, and that is the trouble.

The old door was secured by three locks, one standard dead bolt style then two added for extra security by my father. I had recently acquired an improved set of tools than those I'd had for my last attempt. A greater variety of picks were at my disposal, with variations in length, angle, and thickness in addition to a broader collection of pick types. That meant I had more opportunity to match the specific variations within the locks. The tension wrenches were a nice touch too.

I started at the bottom, with one of the additional locks, the simplest of the three. I made short work of it, which I considered a good omen considering this particular lock had foiled me in the past. To reach the second lock with enough room to maneuver I had to employ a folding stool. I had used the same one before; of clever hinged design it was stable enough to work from but easy to carry in my pack. I worked without candle-light, knowing that would alert anyone patrolling the house.

As it were, I was interrupted only once. It was a damnable thing too, as I'd almost finished the top lock. I was making minor adjustments to the final pick, with the other tumblers already dealt with, when I heard the footsteps a couple of rooms down the hallway. I made a bit of a botched job pulling those picks out in a hurry, and damn near broke the end off of one. There was some damage I'd have reason later to regret. I grabbed my stool and flattened myself into the nearest shadow roomy enough to hold me.

The old butler heard something, I am sure, because he stopped and then turned to-and-fro with his lantern. I could see his nervousness. Maybe he thought it were a ghost: I know the spirits are thick in that house. Within a few moments he had turned back and left the hallway un-watched. I said my silent prayers and returned to the effort. It wasn't so hard to work that second lock this time, though it took a fair bit of time to return to where I was. I managed to get it open before turning my attention to the main deadbolt. This one proved to be the most challenging, but without any interference it was only a matter of time.

Still, by now, I was already growing worried about just that: the time. I pushed the door very slightly open, just enough to be able to snake my oil dispenser in through the crack to offer a little encouragement to the old hinges to keep silent. I gave it a few minutes to really soak in, and then opened the door just far enough to slip myself through. The old trick did the job, and the door didn't offer a creak loud enough to wake a mouse - or a ghost.

Descending the stairs I felt as though I were walking into the past. I flicked on my small directional lantern to get a better view. I had been down here before, with my father, he always brought me down here on my birthday. As if being reminded of my absent mother would lift my spirits.

There was still a large desk in the center of the room, which is where he would sit when he was there, surrounded by a collection of things that most intimately reminded him of her. Past gifts, jewelry, and that sort of thing. I paused for a moment - I had girded myself for this but it was never enough. The damn portrait is really what did it. Always did it. I could not help myself, and the moment I gazed into those painted eyes... nothing more than pigment: dyes and solids raised into the specter of living, breathing form. That's all they are - but I could never, ever help myself. They draw me in, and when I look upon them I feel the gaze of my mother look back to me. Lovingly? Maybe. She is so unknown to me I can scarcely imagine what I am supposed to feel. It's impossible to describe the combination of anxieties it arouses. Nor am I sure just how long I stared, caught defenseless in the clutch of sentiment beyond my ken.

When it finally snapped I cursed myself for my insobriety. I had known better - just how much time had I wasted? I knew where I was headed: I stalked across the stone floored chamber as quickly as I could manage in quiet, over towards the collection of bookshelves. The largest stood mostly empty today, the tomes sold off to cover the family debts. But it was a smaller collection that was my target. Tucked away and hard to see from the main area of the chamber I knew it held the tomes of my interest. Those that related to spirits and Nethermancy. The taboo, if not prescribed, matters that seemed to draw my mother's attention back then, as they did mine now.

There were several books in particular that I had in mind. I had laid my eyes upon all of them in the past, when my father had me down here and was otherwise distracted. I was reprimanded on each occasion. At the time I was simply trying to better understand my mother. Now, I had a deeper purpose in mind. Each book bore what I believe to be her handwriting: either as the main subject, or as copious notes in the margins and other available spaces. The three times easily fit into the pack I had prepared - and the doubles I had purchased found their home on the shelf. They would not fool a discerning eye in detail, but from a distance even father would not be the wiser that his wife's tomes were gone.

I sealed my pack, and I hurried again to mount the stairs.

So far. So good.


I gave the hinges another good spritz of lubricant from the better vantage point on this side of the door, and again I opened it with near silence. As I slipped out I found, to my horror, that light was already creeping full into the windows of the manor. I had spent far too much time in the basement. I knew the next part of my plan, to re-lock the door, was better abandoned. But I still needed to find a way out without being caught. Although it would not be unusual to see me at the house at such a strange hour, it would be suspicious to be carrying away a bag of this size.

I, ah, well, father might not be as suspicious, but the servants had good reason to be and I knew it.

I slipped into the nearest entryway. Fortunately, not far away. But I already heard the sound of people moving about the house. To my terror I could already hear someone coming my way. Quickly I stashed my pack, with the tomes, in a bench-chest in the entry way before sitting removing my work boots as if this had been my plan all along.

"Ah! Master Bruximus, I did not know we were expecting you for breakfast..!" she said as I pulled off the first of my boots. "I did not hear you come in!"

I offered the best friendly smile I could, "I just thought I would stop in and see father today..."

As it turned out I did not find a good opportunity to retrieve my pack that day. Recovery had to be put off for another night, much to my detriment.



It turned out by the time I was able to return the next evening and attempt a clandestine recovery of the tomes, that I found by pack gone from the chest. This was a headache on multiple levels: my picks and kit had been in there as well as the tomes. Given the circumstances my options were limited. There were only three options for who had uncovered my pack: my father, the servants, or a guest. Given how few guests visit, I eliminated that option as being likely. If it had been my father - or if it were found by a servant and returned to my father - I would no doubt hear of it in short order, and father would have visited the basement to return them to their proper place.

I thought the most prudent course of action was to investigate the basement door, which I found still unlocked from my nocturnal enterprise. The pack most certainly had not made its way back to father, not yet. From there I saw little to do but wait to see if my father confronted me with the purloin of mother's tomes. Meanwhile I could set about discovering what might have happened if a servant had uncovered the tomes and not returned them to father.

The later did not take long to think through as I walked home. I fought to keep my frustration in check, as Averlane had long counseled me. In most matters anger was a disadvantage. If I were to take note of the most important elements of my situation, and then identify the various arcs defining the predicament and solutions to it, I would have to maintain a balanced calm. This I did to the best of my abilities, while a ball of anxiety wound its way through my gut. I could not help myself as I considered the myriad of ways this could go from bad to worse.

As it turned out, there was only one really plausible solution to the puzzle. Of the small number of servants my father maintained, only one seemed to be in a situation that would lend itself to profiting from the tomes rather than returning them. Aside from her the benefit of returning them, in terms of increased trust and reduced risk, would have been preferable to the small profit that would be offered by selling them. But Jassin was young, new to our family, and a mother at that. She had much to gain by any small increase in her coin. And I could not fault her for it.

That she had stumbled upon and them became my working assumption - and if it were incorrect I would find out through a lecture from my father. I would deal with those repercussions when, and if necessary. Following up on the theory I began to think about the local fences with whom I was most familiar. There are really not that many options, and most are only known, or reachable, to those in the business of acquiring goods through illegal means. Jassin, whatever faults she might have, did not count that among them.

I quickly cut the most likely options down to three who were known to operate legitimate store-fronts as cover for their illegal operations. I preferred not to ask any of my contacts about the matter, I already had a feeling things might not turn out well given my perennial shortage of coin and the fact that the tomes are clearly identified with my family crest. If things did turn ill I would have to manufacture one hell of an alibi to skate by. Better to work alone, and in silence. That meant I would have to just take my chances on the fences and hope for the best. If I believed in luck this would have been a time to ask for it.

[Sveja]

Walker in Shadow - Part 2



The shadows serve my will,
While darkness deceives thee.
The light covets that which hides
But it shall not find me.
-Thieves' Verse

I had been here before, and I thought it the most likely place to find my tomes. Stamwicks' was not only well known as a pawn shop, but its purveyor had a well known reputation for being more than happy to deal in illegal goods. That he was the nearest such merchant to the manor made it seem all the likelier that Jassin would have come here first. That was the good news, I suppose. The bad was that Stamicks and I had never gotten along. I am not sure just where things had turned sour, but it probably had something to do with the ill regard with which I held him. Though the rumors of his illegitimate business were well known, they revealed little of the vastly more sinister stories that ran among my old circles. This was a man above nothing to shave a few coins from a deal, even when it involved violence or murder. I knew he would be a difficult to deal with. Fortunately, I usually found his type rather easy to read.

In the old days I would have prepared myself with a stiff drink. But I know better now. Instead, I used what Master Averlane has taught me. I sat in meditation, contemplating the course before me. The paths I might walk, and the difficulties I knew I would encounter. The most frustrating aspect of the experience was simply how much was unknown. But the more I considered it, the more I realized how weak my position was. I had not the coin to make a reasonable offer to repurchase the purloined goods. I also could not hope to overcome the man and all his bodyguard, if it came to it. The more I considered, the more I realized the best I could make of the situation was to try to learn if he had purchased my pack and its contents, or not. At least if I learned that much I would be in a better position to act. If not - well, I still had two more fences to go.

Despite the shift in my plans to being one of reconnaissance, I also knew there would be serious risk. If Stamwicks felt threatened, he would not be above dealing with the threat before it became more serious. And from what I had heard, one did not want to run afoul of this man's animosity. I was already starting on my back foot, knowing he did not trust me. Things could go from bad to worse in a hurry - as they seemed to be doing a lot lately.



I donned my usual clothes for working the shadows and alleys - I thank the Passions I had so little cause to lately. Even my Blood Guard uniform was getting more service. I never dressed this way for Averlane, he would not approve. Especially since it would remind him of what I was like when we first met: little better than a thug ready to rob him of his groceries.

They served my purpose here though. I sheathed my short sword, and hid a dagger at my wrist. My long sleeves would cover it. This was an old trick I'd been taught by a friend - I'd say a mentor, but what he taught me did not improve my lot in life. Merely made me better at living poorly. Still, this was one lesson I'd not forgotten. I pulled my cloak over my shoulders and head, and hit the streets in the late afternoon.

I figured it better to visit Stamwicks at the end of his working day. Late enough he'd be unlikely to be attending to any legitimate customers, but early enough he'd not be expecting the sort of trouble I represent. It was a brief enough walk, though further from my flat than from the manor. I knocked twice on the door frame before pushing my way inside. The jingles on the door would announce my entry, regardless, but it was customary for those of my trade to knock first. It gave the purveyor a bit of warning, and I was not in the mood to make him jumpy.

From his counter near the center of the store the fat human offered me his customary warm grin, making fast with his insincerity, "Ah, how delightful. How long has it been, Brux? Have you finally returned to do business? Our poor shop has suffered without your patronage of late."

I offered my own insincerity with a smile in return, taking a quick look around the shop, taking in every detail I could. On this, Averlane had already taught me well. My eyes were sharper, more focused than they had been in the past. I took a quick catalog of the items on display, and those waiting in disordered storage around the shop. I saw no sign of my pack or its contents, not that I had expected to. I did note one of Stamwicks' men was visible in the shop, but just one. I recognized him as Bren, not unknown to me.

I did not see any others. I counted this as good news. I may have caught him just in time. He would not dare anything too suspicious while I was watching him, not yet at least. To keep the pressure on, and stay his hand from summoning others, I strode quickly to the counter, while allowing Bren to stand to my back. That was a calculated risk, I understood, but Stamwicks would see the same. It might put him at ease. I held my sword-arm casually, resting my left forearm on the hilt of the sword, so as to offer him little immediate threat.

"Something like that..." I greeted him, offering up that smile.

"Ah, wonderful, wonderful. I hope the family is well.. ah.." he closed his fingers together. Small talk was not as weak a point with him as with me, but we both knew it was a waste of time. I was pleased he stopped so short.

"To what do we owe your visit?" He tilted his head, his smile fading somewhat as his suspicious eyes looked through me.

"Ah!" I smiled, slipping into a more casual manner as best I could manage, "Well, that is a simple thing. I have just found some of my belongings missing, and I thought they may have been, ah, misplaced your way."

No doubt he already guessed that might be cause for my visit, his expression showed a practiced nonchalance. He spread his arms and offered a look of ignorance, "I'm afraid Master Brux that I have no idea of what you speak! I am an honest merchant, as you know." He gestured rather generously toward himself, a grotesque display altogether.

I knew it was possible that he was telling the truth. But the added effort at deception only increased my suspicion. I was also watching carefully. Something in that moment put me on edge. It was as if I could hear a warning whisper in the back of my mind - the hair on my neck started to stand.

I struggled to contain my pulse as my anxiety grew, and I decided it best to be careful: I felt the surge of energy rush through my pattern, intensifying my perception as I practiced what Averlane had taught me. I quickly caught sight of the smallest of gestures Stamwicks made with his arm and shoulder. It could have been a tick, or simply a mindless motion by someone caught in an uncomfortable conversation. But it was repeated, twice in close succession. I guessed it was a signal to Bren.

Like I said, I knew Bren, at least I had met him before. We ran in similar circles, of course. I had just worked freelance while he had settled in as a regular for one employer. He was not a bad sort, by the usual measure. I knew he wouldn't want to kill me, but that he would if the job required it. Regrets aren't something that we much worried about, and in this circle of work that is just the way things are. I cannot say that I viewed things any differently.

Though Stamwicks may have noticed my agitation, I did my best to play it off. I sighed, and turned my head away as I kept my eyes upon him. "Of course you don't..."

He nodded as he straightened himself. He seemed to be buying time. "I am pleased you understand... is there anything else I can help you with?" He asked, a disgusting smile creeping over his deceptive lips.

My voice returned with more vigor as I decided to take a stab at the truth, "I do understand your frustration: the Tomes were marked with my family seal. And it is notoriously difficult to remove isn't it?"

I seemed to hit the right note that time. I could see the temper flare behind his eyes. Obviously he had indeed had made some effort on the seals, and I'd found just the right frustration to work with.



It happened that at the same moment I heard that whisper of warning return, as if someone were in my ear: "They will kill you..." it seemed to say.

My eyes were drawn to a mirror placed up for sale. It happened, just at that moment, to catch a flash of steel from Bren's blade. He had silently stepped behind me, and was already in the act of drawing his weapon.

I had no time to consider my course, and I won't say I gave it much thought. In that moment there seemed only one viable option: as Bren was about to get the jump on me I had to turn the tables first. I cannot tell you exactly what he was intending, but knowing Stamwicks, if I had offered any hesitation I would not be here for this telling. Given the last-moment of warning, I reacted as quickly as I could. I spun to my left and drove my foot into the side of the man's knee with all the force I could manage. He crumpled with a shout of pain. This bought me enough time to draw my sword.

"They will... kill..." I heard again, this time more real than before.

My blade was upon him before he could even regain his balance, I knew not how many guards Stamwicks might summon and I could not take my chances. While Bren was off-balance I took his life. It was a more simple affair than many imagine. I suspect he would have done the same to me if I had not acted as quickly as I did, but I will never know. It was not the first time I had killed. But this was different, and I knew it. It might have been avoided, especially if Stamwicks were not so cut-throat himself.

I quickly stood and advanced on the man behind the counter. I leapt over it with my blade still drawn in my right hand. I tried my best to obscure my left as I drew out my concealed dagger.

Stamwix, fat bastard he was, had backpedaled toward the steps behind his counter. They lead upstairs into his chambers where more of his goons could already be waiting. He had drawn his own sword and his left hand was fiddling with a small charm. That worried me more than anything: he was preparing for something and whatever it was it would not be good for me. What form of curse it might be I did not want to consider, or, I worried, he could simply have been calling for his guards.

"You... you! You would not dare, I know you!" he stammered, his face contorting with strange colors as he turned simultaneously terrified and furious as he realized he was finally going to get what he had long deserved.

As I swung my sword he deflected the blow, but that created the opportunity I was looking for. I drove my hidden dagger into him. He let out a muffled cry and collapsed upon the stairs, coughing up blood. I sheathed my dagger and turned to the rest of the shop. It was quiet now, except for the death rattles of Stamwicks and the sound of my beating heart. I began to search for my pack which I thought must be somewhere in all of the merchandise scattered throughout the store.

My mind was already distracted, and I could feel the blood pounding in my ears. So much for calm and balance. I had not heard any guards rushing down the stairs, but I knew my time was limited. It seemed to take forever as I searched, and I began to doubt that I would even find it here. It did not help that I was quickly being overcome by doubt and second-guessing. This could all have been a terrible mistake, and one I was completely unable to undo. Stamwicks was an evil bastard, at least that was how the stories painted him. And he had most likely been trying to kill me mere moments before: but what if the charm had simply been a keepsake, a good luck device? And damnit, Bren... of all the people why couldn't we have just worked this out?

I had killed before, like I said. But this had been different. I could have run. I might even have tried to disarm Bren, or used threats rather than force. I would turn this over in my mind again and again. But the deed had been done - I acted out of the haste of all-too-present danger, and I followed what I thought was the most sure and direct route to my own safety. Was that truly the Arc Averlane would have seen? I struggled when I thought what he would say.

Then I heard that whispering voice again, "Here..."

I had started to wonder if this were the beginnings of madness. But I knew I heard it this time, it seemed to come from the shadows rather than inside my own head.

"Here..." it repeated.

I turned toward the sound and drawing back a table cloth I found a small box under a table. Dumping it out onto the floor I found my black leather pack, and the three tomes came tumbling out. They showed obvious signs of abuse where someone had tried to remove the seal that was magically affixed to their rear covers. I had been right, in the end.



I quickly returned the books to my pack, and dragging it along behind me I exited the door through which I had entered. My heart still pounded in my ears.

If things were not bad enough, and they truly were, I heard the sound of approaching armored boot steps. It was even worse than Stamwicks' goons, from the blowing whistles it was clearly the Constabulary force. If I were caught now...

"Well done, child..." came the voice once more from the shadows.

I turned and retreated into the shadow of the alley from whence the voice had come, but I quickly found the way blocked by a solid brick wall. Why hadn't I planned this better? It was just meant to be reconnaissance..

"You have done very well... a brief, if thrilling hunt."

I gritted my teeth, and finally addressed the voice directly, "Who are you!" I whispered in as loud a voice I dared.

"You may come to know. But first, I think, you may want help escaping?"

The guards were coming in a hurry, it would be moments before at least one turned down this alley and I had nowhere to run.

"I can help." Offered the voice.

"Fine!" I cursed myself for almost shouting, then lowered my voice immediately, "Just... just get me out of here."

I heard what I thought was a touch of laughter, but immediately I could see the shape of the shadows move and grow. While they shifted and pulled in my direction, drawing over the wall and embracing me, they also extended and moved further along the wall of the alley than their natural course would allow. I began to creep my way along them, keeping to the growing form of the shadow just as it seemed to cling to me.

I saw the youthful face of a Constable come around the corner from the main street just in time to hear the shout of alarm go up, "Murder! Bloody Murder!" shouted the voice of another guardsman. "Quick, seal the buildings, seal the alleys, search everywhere, he cannot have gone far!"

My heart was in my throat. The guardsman was not but feet away. I pressed myself against the brick wall as if I desired to push myself right through it. He looked this way, and that way. For a moment he seemed to look straight at me, but he showed no sign of having spotted me. A moment later he was walking down the alley from whence I had come, and I began to move again and make my escape.

Shrouded in shadow I had little trouble avoiding the remaining guardsmen, and within a few minutes I was outside that area of town. I shifted from a creeping pace to a full out run as I sought out a quiet, dark place where I could confront the shadowy voice, whatever it may be. The shadows clung to me the whole way, and I knew there was no escaping it. I nearly crashed through the door of the abandoned building I had used as a hiding place before. It had a basement, rarely used, in a quiet and abandoned part of town - not far from Averlane's.

There I threw my pack on the ground, and turned to confront the disembodied voice of shadow, "Show yourself!" I shouted, no longer fearing who might overhear.

[Sveja]

Walker in Shadow - Part 3



There are those to whom knowledge is a shield,
And others to whom it is a weapon.
Neither view is balanced, but one is less wise.
-Averlane's Teachings

There was no response to my shout in that abandoned cellar where I had thrown my pack down onto the floor. Indeed, the silence that followed was as eerie as it was unnerving. The overwhelming sense I had was one of danger. The hair on the back of my neck still stood on end, and I could feel warning bells ringing throughout my head. It seemed the best course of action was to run, but I stood steadfast and refused to give up what had been earned at such steep cost. I looked around, not repeating the shout but instead taking note of what I could in the silence that followed. There was little in this room, some musty old abandoned furniture, layers of accumulated dust regularly disturbed but never removed. And my black-canvas and leather pack which I had tossed away in such haphazard haste.

I returned my attention to the pack, picking it up again and carrying it to and table near the wall. I drew out a candle from my pocket and struck a match to give myself a little more light to work with. I opened my pack: slow and purposefully. I unlocked each buckle separately, and slid back to the covering flap while watching the slowly revealed contents with alert eyes. I could almost feel the warmth in the area slowly drain as I exposed the tomes to the air.

There I hesitated: paused and considered my course. I could still abandon these tomes, and with them all knowledge that may lay inside. Knowledge that had once been known to my mother - presumably, or someone in my family. It would also mean surrendering my goal - and abandoning the first major arc I had elected to follow in the course of my life (however disastrous it may prove). I was not prepared to risk such failure over nebulous and incoherent fears. There was simply too much at stake.

I drew the tomes out, one at a time. The first two, which had been book-ending the one in the center, appeared to be dusty well-used manuscripts. I opened each one a few pages in, and flipped through them as I felt the texture of the old parchment against my fingers, and the smell of old-book competing with the musty basement air. Both were filled with copious and intricate notes that neatly filled the margins.

I was taken aback by the third tome: the only one remaining in my pack. That sense of chill - of warmth being drawn out of the air - remained, while it was the only one of the books left in the pack. It looked dark, if not pitch-black from my vantage point. I took a deep breath and held it in as I drew the tome out into the candle light - as if holding my breath would spare me a few moments of whatever cataclysm the book might unleash. That sense of cold greeted my fingers when I first touched the book, but the sensation almost immediately faded.

I found myself gazing at the locked cover of a leather-bound Grimoire. The leather was black, with a somewhat scaled look. I could not recognize what hide and treatment might have resulted in this texture, but it had a sense of the exotic and exorbitant about it. In the candle light I could not quite make out the details of the design worked into the leather, but I would later come to realize that it represents the almost imperceptible form of two double-headed serpents intertwining their way across the cover, front and back.

The tome was secured by a robust metal lock of silverish hue. It had only mildly tarnished in the intervening years, and I suspected it may be a mythril alloy or at least a very high grade of steel. Atop the locking mechanism itself was a simple sliding button. No key-hole, or other obvious means of opening or securing the book. That said, staring at it, I had the strangest feeling of certainty that the book itself had lain unopened for these past twenty years.

Handling the tome as if it were a valued artifact, I carefully turned it over. On the back I found the family's seal still firmly affixed with the means of an enchanted press that has long been in the family. It - generally - discouraged thieves.

Turning it back to look at the front cover I examined the mechanism once more, curious if it would open. I tried, first, to open it without touching the mechanism, and I found the book quite securely sealed. My next attempt was to push upon the sliding thumb-sized button. It hesitated to move. I thought it might have been corrosion, or simply the price of time. I pressed a little more firmly and again found it unmoved.

Then, the voice returned, "The price of knowledge..." it whispered, I could almost hear the flicker of a snake's tongue in its words, "...are you prepared to pay?"

I did not answer it, but I think I made my choice clear as I pressed even more forcefully upon the button than I had before. For a moment I put everything I had into the effort, as if I could unlatch it through sheer brute strength. As I neared giving up, I felt a sudden pain in my thumb as it slipped out of place. The force I was applying caused my thumb to slide hard against the edge along the highest portion of the switch, and it left a burning slice in my thumb. I shouted with the unexpected pain, and quickly drew the cutto my mouth. As I did, I noticed that I had left a smear of blood behind on the latch itself.

With a dark laugh, and the sound again of a snake's tongue tasting the air, the latch moved of its own accord, and the front cover popped slightly up as the tome unlocked.

I watched in wide-eyed terror, frozen for a moment with my thumb in my mouth like an infant on his mother's lap. Again I felt assaulted by a wave of doubts that bade me to turn back, and leave such a relic unexplored. The better for my sanity, if not for the clarity of my vision. Again I forced these thoughts to the back of my mind. An assuredness of purpose soon settled my nerves, and I carefully drew back the front cover with my cut thumb.

Inside the front cover I again found our family seal. It is my father's seal, that of my paternal lineage. I know not, for sure, if mother would have used it. But here it was. Inside, it was the parchment itself that I found most mysterious. The edges of the tome seemed entirely unscathed, old but unfaded - but the rest of the first page was a charred black. As if someone had attempted to burn the writing off the page, but found it the parchment itself absolutely resistant to the flame after leaving a layer of char over all that had been written upon it. I quickly turned the page only to be greeted by two facing pages of the same condition. I turned again - and again - and again. Soon I found myself flipping manically through the book looking for any sign of anything that might have survived beyond the seals.

"Nothing..." I finally said aloud, in complete and utter defeat. "All of this... for nothing..."

The words fell to the silent floor and I know I slouched in defeat. I had killed Stamwicks and Bren over a useless, destroyed book. I had nothing to show for it, and indeed no route forward to the knowledge I so desperately sought.

But the voice was simply biding its time. Waiting for my most vulnerable moment before slithering back into my mind. "Nothing, child?" It repeated my own dejection back to me, "No, no. Nothing is nothing at all. But knowledge - true knowledge requires much. It does not come without work."

Again I felt every nerve on edge, as if someone were lurking in the shadows ready to ambush me. "What do you mean?! Show yourself?!" I shouted with far more alarm than confidence.

"Oh yes, oh yes... that I shall.." It hissed its 's's and I could make out the smile in its voice before I could see it, "Afterall, you have come so far to meet me."

The visage of the voice finally emerged from the shadow. More accurately, I believe, it formed from the shadow itself pulling and drawing upon their nebulous dark material to form a physical manifestation for the eyes to grab onto. The figure that formed was as unnerving as the voice itself: a floating apparition part skeleton, park cloak, and part snake all craft, as far as I could tell, from nothing but shadow and reflection. I could see the visage of a skull beneath its hood, and slender skeletal arms and fingers draped in long sleeves. It seemed to have no legs or means of locomotion - but surrounding it, moving in wispy and indistinct fashion, were a pair of shadowy serpents. Their tongues audibly flicked in the air, giving the whole apparition an even more alarming presence than the visual itself can provide.

I leaned on my back foot defensively, and drew out my blade. I knew hiding in the shadows would do me no good, but I also knew I was being confronted by something absolutely other-worldly - and if I had to, I would admit that in the back of my mind I sensed the thing was a Horror in the same fashion that I could feel their presence when they sensed mine. But this was different, I did not feel its presence pressuring mine: its visage shocked me, but it was not actively grappling with my mind.

"Who are you!" I shouted back, with rather more hesitant stuttering than I choose to relate.

I could see the thing smile, if you could call the shift in the skull-like visage a smile.

"Guide."

"What are you!?" I shouted once more.

It drew its bony fingers together, as if pausing in contemplation, before answering. "You already know what I am."

"And I am here to lead you to the knowledge you seek."

I grew angry, blood boiled behind my eyes as all I had experienced flooded back to me. This was, indeed, a Horror. At least, I was sure it was then. I lunged forward, my sword shaking in my hand as I shouted full of anger and passion unbecoming an Archer, "I will kill you! I will strike you down!" I did not lash out, I think I already understood it was useless. I could sense that this form was not its true form, merely a manifestation of an entity existing on another plane: if it even had a real presence in this room, at all.

"Strike me down?" Guide did not laugh, but it was clearly amused. It kept its fingers steepled together, and regarded me as if observing an object of curiosity. "Child. You possess the sight." It continued to hiss though its voice otherwise became deeper and more distinct as if it wished to impress its meaning upon me with full clarity, "You know you cannot harm me. Not with that." Its bony finger pointed at my useless blade.

It smiled again as I shook with rage, "With the knowledge I will impart, perhaps. But you do not yet possess the ability, the knowledge or the aptitude."

I drew my sword back with a shout of frustration. I knew it was right, but what more could I do. My voice was still filled with anger, but I had edged away from the precipice of rage and recovered some sense of reason. "Then what do you want with me! What price are you proposing!?" I knew I would pay no such price. I hated then, and hate now, Horrors with every fiber of my being. And those who willingly surrender themselves to their control are as dangerous as the things themselves.

"I ask nothing." It spread its arms as if in denial, "You see, child. Those I seek out are those least likely to make such a deal." It folding its hands back together, as my mind raced with a hundred questions I wanted to ask.

"No. It is not a deal I seek. What I seek is what you seek. You see: our purposes are aligned." It concluded as if its statement would settle all matters.

"What I seek?" I growled, while it nodded back to me. "Did you know my mother then?" I forced out the question at the forefront of my racing mind.

"Your mother, child? Perhaps," it hissed again. "Your father, maybe?" It leaned toward me conspiratorially, "Your grandfather? Hmmm?"

I raised my voice again, "You killed her?!"

It reacted with something akin to disgust, "Killed? No. Never. I could sense when she died, but it was not my doing. It would be against my own interest."

I stared incredulously. Thinking over what it was saying. Trying to tease out its lies - as those two snakes wound their interminable way around and around its form.

"What, then, is 'in your interest'?" I spat out in frustration. The frustration, I think, was more of my own doing at this point. I fought with my own desire to try to kill the thing with any means at my disposal, but prudence stayed my hand.

"I find fulfillment in the hunt. In the thrill of the hunt." It repeated with greater emphasis.

"Of what, of people?!" I taunted, recalling the whispers from Bren's shop only minutes before.

Again, it displayed some form of disgust, "Such unsatisfying quarry they make. Maybe when I have gone long years with no such sustenance - but they are not what I seek. You know of what I mean, for it is what you yourself seek. Bigger. Better. The greater the challenge, the greater the thrill." It drew its bony visage back once more.

"That is why I saved you. I can sense your deepest desire: the snakes hissed loudly, moving in greater excitement as if the mere thought of the topic gave a thrill to the entity itself. "To hunt the most dangerous quarry."

"I teach." it gestured to itself, and then to me, "You study. And then you hunt." It paused, offering a tilt of its head that looked almost humble, "No deal. But mutual benefit. We both get what we want."

I swung my blade around, threatening the thing directly once more, however fruitless. I bore up my voice low and steady. I was prepared for a blood oath, though I did not take that step, "Mark my words, fiend. I will listen. But I will kill you."

It laughed, the tendril-like snakes rising from its shoulders with aroused glee. "Hah hah hah! Yesssss..." it hissed, "That could be quite thrilling. When the day comes, child, yes, quite thrilling."

It waved its hand, and the pages of the Grimoire flew as if in a wind. They stopped on the very first page, covered in the charred black I have already described. With another wave of its hand the page began to glow with a faint, purple hew. Slowly light pierced through the blackened char, and started to break it apart. After a moment this nondescript light that seemed to burn right through the burnt page, took on the shape and form of letters. Soon I realized that the text upon the page, in a flowing and ancient-looking script whose form I did not recognize, was being revealed as the char was lifted.

"Study. First you must learn to read."



And thus began my studies... and my walk upon the path of the Nethermancer. Under the tutelage of the Spirit known only as 'Guide' - itself, perhaps, a Horror. One of the fiends I wished to wipe from all existence. Itself, perhaps, known to my mother. Or my father. It could be the origin of the travails of my entire existence. Or, perhaps, a key to the very knowledge that I seek, which will otherwise remain forever hidden from my eyes.

Averlane warned me against many things. But 'Playing with Fire' was not among them.

[Sveja]

Spirits Past, Remembered



Once upon a midnight, dreary
While I pondered, weak and weary.
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore.
While I nodded, nearly napping...
-The Raven, Edgar Allen Poe

Nethermantic studies are not, strictly speaking, matters that demand to be kept secret, but given their reputation it may behoove one to do so. The Kaer has its own Nethermancers: respected, if not properly understood, who are prepared to teach new students. The Blood Guard, too, is known to study the darker magic that draws upon the connection between the physical world and that of the spirits. As a Blood Guard himself, Bruximus d'Anathen should have been well positioned to take upon his shoulders such studies himself, but circumstances had consistently barred the way. Having been, quite literally, born to a dangerous reputation, many residents of the Kaer already thought him too Horror compromised without dabbling in the Dark Arts. It had occurred to him that the mere approach to one of the Nethermancer mentors could spell more trouble for him and his family than it were worth: if it were suspected that he were interested in pursuing Nethermancy, of all schools of magic, that could be suspicion enough to confirm the worst of fears spurred by the peculiar circumstances of his birth. To make matters worse, he fully understood that such suspicions would be warranted.

He had much more carefully considered the opportunity presented by his membership in the Blood Guard. Here, too, though he found obstacles barring his path. The practice of Nethermancy within the Guard was more a subject of rumor and fear, than publicly acknowledged and embraced. It seemed well understood by the population of the Kaer that the Guard was possessed of access to Nethermancy, but exactly who the Nethermancers were, and what powers they had access to were shrouded in secrecy. Admittance to this inner group would mean earning the trust and acceptance of the higher echelon of the Blood Guard, and that meant sacrifices and allegiance to the Verdant family that Brux (in his obstinate and stubborn fashion) was unprepared to make. As much as he pretended not to care about his own family's name or legacy, there were some lines he was unprepared to cross. The reality was that even had he been, it was unlikely the Verdants would accept him among their allies.

And so it was: Nethermancy, if it were to be pursued, was to be pursued in secrecy. In this he turned out to be simply the latest of the family line. His father had always refused to speak on the matter, and Brux now that he understood an inkling of the family history, refused to ask. Instead he had taken to the opportunity provided by Guide, the spirit (or horror?) linked in some fashion to the family Grimoire he had found in the basement of the manor.

Due to the nature of the studies he took to the hours of darkness, in the distant and abandoned areas of the Kaer for his practice. He had several regular locations he used, rotating between them with no discernible pattern the better to avoid detection. The long hours were difficult and trying in their frequent bouts of boredom, buried in the study of tome and hours of repetitive mental practice. The lack of sleep and rest suffered by taking upon these studies in addition to his work with Averlane, and his duties as a Blood Guard only contributed to a heightened sense of existential weariness that pervaded his every living day. Only his resolute focus on the end objective of his studies gave him the sheer determination to keep up with the grueling pace.


It is one of those evenings, in the cellar of a long-abandoned home. Brux sat on the bare ground, before a small and low table he used as a desk. On the table were set the various implements of his craft collected up over the past several months by purchase and careful acquisition from the family home. The Grimoire laid open, its cinder-crisped pages steadily revealing their hidden contents under the spirit's tutelage. A second tome, heavily annotated by a previous hand which could have been his mother's, lay open as well: On the Nature of Spirits and Their Existence. It was this which the young man had been so focused in not just the previous hours, but for the occasion of weeks. Lying between the open tomes were the ritual dagger with the snake-head hilt he had found in the manor, a heavy brass figure of a turtle, and a round nearly-ball shaped bell whose nature was as mysterious as that of the spirits he was studying. The space was lit by a roughly half-dozen ritual candles, all of which had arcane symbols carved along their lengths that offered flickering hints in shadows and light across the entire chamber. A stick of specialty incense burned slowly in its holder, filling the small enclosed space with the richness of its scent. Lastly, he had drawn an intricate symbol in fresh candle wax over the surface of the table. The particular form of the Horcrux, and indeed the entire arrangement, was intended to attract the presence of spirits in the vicinity.

He had become used to the environment, having spent hours in similar over the weeks. It was not that the practice had been unsuccessful: he had several encounters with spirits over his time, but the overall effect of fatigue and long hours of wait and study was enough to lead him to close bleary eyes, preparing to nap in the midst of his midnight vigil. Eyes closed, his mind drifted loosely back to memories of his childhood. Those lonely days with few friends, but he remembered some of those he had made: his father had called them 'imaginary' friends, though he seemed to do so with a wink and a nod. Perhaps he knew only what his son would come later to learn: the senses of children, young and free of the hardening of adulthood, are more attuned to the spirit realm.

There were more than a few that he had met: many friendly and benevolent, others frightening. The Kaer had been home to thousands of namegivers for several centuries. Enclosed in such a small space, many had lived their entire lives within its confines and some of their spirits still lingered. Other free spirits, too, it seemed had sought refuge here away from the howling barrens of the raging scourge. Even spirits cannot escape the Horrors unscathed. But one stood out especially clear, the spirit of a young girl, a ghost one might say. She had said her name was 'Anmalee', and Brux could see the shifting contours of her shimmering features as clearly in memory as he had on those days long hence.

He had first met her while running from a group of older children. While clinging to the shadows of an alley he peered around in watch for the group that was hunting for him. The tiny voice behind him had given him a start, but when he saw to whom it belonged the fear left him. She seemed as sweet as any young girl could be, and merely asked him what was wrong. After explaining how he had been taunted and chased she replied with a cheery smile, and an offer to play. And so they had.

He saw her repeatedly for several years, and at times he would have admitted he had no better friend in the Kaer. But the time came when he was to start at School. He was growing to a young man, while she remained the child she had always been. He did not understand her sadness, but in hindsight it seemed clear that she had experienced the aging and loss of her friends repeatedly through her existence. She was ever searching for new friends with whom to play, because she could not escape her own childhood, and they would outgrow her and in most cases come to forget the role she had played in their lives.


His dreaming mind moved with visions of his childhood friend, swells of nostalgic longing washing over his thoughts when he was interrupted by a brief sensation of wind. Blinking his bleary eyes open he spied the candles, burning low, but their remaining symbols glowed faintly with the indication of the presence of a spirit in the area. Forcing his eyes open against the groggy tiredness that assaulted him, he reached for the spherical bell with its tab-like handle. He swung it gently, hearing the soft peel that would only sound in the presence of a spirit. With the scenes of his dream still fresh in his mind, the unseen presence in the room felt natural and comforting.

"Anmalee...?" He asked hopefully, without thought. Was it her he felt?

"You remember!" Came the delighted, if disembodied voice of the girl he had once known.

He shuddered for a moment, regretting how much more difficult it had become to open his sense to spirits like her who had once been part of his daily life. "What's the matter?" She asked as he grimaced, forcing his eyes closed as he went through the process of mental concentration necessary to embrace the vision with which he had been born.

Opening his eyes again the faint glows of the astral plane blazed gently before him, slowly coalescing into recognizable shapes and forms. And there he saw her again: not quite the gentle, pretty spirit he remembered, but a more opaque representation as if she had been recreated by someone lacking sufficient imagination. "It is you..." he said with a tone of sadness.

"I did not think you would be able to hear me again!" She exclaimed with nearly tangible excitement.

"It has been so long..." he replied, the weariness in his voice revealing the weariness of his soul. He was suddenly so terribly aware of how he had grown older, colder, and more distant over the intervening years.

"But you are still my friend, aren't you?"

He could not help but smile. So simple. So sweet. "Yes. Of course, I am. I always will be." He found the answer easy to give, though more reassuring for himself than for her.

He laid his hand out, palm up upon the table and watched as the indistinct and colorful shape of her astral signature moved to cover it.

"Is it really so hard to see me now?" She asked with a note of sadness.

"I have been trying..." he answered. "It is good to see you again..."

She laughed just like he remembered. "Well you must have done it right! I could hear you calling for me."

His eyes brightened, an unexpected smile crossing his features. "I did? Yeah..." he nodded a little, "I did. I must have."

"I am going to go play now." She told him, as he felt her nearness dissipating.

"You still have friends to play with now don't you?" He asked, a little louder as he could feel her slipping away so soon.

"I do!" She said with excitement as her voice grew fainter. "There are always boys and girls like you in need of a friend..." and he knew she was gone once more.


He sighed, covering his face with his hands before dragging them along his weary features. The light of the Kaer's artificial sun was already returning. There would be no more time for study or rest this day.

[Sveja]

A Heavy Conscience

"Bruximus, somethings seems to be bothering you."

The question, or statement perhaps, interrupted Brux's uncharacteristically uneasy meditation. The master, as always, was accurate in his observation.

The student, sitting cross-legged on a straw mat upon the floor of the master's simple hut, lowered his head slowly in a silent sign of respect and agreement.

The older master stroked his chin for a moment, "I see."

"A question of conscience is it?"

Again, the student bowed his head, this time deeper than before. Words hung upon his lips as he considered whether or not he should relieve the burden of his heavy heart. He had committed a grave crime in his pursuit of knowledge: two people lay dead at his blade over the pursuit of books, by right his family's property. To make matters worse he had discovered a spirit of some form residing, or manifesting through the family grimoire. It was difficult to discern the full nature of the spirit, and the worry lingered in the back of his mind that he might be dealing with a Horror itself. Nonetheless, the spirit, calling itself 'Guide', seemed to offer the only route available to Brux to study the magic of spirits and the astral plane. The surest route to the knowledge he would require to make a quarry of the Horrors he longed to destroy.

The knowledge of what he had done, and the forces he was playing with, had been weighing heavily upon him. And he had been considering whether or not to reveal the totality of the matter to Averlane, the only man whose opinion he'd fully trust on the matter.

Now the old archer seemed to be studying the matter, but from a distance. As if he could sense the trouble roiling his student.

"A matter of the course you have chosen, I suspect?"

Again, Brux nodded.

The old man breathed a deep sigh.

"I do not strike you as naive, do I?"

"No, master." Replied Brux, even and quiet as he gazed at the floor.

"There is a great deal of wickedness in this world. I have seen, and even dealt my share. Do not think I do not understand the difficulties that come with setting oneself on a difficult and dangerous path."

Brux sat silently.

"We dedicate ourselves toward a greater goal. One we hope to achieve. But if there were no challenges, there would be no purpose. When we confront these challenges we must make decisions. Often difficult ones. There will be times when there are no good options before us. Where down every path we find misery, disgust, heartbreak. Regret."

He paused, turning his body away from his student.

"At times such as these we must continue to rely upon the senses that we have developed. Upon our sight. Upon our foresight. We may be forced to chose in an instant a path that will decide our destiny, and shape our lives for centuries to come."

He breathed out audibly. A sigh filled with his own heavy regrets.

"It is not that we choose to live without regret. That is part of our burden. Having developed our sight and our senses we are always aware of other paths we may have taken, and other outcomes we may have achieved. But we also must accept that we cannot change what has happened."

He turned his eyes back toward his silent, attentive student.

"There are few things so final as a loosed shaft. And you may think of your decisions in the same way."

Brux nodded in understanding.

"I have emphasized how important it is to always pursue your goal in a manner consistent with clear and proper judgment, have I not?"

"Yes master."

"You must not act rashly. You must always be mindful of what is right and proper. Every wrong decision, every mistake will stay with you until the day you die."

"Yes master."

"And I, as your teacher, must have confidence in you, my student, to do just that."

The master swallowed, standing forcefully taller and looking sad.

"Even if I have not always done the same. You must understand that I wish for you to avoid the mistakes I have made."

Brux bowed his head deeply, nearly touching the floor.

"I trust you Bruximus. Whatever the matter that weighs upon you, I believe that you will only do what is necessary in the pursuit of your objective." He paused for a moment of reflection. "There are great things in your future. I know it is shrouded in darkness, such is your spirit. But your gaze pierces it. Perceives through it. You will be greater than than which haunts you."

Brux bowed his head again, deeply. His heart was still unsure. His conscience still burdened. But his heart was lifted, however slightly. At least he had earned someone's trust.

[Sveja]

The Locket

The candles flickered low, offering only shadowy illumination in the basement of the abandoned dwelling. The exhausted Nethermancer sat, slumped back in his chair. Haggerd whiskers framed a face drained of all energy and joy. His eyes, normally active and inquisitive, stared with fixation upon the open locket on the table before him. His other implements and accoutrements were scattered about and abandoned. An arcane circle drawn in wax upon the table had been broken by a brash and ragged cut of a ritual dagger. The maker having no more immediate interest in its use.

Instead he stared at the image, supposedly of his mother. Never known to him - a distant, haunting figure who he longed to know.

"Is that really you?" he asked aloud, in a rasp. A hand drew to his forehead, then down along the side of his face in a gesture he had repeated untold times that late night.

He'd never really know. The locket had been hers. An anniversary gift from his father. One year, on his birthday, he had taken the lad down to the basement - as was tradition - to reminisce and speak to her however they could from the other side of the veil. That year he offered the boy the piece of jewelry, having replaced the original portrait with one of hers.

He stared at the dark curls of hair, and the purple of her eyes. The delicate features and the simple, lighthearted smile.

He closed his eyes, and exhaled, resting his chin upon a hand.

When he opened them again they were still fixed upon the open locket. Upon the portrait.

He wondered. He thought.

His candles dripped low. The scent of incense still lingered in the air, though it had burnt out long ago.

"What you would think..."

"What would you say..."

He closed his eyes, and fell into a fitful sleep.