Tag: redmysterium

Tale of Red Mysterium #15: Skuller III

January 2nd, 2024

#15. SKULLER III

On the water at the fringes of the town was a funeral procession. The crew stood silently on their skiff, Skuller and Tasha at the fore. She shook with grief, her body trembling like a dropped tin which rang out its dismay. Yet she stood silently, her only signs of feeling that taut vibration running through her flesh. There was not even sadness on her face, but anger. A deep well of it surged within, a cauldron of rancorous vengeance threatening to boil over.

It was Millek that was being put out to sea. Though there was no blood relation, it was Millek who had helped Tasha survive in this roughshod world of skulduggery and theft. It had been Millek who had connected Tasha and Skuller and given her a family. Millek, the storeman, always kept an eye out for those like her.

And it was Millek who had been stabbed twenty times for the food in his pantries.

It was a darkness all of them had to accept. With no Leyline, Djirama was on its own. Food, fuel, specialty goods, weapons, water purifiers. Everything that kept Djirama alive had now been cut off.

Skuller couldn’t help but watch the procession with a macabre amusement. Hundred were gathered on the water’s edge to see Millek off, each one someone that he had helped shape into who they were now. But part of Skuller couldn’t help that this was going to be all their fates. One by one, people would drop, sent out to sea, until the last person in town perished, and they would be the only one who would not find rest in the water.

Skuller gave himself a dark, humorless laugh. He thought, “If it were me, I’d sail out to sea before that time came.”

Now, Skuller found himself looking at all those gathered today. One question filled his mind, and it was so large it eeked its way out into the world through his lips. “Which one of you bastards did this?”

Tasha looked up to him, her shaking abated for the moment. The hatred in her eyes told him that she was wondering the same thing.

A slow drum beat began near the shaedrower that had been built for Millek. It had no urgency, no sense of purpose or destination. Then, the chanting began. It was Millek’s daughter, his only surviving family. Skuller thought that she was lucky to have been away that night otherwise she would have joined her father in the shaeds.

The song that was sung was one of ancient rites. Its words had lost all meaning, and in so had gained a whole new meaning to this land. A Call to the Shaed, to the place of darkness from which all arise. It was a lament to those lost, a sign to the universe that the grief and pain was real and as inextricable from reality as sunlight. The ocean, the ultimate portal to the Shaed, would take those in Djirama to their loved ones.

Skuller couldn’t help the tears that came to him. The song was one of grief alone to him, it contained none of the release that so many others gained from it. It reminded him of things lost he would rather not think about again. Some pains, even at his age, had not been dulled with time.

Silence overtook them all as Mellik’s boat was pushed off into the water. Though the current wasn’t very strong here, it would be enough to take him out to the ocean where the violent storms would deliver him to his wife.

As he and his crew returned to the Grotto, silence still lingered. Tasha’s pain was evident to them all, and even though she was confrontational on the best of days, she may have well have been covered in broken glass and razors for how good comforting did for her then.

So silence, it seemed, was the safest option between them all at this point.

But words were bubbling within Skuller. He was angry, sullen, but mostly he was feeling… betrayal? Ill defined, this feeling did not direct itself at anyone in particular, nor at any specific event. It was a general betrayal towards the universe as a whole, as if his heart was screaming, “How could you do this to me?”

He sighed. Millek had been only two years younger than Skuller.

Their skiff pulled up to the dock and they were home, whatever that meant in times like this. As they walked down the roughshod wood, Skuller felt sick at the way this place existed now. They had consolidated all of their resources in the barracks, knowing that soon scavengers would try and sneak in, take what they could, and leave before being noticed.

This was a temporary measure, for when things became more desperate, and starvation lingered on the horizon, it would be the time for swordplay and gunfighting. That, at least, was something they were good at.

Regardless, the reality of the coming days did not give Skuller hope.

He had never foreseen what would occur, how could he? Yet still he was shaken by the intensity which the world was changing. Djirama was a place of the fringes. Its people were bats hanging in the dark rafters of the cosmos, unseen and unheard from unless you poked around in their domain.

Skuller had been born here, raised here, had never even consider leaving. Now, trapped, a part of him wished he had cut his losses and tried to find a new life somewhere else. His thoughts began to wander as they entered the main Keep.

He imagined a life for himself on Rackaman, tending to nobles and Magi and all other manner of fancy folk. He considered what a ranch-hands life on Botansa would be like, setting posts and herding cattle and tending sheep. He wondered about a great many places he had heard of and how different they were from Djirama. He imagined a thousand different Skullers walking the streets of these many realms, each having a different life, a different mind, a different soul.

Perhaps one of them, hopefully, would be happy. The Skuller in Djirama was most certainly not.

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Tale of Red Mysterium #14: Trand & Debrosh III

December 29th, 2023

#14. TRAND & DEBROSH III

Each step a sizzle, the crackling of stone and mortar the only accompanying sound to the steady wind. Ash settled over the land, the devastation from the north finding peace on the unburnt ground. The fiery being walked among this slowly growing desolation, unfeeling, unthinking. Since the destruction of the Gulag, it had felt an undisturbed sense of peace. But it was false in many ways, for it was not the even peace of a calm sea. It was the peace of an egg which safely contained the chaotic forming of a being within.

Each step drew it forward. It’s purpose thrummed with a subtlety that denied any other consideration, yet did not disturb its false peace. It know only two things, the two things it should enact on the world. Cleanse the Wicked. Free the Damned.

The small sprite of flame trailed behind the being, unknowing of the world or where it was going. It had been summoned forth out of the dying flames of the Gulag, formed by the mind of the being it now followed. Its only truth was that it was the companion to the fiery creature who made it.

It was endless, their journey. Time had no meaning to these two, for they existed in a state of being of infinite formation. Their exteriors were shells that protected the process. Within them, though, was the hardening and shaping of metamorphosis, of something new coming to be. It was the unfolding of an explosion in reverse, a flame receding to a flash point. The logic of their transformation was antithetical to all other forms, and soon the chaos of it would unravel their shell.

It was in this endless time that they came upon a great, sprawling camp. Soldiers were gathered, and from what they could see, no one else.

Cleanse the Wicked.

Again, the flames became unbound and flew outward in great, torrential pillars. They had more focus now, reaching out and streaming down onto the greatest concentrations of bodies that could be seen.

To someone passing by, able to witness the horror, they would have seen a dozen flaming pillars reaching down like great tendrils onto Hursaw War Camp. They would have seen the pillars arcing across the sky to a single point down the road. If they looked hard enough, they might have seen a small glimmer of red in the inferno.

The tendrils of fire swept across the camp. In some places it was held back by the forces of the magi within, each one working to shield themselves from the destruction. Each time they faltered and were reduced to ash in seconds. The terrible anger of Trand flowed in these fires, his grief for existence a unending fuel to continue his cleansing.

And, soon enough, everyone at the camp was dead.

As the flames receded and the fiery creature again reformed, something was different about it now. The killing had awakened another part of it, for it could now kill with purpose and direction. No longer a storm of flames, but a hand of the gods coming to destroy the wicked.

But this new, apparent awareness brought with it… thoughts. Questions, ideas,images, fantasies… memories. A part of what had been Trand awoke inside the fiery creature and it brought with it all the pain of existence that came from the mortal coil. This was a new sensation to the entity, for it had not felt this ever before. New ideas spawned, of revenge, of guilt, of hatred. New questions arose, of purpose, of envy, of existence.

The small flame sprite, so different from the creature, but intrincally linked to it, was frozen on the ground in fear. The upheaval within its master filled it with dread and darkness, for that is what its master was feeling.

Now the being’s voice was different. It contained a material weight to it, as if by naming the rain it could call it down. But instead, it said, “Why does the suffering never end?”

And so the suffering would never end.

From camp to camp destruction followed. Somehow this being found itself drawn to these encampments, to the people it hated most of all. Each time it destroyed them, a different piece of it awoke. It was the great unfolding of the metamorphosis. It was the vibrations of a quake which would crack the shell. Each piece of vengeance for the being which had been Trand would form some new mechanism within this new creature and the terrible weight of it would impress itself upon the entirety of creation.

Soon, enough had come to pass. The fire could no longer be contained.

As if the fire itself had come to life and found its oppressor in the being of flame, they turned instead away from the magi and soldiers and towards their master. The flames unified with the being, coursing through it in great spears of light. For a brief moment those who survived, who could live to see this unfolding, would think that perhaps a deity or god had come to their aid.

How hopeful. How foolish. In a world ruled by Red Mysterium, the only gods are those who dominate the others.

The flames settled over the being, coiling in great lengths of hot fire that condensed, impacted within each other to form a much different creature than before. No soft edges, no ill-defined shape.

This being was anger made manifest.

It looked upon itself with wonder, new capacities within its mind, new understandings and visions of the future. This creature, this… Inferno… could want. And it wanted more than the simple demands of its former self. Cleansing the Wicked, yes, that would be done regardless of its wants. Freeing the Damned… yes, that too would follow. But now, unbound by the hatred and anger of mortality and memories of a vanquished self, the Inferno had much loftier goals.

With flames renewed, and disgust at these weak creatures fueling its killing, the Inferno knew that what would come would be sweet and succulent as charred flesh.

The sprite was now gone. The Inferno walked alone.

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A Tale of Red Mysterium #13: Skuller II

September 18th, 2023

#13. SKULLER II

It was a bad day for Skuller and his crew.

Three days earlier, they had learned that they Leyline to Djirama had been closed due to “instabilities,” whatever that meant. The Leyline Portal, which shone brilliantly most days, was absent now. The city, Gerrick, came to a standstill after those first few days as stock wore thin at every merchant and store. By the time the second day was done, ninety percent of the city was out of materials. There were few warehouses in Gerrick that had planned far ahead, and as the needs of the people grew, their stocks thinned out as well.

It was the fourth day now, and the crew was miserable. Their perishables had run out already, the only thing remaining to eat were twelve sacks of barley and six sacks of oats. Their lamps burned low, barely enough oil inside to keep their base lit.

Lastly, and most dire to them, was that the liquor had ran out the night before.

Sculler was lying underneath the table, arm draped over his eyes to block out the light streaming in through the port windows. His head was aching, and already he could feel chills running up and down his arm. Soon, they would turn to shivers.

“A blasted existence,” he thought. He wished he would have stopped drinking when Tasha had first recommended it.

He tried to distract himself with thoughts of other realms, but his mind always returned to the closed Leyline. Djirama was a desolate swampland in every direction, a realm of wet humidity and storms. What few explorers had attempted to see all of the realm had been forced to admit that it was wetlands and sea as far as one could travel. Gerrick, and the small town of Riphos to the south, were the only marks of humanity across all of Djirama, and the wetness of the world meant that only the native plants would grow there.

Every soul in the realm depended on the Leylines for survival, and they had all been cut off.

Skuller wanted to curse, to shout and scream and destroy everything around him. But his temples throbbed, his hands quaked, and he knew that in less than a day’s time he would be in deep trouble.

He propped himself up, looking over to Tasha lying by the door. She was not so bad off as Skuller so she was only feeling a stinging headache this morning. And when she looked to Skuller, her eyes were sharp and clear. Her rancor with his statements had disappeared in the light of their current predicament, but despite that he could feel a pointed nature in her gaze that left him feeling pricked.

He sighed and rubbed his eyes. “Any ideas about where we can go to get some food?” He meant booze, and she knew it, but it really was all the same.

She shrugged, turned to look back up to the ceiling. “Hard to say, we are a bit slow on the jump for looting. Whatever useful supplies we could have found in Gerrick are most likely long gone, or under protection.”

Skuller nodded and crawled out from under the table. He was pitiful, and as he moved his head throbbed harder, causing a groan to escape his lips. He sat there, looking at her with obvious pain in his eyes. “You have any friends you can call on?”

Again she shrugged. “I think your fence is the best bet we have.”

He nodded, knowing that it was a solid bet. He reached up to his neck and yanked a small amulet from it, the necklace coming undone. It was solid gold, and worth a decent more in historical value. He waggled it and she nodded, smiling.

Their world had a simple language.

**************

“I am sorry, gold is less than useless to me now.” The fetch, Yarim, stood with his arms crossed. Though he did not strike an imposing figure, the look of dismay and anxiety on his face was as damning as if he was about to walk Skuller to the gallows.

Skuller slowly lowered his hand, the shiny amulet glistening in the torchlight. “What can I offer you for…. anything… at all?”

Yarim was obviously trying to think about what he could ask of Skuller that might make an even trade, and soon the silence grew deeper as he thought harder. Skuller looked around the room, squinting against the torch. It wasn’t very bright, but any source of light was hard to bear then. They were in a stone barrow, hidden in a rare bit of dry land in the Harrow Bog. Racks of stuff lined the walls, and between them a counter with various papers, items, and mechanical parts.

Finally, Yarim spoke. “I do not ask this to humiliate you, but because I know you can part with them.” He pointed down to Skuller’s boots. “I need those, the cobbler’s store went up in flames yesterday.”

Skuller looked to his boots, smiled in surprise. Of all the things he had never expected to pay off now, a plethora of boots was at the top of the list. He nodded and immediately began to unlace them. Soon, he stood shoeless, the boots on the counter.

Yarim nodded, turned to a rack and pulled out a wooden crate. He dumped the contents onto a sparsely covered shelf and put the empty crate on the counter. Then, piece by piece, he filled the crate with supplies that, to him, must have seemed equivalent to a pair of boots. He finished, pushing the crate over to Skuller.

Skuller reached out and his hands were shaking. Unlike before, barely a shiver, now he was feeling entire tremors rocking through his hands. Yarim watched this with accuity, placed his hand on the crate’s lip a the same time as Skuller to prevent him from taking it yet.

Pointedly, he reached into a rack of bottles and pulled out a large, clear flask. He gingerly put it inside the crate, said, “Dilute it with a cup of water, it will dull the worst of the symptoms.” He sighed, letting go of the crate. “Please, use it sparingly, and only when you need it. I will not have more the next time I see you.”

Skuller couldn’t help the flush that came to his face, and he wanted to deny the bottle then. But as soon as his eyes fell upon it, knowing that there was some type of liquor inside, his mouth filled with saliva and he was nodding, saying, “Thank you, Yarim. Thank you.”

Yarim was nodding, pulling the boots away and tucking them below the counter. “If you have more boots to spare, I may be able to keep you fed… for a while. Even my stores will become exhausted without the Leylines.”

Skuller nodded, grinned. “Gnarl and Barl have a fondness for eating the Skarigi on the coast. It’s a gritty fish, but it will fill your belly. I’ll bring some next time.”

With that, Skuller exited the barrow and went quickly to his raft, not wanting to be caught by anyone in the dark. It was unlikely anyone was out there, but in a world with dwindling resources, he would not chance it.

He only felt comfortable again once he was back at sea. It was calm waters today, a gentle wind filling the sails and driving him up the coast.

It took everything in him not to guzzle the bottle that Yarim had given him. Instead, he carefully brought the bottle to his nose, smelled it. “Everclear,” he thought, silently blessing the kind fetch. He took the smallest swig he could, the alcohol burning as he swallowed. But it did not take long for his body’s constant shivering to slow, and after two more swallows, his body was once again under his control.

With all the willpower he could muster, he stowed the bottle. He would go to Tasha as soon as he returned, ask her to help him keep the bottle filled unless needed. They would all suffer without the constant stream of liquor they were used to, and this bottle would be their only saving grace.

For Skuller, he felt it might be the difference between his life and death.

He sailed back to the Grotto with a little more hope than before. Still, it was like a tiny glimmer against the abyss that surrounded him. For now, it was enough to keep it in sight so that he didn’t lose his mind.

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Tale of Red Mysterium #11: Nabras Kahn IV

September 8th, 2023

#11. NABRAS KAHN IV

The stairs to the Reliquary were unkempt, dusty, and covered in mildew. They wove downwards in strange shapes, curving one way then the next. Some halls would suddenly end with no doorway, and some stairs would do the same thing. It was like a maze that went downward, yet resisted anyone doing so. The upper reaches were barren, simple halls of dirty stone. But as she went deeper and deeper, the air growing colder around her, soon bookshelves began popping up. Some were empty, but as more and more of them appeared, they began to fill up in various states with hundreds of tomes. Soon, the halls were covered in bookshelves such that it looked like some strangely abandoned library covered in who knew how many ages of dust.

At the very bottom of what she thought was the final staircase, there was a wooden door trimmed in iron. At its center was a keyhole with a knocker above that.

She sighed, prepared herself. “Let’s see if he followed through,” she thought. She approached the door confidently and pulled on the knocker.

The door swung open soundlessly.

She smiled, walked through and quickly closed the door behind her as quietly as she could, careful not to lock it behind her. Then, she surveyed her surroundings, balked at what loomed around her in every direction.

Books. Books and books and scrolls and tablets and clays and etchings. Shelves upon shelves towering up into the darkness above, held in place by what could only be magic. Some shelves were as tall as she was, but most towered into the air, holding hundreds… no thousands of volumes!

Nabras shuddered at the sight of it all, but she felt supremely confident to be standing there. She wasn’t allowed to be there, yet she had found her way. She blushed, thinking of the methods she had used. Her mother would have frowned, saying, “You can’t toy with people’s feelings to get to your own ends!”

But the guy was a creep. So what if a little flirting made him leave the door unlocked?

She began perusing the volumes that lie across the few tables that were there. It was late in the evening, so few scribes would be working, and as far as she knew, there would be none in the Reliquary.

With determination, Nabras put herself to work.

Her tools: three ancient language translation books, two guides to Leyline and Yertal symbology, and one half-burned copy of a history about the Yertal People. Tertiary to the mission, but just as important to Nabras: snacks and tea.

It was easy for her to dive into the work of searching each book’s title and first page. The preservation field inside the Reliquary was powerful, and each book felt as crisp as if it had been just printed. Some were withered and ancient still, most likely there before the field was installed, but she did not fear any page breaking or tearing for whoever had built the field was powerful enough to have thought to shield each page of the books there.

Some were easily identifiable, mostly if they were emblazoned with an icon on the front which denoted it as a religious text, a ledger, a business account, or something else. Some books were copies of copies of copies of books she had read throughout her childhood. Some contained no words, blank entirely save for small markings and scribbles across the pages.

After a few hours, she was beginning to grow frustrated at her lack of progress. Four hundred books looked through, and none about Leylines.

She sighed, walked past a table near the shelf she was working on. As she did, a small black book stood out to her. She had seen it many times, but it was completely without markings and she was not desperate enough to start looking through those yet. But as she slowed, staring at the book, she felt a strange current within her stomach. It was akin to a Perturbance, a magical marker of some sort, yet this couldn’t be a living thing.

“Enchanted?” she wondered.

She picked it up, found that it did not have the airy, glassy protective cover like every other book she had handled so far. She realized it then, it was that which caught her eyes. The pages and front cover had blown in the wind of her passing, unburdened by the weight of the protective spell. None of the others did this.

It was, somehow, immune from the protection of the preservation spell.

A well of feelings came up in Nabras. Excitement, fear, curiosity, and anxiety. There was something strange about the book, and she would not be able to tell what.

She took it to a corner of the room where a small bench lie up against the end of a bookcase. She curled her feet up beneath herself and opened the journal. She turned to the first page.

Inscribed there was:

“My Love, if you find this, know that even Death cannot stop my return to you.”

Nabras blushed at the words, feeling a warmth in her heart from such undying love. She hadn’t known the depth of such feelings, never to write words like that about them.

Instead of turning to the next page, she decided she would indulge her guilty pleasure here, turning to the last page.

It read:

Fifth of Uthos, Year of 19th Pryor

It has been too long a battle, and the Militia has won. We have resisted as long as possible, but their weapons are too quick for us to fight. This bloody age soon comes to an end.

First Magus of Quell Otor, Miridi Nox.

Nabras almost dropped the journal, the words sending a shock through her entire body. She began to breath heavily, bordering on hyper-ventilating.

Her thoughts were racing. “The Quell Otor… an order of Red Mages…” She turned, flipped through the book to somewhere in the middle.

It read:

Second of Tyr, Year of 18th Pryor

The Balkam Block has fallen, and they have conceded to us their lands and the labor of their people. The Quell have descended upon them with viscous skill. It never ceases to amaze that the Yurgos do not see that it is The Red which calls to us, ushers us into greater heights. It is the Yurgos that will ALWAYS serve the Quell.

“There have been losses, though. A new conduit has been invented, and while the Militia which wields it are nothing more than amateurs, their ability to reproduce it far surpasses ours. A chip of The Red will last me a year, but it is the only chip I will receive. IF they lose their conduits, they can quickly make more.

“We do not have reason to be concerned now, but unchecked, they threaten all of the Orders. The Quell, the Rashtine, the Flatz, none of them can stand to let this pass.”

First Magus of Quell Otor, Miridi Nox.

Nabras’s fingers could no longer hold the book, for she felt herself becoming ill then. She was grateful that she had not had time for snacks so far, as they would quickly be making a return if she had. She leaned forward to grab the book, froze as she heard a shuffle at the door.

In an instant she was on her feet, grabbing her belongings, stuffing them in her bag with little care. She turned, sought out a hiding place, but a gurgling sounds froze her in place.

“Nnnnaaaaabrraaaasssssss…” It was no human voice she had ever heard, it contained the air-popping, wet, choking sound of the undead. She thought perhaps she had imagined it, her mind in a frightening place already.

“NNnn….Aaaabraaassss….sssss…”

She bee-lined it straight to a dark spot in between two bookcases near the back of the room. They were tall, reaching up towards the ceiling, and stood so far out into the room that when she crouched near the wall, she was mostly out of sight. But if anyone where to walk by and look in, they would most certainly see her.

Her heart was pounding, a mismatched drum rhythm in her ears. Her hands shook, vibrating within. She was trying to keep her breath quiet, but it wanted to tear out of her and fly away. The only other thing that was present in her was the cold, terrible fear that swallowed her up every milimeter of her body.

“NaaaaaAAABRAS!” It screeched out her name, and she had to bring a hand to her mouth to stifle the whimper that escaped. There was a crash of wood, the table she had been standing at. “NABRAS.”

She brought her hands together, knowing only one thing at all that might help her. She began to whisper to herself as quietly as possible the words she had learned the other day. She reached up to the necklace she wore, grabbing the small purple Arkanite stone that had been given to her for practice. She felt a cold stir within the shadows around her, felt icy prickles covering her skin, and knew that the magic was beginning to flow.

Word after word, she repeated the incantation to open the flow of her powers. There was only one technique she knew, and even though she felt like she was stronger than some of the other initiates at the Academy, here, now, she felt as powerless as a bug.

But a bug could, at least, hide.

She tugged on the shadows with her voice, pulling on them with all of the will she could bring to bear. A slight darkening, and she felt the strain grow within. For a moment, it flickered there and she was sure that whatever sought her would soon find its quarry. But then the struggle ended and the space between the bookcases became entirely enshrouded in shade. It was a pure darkness, one untouchable by light, and she was surprised at her success.

The fear returned as she finally saw what was calling her name. It was a man, though the motions of his body, as if his joints were ALL loose, caused Nabras’s hands to shake violently.

It slowly approached, saying her names at various volumes, slurring it sometimes, extending it out, or sometimes speaking with enough clarity and humanity that she was sure that there was someone inside that thing. It looked between the bookcases, searching, asking for her.

It stood in front of her then.

For Nabras, it was a frozen moment. This man looked familiar, yet the emptiness in his eyes was beyond comprehending. She had never seen an undead, yet one stood before her now. He wore a regal outfit that was cut up and marred with blood. The skin on his face and around his eyes had been torn ragged, and his hands dripped with blood, nail-less. His eyes… Nabras was certain those eyes were the very last ones she would ever see.

It stared into the darkness where she hid, its gaze searching for her. And as simple as that, it moved on.

For a long while, it circled the room, saying her name, looking into dark corners. It passed her two more times before it slowly made its way to the door, leaving as quietly as it had entered.

Nabras felt her entire body collapse under the stress, now that she could do so freely. Tears came to her, and for a long while she sobbed in the darkness. It was comforting, the silence of the Reliquary, for the last while it had been filled with the dreadful voice of death, her death.

Why?

It would be a question that would haunt her for a long while.

After an hour of sitting there, waiting, she felt it was most likely safe to leave the Reliquary. She quickly came up to the door, pushed against it, but her face slammed into the hard wood, causing her to bounce off and fall over.

The ringing inside her skull was hard to ignore, but panic swelled in her belly, forcing her to her feet. She came to the door again, placed her hands on it, and pushed.

It did not move.

She sighed, frowned, then sat there in front of the door. The creature, whatever it was, had closed the door fully behind itself when leaving.

“What a polite monstrosity,” she thought, resigning herself to a night locked away in a dungeon.

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Tale of Red Mysterium #10: Yellow Dog I

August 31st, 2023

#10: YELLOW DOG I

The land rolled under the torrential rain. The sky flexed and cracked, lighting up the murky earth with brief flashes. The trees groaned their anguish under the storm, the animals feigned the silence of death in its presence. As the great revealer above turned over the world that lie in prostrated fear beneath it, there was only one who stood unaffected.

Yellow Dog, a being of desolation. Where purpose evaded sight, it was there like a watcher. Where chaos asserted its hand over order, it was Yellow Dog that came to see.

Unlike the many beings of Tytanis, Yellow Dog did not exist in the same plane as everyone else. True, it could bear witness to the living and the dead, each in their own plains of existence. True, it could see and hear those around it with clarity and understanding. But it was not bound by the power of physicality, and thus did not exist, perhaps, at all.

The storm that roiled around it was as inconsequential as a breeze.

It pondered the words that had motivated a churning across the lands of Tytanis. Though each realm was distinctly different, it had come to realize that they were all sitting, truthfully, within the same plain. It was amusing, it though, to see the realization of this denied to all the living of Tytanis, while all the dead could not deny the fact.

It reached its mind outward, penetrating the spaces that disconnected each of the realms. The realms themselves were spherical, suspended in the darkness of the night sky. Those distant burning lights, each one might possess a realm like those of Tytanis, but not in any meaningful way.

Yellow Dog could slip beyond space without a second thought, the physical nature of reality had no bearing on its movements. But those who lived were unable to do so, bound by the laws of physics. They would never reach these other lights in the sky.

“Physics. A method of understanding motions.” Yellow Dog did not have a voice, but its meaning was a great emanation throughout the realms. Where the storm turned above, it surged harder. Where the tides slammed waves against distant shores, the water pummeled the sand with greater intensity. Where the sun baked the land into a dusty waste, it burned even that much hotter.

Yellow Dog lapsed back into silence, and Tytanis continued on its predetermined track. Which track it would take, it did not know. There were so many to see, so many to choose from, and yet Yellow Dog was bound by temporality.

It would not be able to see the outcome until time forced it upon Yellow Dog.

It moved then, standing in a great, dark library. This was new, a section of time that had not yet come to pass but whose track had become clear, many converging to form one massive rail of time that would not be denied.

A young woman crouched in the darkness between bookcases. A killer roamed, whispering her name, searching for her. It was like an endless moment, prey and predator, one circling the other as the other hid in fear.

The track split then, and it split only in two. One where she died, and Tytanis was destroyed, and the other where she lived, and the realms had a fighting chance.

This was highly unusual, and Yellow Dog felt a rare feeling: interest. It was often beings of power which created direct splits in the flow of time. Yet, this young woman, Nabras, was anything but.

This made Yellow Dog wonder what might be coming for her in the future.

For a timeless instant, Yellow Dog found itself at the precipice of a choice, something that did not come often. Help the woman? Help the killer? The flow of time was hidden beyond these simple observations of the tracks of causality.

“The stars seek out your warmth, Nabras.” The storm above seemed to hesitate for a moment. The throng of battle raging across the realm of Hotan seemed to ease. And the darkness around Nabras seemed to engorge, covering her from the sight of the one who would end her life.

Yellow Dog would have sighed, if it could. A somberness took over it as it observed the rippling divergence of tracks open up before it. The convergence had passed, and now infinity was returning.

The stone was cast. Whether it would sink, or skip across the surface of time, Yellow Dog would have to wait and see to find out.

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Tale of Red Mysterium #9: Taina I

August 31st, 2023

#9. TAINA I
The sun shown brightly over the realm of Botansa. It was mid-summer here, and though the season had been wetter and cooler than normal, the heat was still enough to form a thick sheen of sweat across Taina’s body. She was lifting up a post, lining it up with the hole in the tough earth, and slotting it in with all the force she could muster.

She had been setting posts all day.

She took a break to drink water from the gourd her father had given her before they all had set off for the days work. She was a fit woman, her muscles showing off beneath the denim overalls she wore. The legs were split on the sides and rolled up, held there by a brass pin. Atop her black hair was a wide, straw hat with a rough edge. Her eyes gazed over the land of her family’s ranch, and she felt a swell of gratitude for being able to be home during such perilous times.

She compared the arid chaparral to the refined city streets of Uthmari’s capital, Yennos. There were no paved streets on Batansa, no towering spires or multistory apartments. No airships or fliers, no moving art or Voicecasters calling out the time on the hour.

No, Batansa was about as rural as any of the realms was like to get.

Her family, like almost all families that lived in the vast stretches around Ley Town, were ranchers and farmers. It was vendors and merchants who came to their realm to procure as many goods as possible for their business back home.

Taina looked to the horizon, towards the places where no one had settled yet. “Unlikely that anyone at all will fill up those distant vistas with how things are.” Her thoughts were dark, but she liked to believe they were not overly negative. It was just a stark reality that with the Leylines supposedly becoming less and less stable, who knew if Batansa and the other realms would even be able to stay connected.

She frowned, her stomach turning sour. The thought of being trapped on Batansa for the rest of her life, it was appalling. She was glad to be with her family now, but she had left this realm for a reason. She had found a home for herself in Yennos, had found a situation that allowed her the freedom she desired without all of the responsibilities she feared. To surrender such a placid life for the life of a farmer… to Taina it was unthinkable.

She sighed, looked up to the sun, and slung the goard back over her shoulder. It was time to lay the next post.

This was the rhythm of her day, her doubts and fears warring for attention while she tried to work. A part of her would want to be nowhere else while the problems with the Leylines unfolded, but a part of her, a part that grew bigger by the day, regretted leaving Yennos and coming home.

“We could have released three paintings this winter, instead we have to wait until my return to release even one.” Her thoughts were bitter now, and she could feel the tension in her jaw and neck.

A voice rang in her memories. “Don’t hold your tension in your face, it will ruin the shape.”

She sighed, breathed, allowed her jaw and tongue to relax. Her neck and shoulders followed suit. She took a moment to breath and allowed herself let go of the tension that had been building in her. Despite the intensity of laying posts, she felt rather good for how much she had gotten done so far.

She sighed harder, looking up to the sky. He was out there somewhere, so far away, that voice in her head. “And he can still command me from all that way.”

Taina shook her head, turning to lay another post.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Taina and her family sat down for dinner just before sunset. She was absolutely drained, and despite her misgivings about Batansa, she was desperate for the meal that was about to be put down before her.

Her and her father sat at opposite sides of the table, each in their own worlds. Tallas was a thin man, balding, and had such a sharp edge to him that she was surprised he didn’t cut everything he touched. Her mother, Imery, was all curves and dresses and aprons, the perfect housewife for a farmer. She moved around the kitchen with a busy exuberance, a little bee preparing her honey.

When the food was ready, they ate in silence. After it became obvious that no one was going to speak, it only hardened into a deafening shell that contained them. As far as Taina knew, they could not stop their meal or leave the table, lest the incur the wrath of Tallas. Her mother, her heart always full of light, could never be consumed by the all encompassing sharpness that was Tallas, nor his expectations.

She just did what he said without contest.

Taina… she was not like her mother in this way. In most ways except for her looks, she was like her father, more that she would probably like to admit. She was not a woman who let others dictate her fate, not if she could help it.

When the meal was concluded, she helped her mother clean up in the kitchen while her father went out into the yard to inspect her work. She tried not to let it rankle her pride, for she knew it was his own pride he was validating. It was him that had taught Taina how to lay posts.

That night, as she lay in her room, she allowed herself to relax. She undressed and put on her favorite silk robe. It was pink, patterned with the outlines of thousands of tiny lillies. The hem was trimmed in bright white, a stark contrast to her tan skin. She ran her hands over her body, reveling of the slip of silk. She posed, then rolled over to pose again.

On the chair in the corner, she imagined Pather sitting there, easel in front of him and pots of paint around the chair. His dark eyes drank her in, his full lips saying, “Roll over on your back. Lift up your legs. Look away from me.” All the while his hands directed the brushes over the canvas, capturing the essence of her in a way that no others could.

She followed each command in her head, felt the electric thrill she was so familiar with while he painted her. Being his muse… it was an indescribable feeling.

But the fantasy began to crack. The intensity of him, it was impossible to contain it all in her imagination. As soon as she distracted herself, a detail faded in her mind, and the illusion fell apart.

She sighed, slumping into her bed. She wished she was back in Yennos.

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Tale of Red Mysterium #8: Skuller I

August 24th, 2023

#8. SKULLER I

The fog of Baken Bay crept around them like the breath of a wraith. It brought with it a chill that left Skuller and his crew shivering in the night, the only thing providing light a small tin lamp suspended above their raft on a rope.

Skuller turned to his first mate, Ollo. “Snuff the lamp.” Ollo nodded, pulling the lamp down and extinguishing it, plunging them all into darkness. Skuller turned to the woman in front of him, Tasha. She was laying on her front, a rifle sighted in front of her. “When you can see the dock master, hit him,” he said. He didn’t need a response to know she would follow through.

Skuller sat back, the well oiled machine of their band gliding through the water with ease. A greyish figure began to form out of the mist, and as soon as his red salt lamp came into view, there was a quiet pop and the man collapsed.

When they were within range of the dock, Skuller jumped up and onto it, tossing a rope form the moors as he passed it, rushing to the fallen dock master.

He was quietly sleeping, knocked into a deep slumber by the enchanted pellets in the rifle. He quickly tied the man’s hands and feet together, then stuffed a cloth into his mouth. After searching through the man’s pockets, he found what he needed.

A golden key ring.

He looked again to the dock master, felt glad he didn’t have to kill him. Back in his early days… he may not have been so considerate. But now, wizened by years of tireless effort, he grew to know that life, even those of the adversary, is sacred.

His crew quietly slipped down the docks, their goal the pile of crates near the back of the stronghold looming before them. It materialized out of the fog like a headsman ready to collect his due. Each of them knew the risk of being caught, yet they all skulked confidently through the darkness.

Skuller was last, following up in the formation. Tasha led the six of them. Gnarl and Barl flanked her, followed by Ollo and Brigs. Skuller tied up the diamond, keeping an eye on their surroundings.

Tasha looked back, using hand-language to speak. “Four Guards. Group Split, Three Left, Three Right.” She shook her rifle, emphasizing non-violence.

They all understood. They split up and followed her plan, her mind most tactical of all of theirs. She led a group, and Skuller came up to lead the other. They subdued the guards surrounding the crates easily enough, and soon they were the only ones standing still conscious.

But… there was less than they had anticipated. They had been told that they would need to bring with them a few Bottomless Bags, yet what was here could barely fill one. Each of them showed clear confusion, Tasha swearing at the realization.

Skuller looked around, alarmed. For a tense moment, they all searched for unseen assailants, ready to ambush them and capture them. Yet, the longer they looked, the more they realized that this place kind of looked run down. That no attackers were coming.

Skuller shook his head, motioning to the crates. “Let’s grab what is here and get out.”

It did not take them long to fill up and return to their skiff.

* * * * *

“Barely a quarter! Not even enough to cover the fetch fee.” Tasha slammed her fist onto the table’s surface, causing everyone’s drinks to tip. Skuller caught his glass, looking at her annoyed.

They sat within the Mead Hall of The Cove. It was a small place for a hideout, yet they could fit at least 9 separate buildings inside the sea grotto. It was a veritable town in there.

Skuller was looking at Tasha. Despite her skill and abilities, she sometimes erred too close to his realm of decision making, speaking like she was the leader of the crew. Of course, that wasn’t the case.

He decided it was time to remind her.

“You know, we could just give your cut to the fetch if you won’t stop your complaining,” he said nonchalantly. He took a long swig of his glass, her face growing still, then slowly hot with rage. He shrugged. “Or, if you want to act like an adult, you can listen to what I have to say.”

She tried to retort, but he cut her off with a slam of his hand onto the table. “Did you find us this job? Have you found us any job? Have you ferried anything to the fetch before?” There was a long pause, each of the answers a clear no, yet the anger grew only more pronounced on her features. Skuller continued talking. “Tasha, you are unparalleled with a rifle, and you have a great mind for tactics, but you don’t even know what the fetch fee is going to be.”

He looked to the others, their faces showing different levels of discomfort or amusement. “We each will get a payout with what we pulled, but the plans to improve the Cove will have to wait. After we get the money, I want to know why this happened.”

Tasha scoffed. “A bad lead obviously.”

Ollo shook his head. “Skuller said it came from Yussuf. Has he ever lead us wrong?” They all shook their heads.

Gnarl, absentmindedly scribbling down on a page, suddenly looked up. “Leyline closures?” he asked. Barl nodded enthusiastically. “Must have disrupted travel.”

Brigs shook her head. “But our Leyline isn’t closed… right?”

They all looked between themselves. It had been 1 month since the closure of the Leylines to the 3 lost realms, and their neighbor had recently also been closed.

Could they have been cut off?

Skuller looked between them all, a serious look on his face. “Our fetch will trade for information, but he gives me news for free because of our history. I will ask him during the exchange.”

Skuller left the room, coming to stand outside on the balcony. He looked over the cove, the collection of ramshackle wooden buildings. It was wonderful, a thing he and a few others had built from the ground up. Well… rebuilt from the ground up after killing the pirates there.

Skuller’s younger days were much different from the ones he lived in now.

He pondered the Leylines. He had never gone through them, never would have a need, yet they were the heart of his Realm, Djirama. Without them, his realm would wither away, forced to face starvation and a life without Arkanite. The stronghold that they had just pilfered, it was a mainland center for logistics for the Palace of Tytanis. If they Leyline had been closed, it would result in the stronghold being meekly provisioned.

He sighed, allowed himself the relief of worrying about it the following day. For now, he would go in, get drunk with his crew, and celebrate another job well done.

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Tale of Red Mysterium #7: Bahkis II

August 22nd, 2023

#7. BAHKIS II

The view from the Maelstrom Mage Suite at the Height Line Hotel had unparalleled views. Nestled against a mountain near the coast, the penthouse apartment had a full view of the bay to the south, the luscious pine forest that surrounded the town, and the beautiful, setting sun.

Bahkis was reclining in a comfortable chair, its polished wood warm against his skin. He wore a summer outfit, shorts and a loose shirt, for in this realm, Prallos, it was always warm weather. The sun shown brightly above him, the rooftop garden a perfect hide out from the hotbed of tourism below.

The Height Line was his sanctuary. It was a place of reprieve from the machine of bureaucracy that was the Institute.

“The Institute,” he sneered within. “How far it has come from its origins.” Bahkis’s thoughts were aggressive, negative, deeply at odds with his placid surroundings. He was perturbed more than usual. Without his finery and fancy medals, the jewelry and the wealth, all that remained was his dissatisfaction with the way of things.

And now the Red…

He reached over to grab a glass from the small table beside his chair. It was sweating, the ice inside having reduced by half in the short time he had been sitting outside. He sipped it, savoring the mentholated burn of the alcoholic drink. He sipped it again, then took a long swig from the glass. When he placed it back down, it was nearing empty.

He swallowed against the burn, leaned back in his chair and covered his eyes with an arm.

“What could we possibly do to fight against the Red… those fools.” Images of his last meeting with the Dreamweaver Initiative filled his head. The bluster, the confidence, all of it for naught.

Few people knew what Bahkis knew, a secret that had been deliberately erased from time. This secret now weighed on his soul, almost literally holding him in place, unable to act.

Red Mysterium… it was so much more powerful than people thought.

He felt his stomach well up with disgust for the truths of the world he helped keep in the shadows. He could tell others, obviously, if he truly wanted to. But the threat it could create…

“The Crimson Era all over again,” he thought.

He grabbed his drink and finished it with an angry gulp, slamming the glass back onto the table. He sat forward, resting his face in his hands.

For a long moment, Bahkis wallowed in his luxurious chair, under the hot sun of Prallos, and pitied himself.

A young woman approached, an attendant from the Institute. She was cautious, but after it was obvious he was not going to see her, she cleared her throat.

Bahkis groaned. “What?”

She frowned. “I have a message from Arkanist Supreme.” She held up a small pouch, no doubt containing a Seeing Stone.

He frowned too, motioning impatiently for her to hand it over. When she had, he gave her an equally impatient shooing away. She rolled her eyes, turned and walked away with annoyance accenting each step.

Bahkis was shaking his head. “Should know to treat her betters well,” he thought. He disregarded her, emptied the small pouch into his palm.

It was not a Seeing Stone, but a small Chimeric Avatar in his hand.

Fear flooded his belly immediately. This was no trifle, but a powerful piece of magic that was sitting perfectly in his palm. It was a creature, no larger than an orange, composed of various different parts of many different animals. It had the head of a reptilian, but had wings like a turkey with two bat-like claws at the crook. Its body was that of an ape, and its legs like that of a bull. It had a tail like a scorpion which stung Bahkis on his hand before he could react.

He dropped the Chimera, its body slumping heavily to the floor. It turned its head to look up at him as he stepped away in fear, holding the sting site. It opened its mouth and words echoed in the space around him.

“The Conspiracy reduces by One.” It exhaled a dying breath before it began to bubble away into black and white vapor. Soon, it was as if it had never been there.

But Bahkis could already feel the poison of the Chimera at work.

He fell to the ground, clutching his hand. It was beginning to swell, the sting site bleeding. He looked around for anything at all that might help, but found that he was all alone with nothing close at hand. He had no Arkanite on him, none of his enchanted items, none of his potions.

He flopped onto his back, muscle spasms making him lose control of his motor functions. He felt a massive shiver run its way through him and he knew that, unless saved, he would die.

And unlike most people, Bahkis knew exactly why he was dying. He had been told long ago that he would be killed if he were to lose his purpose, if he were to allow himself to doubt the cause of the Conspiracy. He had agreed, a zealot and a youth with no sense of self or future beyond the call.

Now, he reaped what he sowed.

Bahkis lay there, dying under the hot sun of Prallos. He tried to summon magic, found no sources, and began to surrender to the idea of death.

But then a change began to come upon him. His mind grew foggy, began to fill with voices. He felt his body rising up even though he still lie on the rough ground beside his chair. He flew upward into the sky, and soon, as was according to plan, Bahkis was dead.

But the transformation had just begun. He lay there, baking in the heat, until small shakes began to fill his muscles. A twitch, a shake, a persistent shiver. The motion grew more and more pronounced until his entire body was vibrating like a string.

Then, like a doll learning to walk without strings, Bahkis began to stand. It was a series of jerking motions, his joints creaking against the unnatural movements.

Soon, he was standing. The sun above was all but forgotten. The Chimera, the Institute, the Red, all of it had faded away. Bahkis stood there, emptied out, enthralled with a potent death magic. The Others, those who kept the Conspiracy alive, had further use for Bahkis, the Geomancer Surpreme.

“Not…well,” he croaked out, voice rough and distrubing. “I… not well.” This time the inflection was more human, less uncanny. “I…am not feeling…” Bahkis’s voice was returning, the commanding tone that carried with it just too much entitlement.

He cleared his throat. “I am not feeling… well.” He smiled, a deathly grin that would give even the most hardened killer a shudder. “I am not feeling well.”

This thing in the body of Bahkis made its way from the roof. It descended through the Height Line, across the town, and all the way to the Leyline Portal.

Its mind was filled with only a single purpose: Find Nabras Kahn.

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Tale of Red Mysterium #1: Trand & Debrosh I

August 15th, 2023

#1. TRAND & DEBROSH

It was the type of hot summer day that adhered to the body, trapped it like a fly on glue. Trand could feel every crease in his shirt, every place it clung too tightly to him, soaked through with sweat. The thin cotton was saturated by now, and he could feel the perspiration dripping from him with each swing.

He sunk the pickax into the hard soil, pushed against it to break the dirt. He lifted, he brought it down, he pushed it to break the soil. It was monotonous, yet the tireless work never let his mind dull. Each impact of the pick jolted his arms, reawakened the ache in his back. Even his hands felt each hit with a peculiar sharpness.

The chain around his ankle didn’t help him find balance for such work, neither did the constant tugging from the other workers along the line.

Trand sighed. “There is little reward for the truth.” He said the words quietly, but even their muffled sound, covered by the clanking of picks and the rattling of chains, was enough to fill him with regret. If the wrong ears heard…

A crack of energy flew by him, and for a moment he thought that his life was over, that the magus had finally had enough of his sullen words. But the red bolt soared past his head, and he saw it strike a worker near the end of the line. The man convulsed, hand gripping at his chest, and then collapsed in place as his whole body sagged.

Trand looked away, stomach roiling inside. He was not surprised, none of them were. Life, it seemed, was just as arbitrary as death. But he couldn’t stop the well of sadness that brimmed over in him then. The man who died was named Horus. He was only 20.

Trand kept his eyes low. He didn’t need to see the magus who did this to know what they looked like. It was Yera, a witch of old nightmares. Face obscured by her hood at all times, anyone only saw the flare of red fire in her eyes when she used her magic. A thought came unbidden. Ever since the Red came back…

Trand shook his head. He took a deep breath, kept his gaze low, and focused on breaking apart the soil. Some things, he determined, were simply outside his control.

* * * * * * * * * * *

Trand stripped the cloth from his body with little hesitation. He was off the field, back in the barracks. His room partner, Debrosh, was already inside, laying on a canvas cot with an arm draped across his eyes.

Debrosh was thin, wiry muscle and sinew across his entire frame. He was tall, though, legs hanging off the cot in familiar discomfort. Despite his petite stature, he contained a deep strength from years of swinging a hammer, having worked his life away in a blacksmith shop.

Now, he worked for the Tulaarans whenever they demanded.

Debrosh lifted his arm, looking Trand over. “Didn’t get killed I see.”

Trand shrugged. “Horus wasn’t so lucky.” He reached into the small trunk at the foot of his own cot and pulled out the thinnest pair of shorts he had. He quickly changed, not looking at Debrosh.

Debrosh recovered his eyes, shaking his head. “Horus was like you, couldn’t keep his mouth shut while working.”

Trand shrugged again, coming to lay out on his cot. Unlike Debrosh, whose legs hung well off the end, Trand was fortunate enough to find the cot moderately comfortable. It wasn’t like his bed back in…

The thought sent a cold shock through his gut. More thoughts followed, images of fire and burned down houses, the smell of burnt flesh and acrid smoke. “There is no bed there anymore,” he whispered within his soul. He dare not say the words aloud, for the truth of them would surely destroy Trand.

He took a deep breath, sighing through the pain that gripped him. Debrosh looked over for a moment, but then looked away. The silence that followed was one that all the captured Purans who now lived and toiled at the Tulaaran Labor Camp. He could never remember what they called this place in their strange language. Tullus? Tyulis? He stopped caring then, knowing that whatever the Tulaarans called this place, the name represented one of the many demonic, evil ideals that they all worshiped.

Trand turned over to look at Debrosh. “Do you think the Tulaarans will ever let us go?”

Debrosh sat for a moment, and Trand wondered if he was being ignored. After a long silence, Debrosh sighed. “Have you ever thrown away a pair of scissors that still worked?”

Trand didn’t fight the hopelessness that filled him then. Based on what he had seen, it was an apt description of their scenario.

As far as any of them were concerned, they were property of the Tulaaran Arcanaucracy.

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