The calm before the storm was always the worst part of any battle.
Dying was easy; waiting for death was not.
Baethen occupied his notch before the final battle with this rung’s dæmon with training and camaraderie, his status as one of their own returned though not without its scars. There would ever be a distance between him and them for the simple fact that people were scared of the Devil for good reason.
And She had her roots in Baethen real deep.
He hadn’t yet had cause to drink too deeply of the arcana of worms but Baethen knew it was not to last. Violence had a way of bringing the worst out of people which was perhaps nothing more than a truism but Baethen still felt mighty wise thinking that nonetheless.
His training focused on wielding his breath as a weapon of war.
Should he call upon his arcanums, Baethen could unleash a gout of burning balefire the likes of which bordered on dragon-breath rather than the pale imitation of worm’s flame. Ghostlight and miasma entwined to dole out death at a scale that Baethen hadn’t been able to beforehand.
Though card-chains were sometimes stronger than the sum of their parts, they could not beat a card collapsed from them wholesale. Although Baethen lost the versatility of being able to wield the cards individually, his power had deepened in raw force and potential.
Though ghostlight did not interact with non-living metal, it did rust Behemoth’s maw owing to Baethen’s blood flowing through it. The card extended its protection to the arcana of death and desolation only to the {Player}’s body, not their spilt blood. The war-suit was not a true, living thing though it neared that state of being due to the cinnabar that circulated through it. Another card, perhaps one to do with imbuement like [Echo-of-Alabastron] could push the Deific-Tarot to recognise Behemoth as an ensouled artefact similar to [Pagats-Shadow]. Cards were shards of spirits and souls, afterall.
To curtail the damage, Baethen lined the interior of Behemoth’s maw with what amounted to an unholy union of a horse’s bit and shoes. The plate of dead metal was not welded to the main mass through which ichor flowed, instead inset with iron thorns into the war-suit’s hard palate. This way, ghostlight wouldn’t corrode the helm as much when Baethen opened it a notch to let out a gout of miasmic fire.
With his breath weapon sorted out, Baethen returned to his first and most dependable tool: his sceptre. He’d been neglecting the sword-spear in favour of Behemoth but he was Helsbent on changing that tune right quick.
Most often, Baethen imbued [Kindlers-Breath] and [Cycle-of-the-Crucible] into his sceptre’s blade. The combination was stable enough on its own to withstand battle without worry for exploding shards of bone and sorrow-steel—damascene was a right-hardy metal, perfect for enchantments and ensorcellings of all kinds.
Working in tandem with [Lesser-Juggler-of-Fire], the duo of cards enhanced any forge-spells cast through the sceptre, amplifying flame and binding metal—it was the basis of the molten-lash card-chains he’d employed to send out crescents of burning slag to cremate the gobs. He’d had the duo within his sword-spear since stepping foot in the Feywilds but now he felt there was a need for change.
It wasn’t a lack of power but rather of execution as was demonstrated with the gobs but not with the boggart. Baethen needed an extra vector for attack when all else failed given the feyry propensity for esoteric vulnerabilities. The maleficar had been all-but impervious to damage until he had broken its barrier of moth’s wings.
At first, Baethen had the idea of making disposable sceptres, each one prepared to explode at a moment’s notice but then decided that was too foolish, even for him. Then, he thought of making more weapons, one for each situation he could think of but that would be far too difficult to fold into even unarmoured combat let alone wield while also piloting Behemoth.
In the end, Baethen decided on a mix between the two previous iterations, but for that he needed Escoriot’s help and the man was a miser when it came to his time and trust.
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“No.”
Baethen expected that so he brought with him a blank slate sceptre and just said: “Watch and then I’ll ask you the question again.”
“The answer will still be—”
Down came the hammer, burning with a fire that rivalled a forge.
“[Open Thine Eyes].”
Baethen’s grasp on the Language was tenuous at best. He did not know many Words-of-Power as was required with grand workings, instead simply propping up his will with Omniglot rather than using the Words to their full effect. A proper magus might’ve made the sceptre sprout eyes and even endowed it with a soul.
Instead, the long stave swirled with veins of ember, the already-carved images of eyes lighting up as gnostic-glyphes smoldering within his mind’s eye.
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Artefact-Card Forged: [Herald-of-Sights-End] ★
Draw: [One-of-a-Kind]
Drawback: [To-Reveal-is-to-Destroy]
Arcana: [The-Sceptre], [Fire], [The-Eye]
Number: [XIII//XX]
Suit: [One-at-Dice]
Gnosis Φ: [‘The Eye of Alunariat knows all secrets just as Nagalfaram abhors all falsehoods’. This {Artefact-Card} possesses {Minor-Dominion} over the {Arcana-of-Blindness}, {Imbuing} its {Vessel} with the power to {Reveal} the {True-Form} beneath {Illusions}. For this {Artefact-Card} to be {Brought-Into-Play}, the {Player} must {Strike} a {Illusion}. After this {Artefact-Card} is {Brought-Into-Play}, it is {Discarded} from its {Vessel}, thus {Banished} to {Babylon}.]
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Baethen had echoed [Strike-While-the-Iron-is-Hot] and [Clouded-Fiefsight] into the artefact, already knowing that a mixture of the two would produce something that would banish illusions—a necessity in the Feywilds that he used many a time lest he fall where he thought solid ground lay.
For the inlay, Baethen had used gold, the metal’s connotations to the arcana of light and truth further reinforcing the chance to produce what he wanted. He was no arteficier that could wring cards into being inside of arms and armour and neither could he make true relic-cards like those found within an Evergaol but this was the closest any of the cadre would get until they brought death to the archdæmon at the Tower’s heart.
[Herald-of-Sights-End] was a long needle that tapered to a point where it would meet with the ground, hollowed-out so that something could fit within.
Baethen flipped the sceptre in his hand and then extended it to Escoriot.
“Whether or not you take me up on my quest for you, this is yours as a reward for your teachings. Just be sure to inscribe a brand-of-sloth upon it lest the spell falter at midnight.”
The cantankerous shield-warden scoffed at the reference to the feyry-tale of Cindrillan but otherwise made no move to take the artefact.
“When were you gonna share this ability of yours with the rest of us?”
Baethen almost smacked the man with the damned thing. The operative word being almost.
“Tell no lie, I want to break this thing in two over your dense head.”
Just before the Lieutenant shot back a scalding retort, Baethen lifted a palm.
“Trust is not given but earned—you told me this yourself, Escoriot. What have you done to earn mine? You of all people should know better than spit upon an yggrdrazil branch.”
A thousand words died on his tongue just as soon as they were born. The shield-warden really did not like Baethen and saw him as nothing more than a reckless, fool-hardy lad which, though accurate, was a too-simplistic view. You could be clever and a fool, all within a single soul.
“Very well, son. Seems you’ve taken my lessons to heart, truly. To throw my own words back at me is no mean feat.”
“O’ course it was no mean feat; you barely talk in the first place so there are little words to be thrown back in the first place.”
He let out a long-suffering sigh before he relented but relent he did.
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The main problem of [Echo-of-Alabastron]—beyond, of course, the [True-Name] drawback—was that its simulacra decayed with time. All simulacra, by definition, were but temporary echoes destined to die. Though powerful, they were short-lived—copying all properties of a card but none of its permanence, but pale shadows upon shifting water.
With Escoriot’s skill in binding, that drawback was null and void. A few well-placed rune-brands could make an imbued sceptre into a near-replica of an artefact, the card entrapped within its amber preserved for so long as the physical {Vessel} remained.
Since the artefacts could be stabilised, more cards could be added into each before they reached the critical threshold for implosion. Escoriot could also tweak the runes just so, reading between the lines to make what amounted to magical triggering mechanisms like an invisible steeljaw trap.
Though Woedenites were loath to employ any contraption wrought of infernal sulphur, even Escoriot was chomping at the bit to get his hands on the newly-minted torch-bombs. Each one was strong enough to take out a good chunk of soil, having specialised flavours of arcana so the cadre would cover the gamut of weaknesses that the coming dæmon could possess.
Baethen hadn’t told the others of his enchanting capabilities beyond Tratvgar and now he shared the fruits of his labour freely, enhancing whatever equipment they gave him with whichever cards they entrusted him with. Though Baethen could only imbue sceptres, Escoriot and Haviershan could mould the artefacts into other forms so long as they fit with the imbuement—as a result the limit of strain available was reduced so only a single card could be placed upon certain pieces of kit.
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Baethen almost shed a tear when Haviershan trusted him with the [Gaolsaint-Idol]. Unfortunately, it hadn’t been possible to replicate the seraph slumbering within, the card resisting any efforts to imbue it into a sceptre. Made sense given its level of divinity.
Now having access to a greater library of cards, it was a hard pick for Baethen on which he would imbue into his gladius-bladed spear or even Behemoth though he could layer on more than a single imbuement for each limb.
The best of the cards were as follows:
[Shrive-Eot] could carve furrows into any bit of substance so long as it was corporeal, so long as it was corpus. Ensign Lac used the card to augment her strikes, a signature, as it were, for her set [Path-of-the-Blade] which functioned similarly to [Cycle-of-the-Crucible], giving her control over her sword-slab through will-of-mind.
[Brand-the-Spirit] was the foundational pillar for Escoriot’s [Tablet-of-the-Eld] set, allowing him to etch those rune-brands of his upon thin air. Imbuing this into a sceptre could give Baethen access to inscriptions of all kinds, as if he were a rune-speaker or rune-smith. Just as {Word-of-Mouth} clauses
[Whisper-Slice] was the set capstone for Narancan, allowing him to control fonts of severance through word-of-mouth so long as they were not heard by another. Compounding cards related to the Language had a cumulative effect and might make the coming battle with the boggart easier as Baethen could bait the goblyn into discourse in the Language only to slit its throat with a well-timed whisper.
[Varunas-Living-Cloak] was not, unfortunately, able to be imbued at Baethen’s current power. Though only three stars, the complex spirit that dwelt within it was too much for him—not dissimilar to the same problem with [Gaolsaint-Idol]. Tratvgar would keep his familiar for the moment.
[Sup-Upon-the-World-Root] instead was available and drew from the life-force of plants so as to {Empower} the player. The Feywilds was lush with flora and verdor so such a card could further strengthen Baethen along with [Throat-of-Salamadara] as he doled out death.
In the end, Baethen chose all four cards: [Shrive-Eot], [Brand-the-Spirit], [Whisper-Slice], and [Sup-Upon-the-World-Root]. With Haviershan and Escoriot around to help him stabilise the magicks therein, he could forge something he could not otherwise forge by himself.
Huddled over a ritual circle inscribed with runes, at the centre of which lay a crucible of molten gold, three men chanted, two in the Language and one in the sailor’s tongue of swears as the heat scalded his fingertips. While Baethen spoke, Escoriot wrote, their spell long since having been practised until either of them could recite it in their sleep.
“[Hearken] O child of Babylon, [Mend] thine broken self [Whole] once more. [Rouse] O child of Babylon from the sleep of thine Father’s demise. [Awaken], O child of Babylon for wayward brothers, poisoned by the poison of shadow, await the [Cold-Mercy] that only death can bring.
“[Come], open thine eyes O child of Babylon for the [Scales-of-Retribution] balance upon the [Fulcrum] of thine [Blade] alone; there is no vengeance but that which is wrought by thee, O [Blade-Alone].”
Baethen’s mastery over the God-Tongue could only affect things like heat and the like and he’d been limited to Words-of-Power that had to do with fire and forge before climbing the Evergaol with the cadre. Now, though his reach was still constrained to swelter and flame, his tongue could weave many more Words, stunds of contemplation upon the arcana and repetition of praxis showing their worth.
So long as he could weave the spell back into his domain of smithing, he could Speak Words-of-Power otherwise impossible to him through [Imp-of-Serpents]. This was not a moment of power through revelation like with his card-collapse incited upon cursing the goblyns and exterminating them utterly, but instead the culmination of dedicated study and application of theory and help from his fellow man.
With each Word, he brought down the hammer with cinders trailing its wake, enunciating with the deep speech of the anvil as much as that of the mortal tongue. Baethen finished the incantation with a single command, a single Word that he felt reverberate down to the bones of his very soul: “[Rage]”
Next, Haviershan tipped the chalice that held the threefold blood offering atop the sword-spear. [Strike-While-the-Iron-is-Hot] set the final score, the hammer melting into liquid slag with the last strike to join with the crucible.
The gladius—set atop a small anvil of damascene that stood in the middle of a crucible of molten gold like an isle circled by storm—opened a single eye at the centre of its fuller, the wires of purest aurum that wrapped around it sinking in. The flames that licked at the blade turned cerulean blue, the concentrated magicks changing its aspect such that the Damasc pattern weld became an iridescent Bifröst.
No doubt that was Phantasmagoria’s influence, that.
From the short-blade’s pommel grew seeking roots that wrapped around the handle of behemothsbone, entrenching itself to become a sword-spear proper. From the crucible below, streamers of molten-gold ribbons wove around the entirety of the weapon so that it shimmered a beautiful platinum amber.
The azure flames still yet burned upon the sword-spear’s form, heatless and with shadows of incomplete rune-brands within. With his mind’s eye open, Baethen scried the weapon’s name and soul.
It was disaster, the blackest of stars that would rival even Death’s Usher, Cepheus.
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Artefact-Card Forged: [Cruciata-the-Curse-Fire] ★★★
Draw: [Three-of-a-Kind]
Drawback: [Poison-of-Shadows]
Arcana: [Wyrd], [Fire], [Curses]
Number: [XIII//XIX]
Suit: [Triumph]
Gnosis Φ: [‘Babylon, Babylon, how far you’ve fallen. Once the mightiest of the Twenty-One, you were struck down for reaching beyond the heavens; thus, you were hollowed out and made to be trodden upon, a broken Tower, now but Babel’. This {Artefact-Card} possesses {Major-Dominion} over the {Arcana-of-Curses}, {Imbuing} its {Vessel} with the power to {Brand} {Curses} through {Burning-Flame}. For this {Artefact-Card} to be {Brought-Into-Play}, the {Player} must {Burn} a {Sigil} upon another {Player}’s {Cast-Shadows} with the {Artefact-Card}’s {Vessel}. After this {Artefact-Card} is {Brought-Into-Play}, the {Player} incurs {Brand-of-Avarice} which {Poisons} their {Cast-Shadows} until the next {Hand} is {Redrawn}.]
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To reveal was to destroy and so upon reading its gnostic-glyphes, the weapon broke in three: a blade, a stave with a blossom-shaped head, and a fourfold cross-guard—all ebbing in invisible, formless etheric winds. Each was a distinct relic-card, wrought of a strange and fey-touched metal that seemed to be covered in an unguent of stone-oil but was dry to the touch, its skin dancing with rainbow flame that burned cold.
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[Cruciata-the-Curse-Fire] ★★★ ({Three-Card-Set} {Artefact} - {Unlinked})
[Budding-Bifrost-Blossom] ★★ ({Single-Card} {Relic} - {Unlinked})
[The-Blade-Alone] ★★ ({Single-Card} {Relic} - {Unlinked})
[Fourfold-Cruciform] ★★ ({Single-Card} {Relic} - {Unlinked})
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The danger of artefact-cards and relic-cards was that once a man died, they were guaranteed to be taken by the killer by right of conquest; the Deific-Tarot rewarded wars fought upon the axis of artefacts.
For that simple bit of fact, envy’s green evil-eye reigned supreme. The Gods might scorn Scaduphomet yet still They played with the Devil Their little game, scheming just as deeply and insidiously, inciting just as much if not worse violence to rage across the Board, war ravaging countless lives as men and women and sybilant alike raped and pillaged with the righteous justification that the Gods willed it so.
Suffering, pain, despair left in Their unseen wake.
A convocation of angelic hymns blared through the ears of the three men like the trumpets of Judgement Himself and they came to know true terror that beggared that of Ruination’s presence and even of the nameless thing that dwelt within Baethen’s shadow.
Awoken gods were scarier than those that still yet slept.
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Hearken, the [Dealer-of-Fate] stirs awake at the {Player(s)}’ {Act-of-Creation} within the {Cast-Shadow} of the [Realm-of-Phantasmagoria] invested into the {Second-Rung} of the {Akashic-Tower} of {Al-Rethôm}! As {Eldest}, [Fata-Morgana] takes {Rearhand} as {Dealer} and plays {Nudge-the-Odds}.
Scouring [Rota-Fortuna] for compatible {Cards} […]
Compatible {Cards} found; shuffling probabilities set to {[Base]: [Three]} over {Mean} […]
Shuffle complete, {Card: [Curse-Fire] ★★★} {Drawn} and {Dealt} to {Artefact-Card}’s {Vessel}; {Artefact-Card} put into {Vessel}.
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One by one, they fell to their knees as the presence of the demesne they inhabited opened its all-encompassing eye to gaze upon them. Baethen felt the influence press itself upon him, the baleful oppression that comes from a greater will witnessing you for the first time and the world twisting around it for you were lesser—less real, less important; a figment found wanting and easily erased should the greater will decide so.
They were ants that had crawled atop the skin of a god and had accidentally made too much commotion, awakening the slumbering intelligence of {Phantasmagoria} Itself. It was, perhaps, a tenth of a tenth of a tenth of the Tenth-Arcana’s awareness that saw them but that was almost enough to snuff out the light of their souls. The mere askance sight of a god could kill a mere mortal.
The implication was easy to grasp even as their beings began to unravel like so much rotten thread: they’d gotten Her attention and She was curious to see how’d they fare in the coming fight with the rung’s Gate-Guardian. So, Fata-Morgana the Lady-o’-Luck-and-Misfortune tipped the scales of Fate Itself, meddling such that the forged artefact would become more than it would have been otherwise, investing a card from Her personal archive the {Rota-Fortuna} into [Cruciata].
Through the meddling with destiny, the past conformed to the future such that [Cruciata] always was now as it’d been. Not merely the mind but reality itself bent before Her will. Seeing as this realm was but a figment of Her otherworldly imagination, She had greater authority over than, say, in Eot proper. Causality and universal law, within this place, adhered to Her will and Her will alone.
Whatever Fata-Morgana, Tenth of the Arcana to be born, had found in them of interest, She would have. And Her attention honed in on Baethen’s shadow, the realm warping around him like a blanket of sky.
“[Come O Brother, Brother mine.]”
Each word struck his soul like a hammer to hollow tubes of bronze, bending the foundations of Baethen ‘Sore-Loser’ Locke as the Tenth Hand sought to coax that which lay within him. Whatever clung behind the two-fold mask of pyrite did not deign to respond, uncaring and then the Goddess’ presence vanished like so much smoke, blending back into the realm but not before letting out an all-consuming tut-tut of disapproval that made Baethen want to beg for mercy.
She was playing a game with them and they were but pawns dancing to Her whims. Little gears inside a gargantuan, ineffable machination that would most likely spell their deaths through Serendipity’s own quill.
The artefact was a masterwork that would never be replicated so long as this vessel still existed—divine inspiration had guided its formation within the demesne of Phantasmagoria and so it carried with it a piece of Imagination’s Womb. The Wyrd near thrummed with its presence, making it so that even the three men could grasp the arcana of binding-and-weaving.
They’d been inside an altar-of-refuge but they’d not speak about what they’d witness.
The three men would keep their mouths shut until the next rung, knowing better than wag their tongues and tempt the literal Hand-of-Fate.
Tempt, that is, once again for they’d done so one too many times already.