10 - 1 [Magus] The Slaughter of Sparrows Brings Black Tidings

The Gods desire not sacrifice but rather steadfast love. Theirs is not the need for burnt offerings or broken idols, but instead the want for spirit and adherence to kennen sacren.

Take heed in holy instruction, not in the cold comfort of silver. Take upon the bosom of knowledge rather than choice gold.

Fear of the Gods is the root of all knowing. To not take heed of Them and Their Omens, is to tempt the wayward eye of fire.

-Mandatos Solohmon, Holy Scripture of the Cult of the Wise-King

The Blue Priestess of Berrowden - 1st of Evening Star, Year 1125 A.E.

Emilia listened in rapt attention, taking not a sip of her piss-poor teh as she heard the sellsword sorcerer’s tale.

Whenever he lacked word for his magicks, she explained a tiny bit and gave name to the phenomena described—‘bind them to the breath’, as Barry had so rightly put it.

Emilia could not help but shine a light on the sellsword’s ignorance; her very faith was based upon the spreading of proper knowledge.

The Crone lay in the herbalist wise woman at the edges of the village that treats common maladies and pains. The Crone lay in the medikers and menders that walk from city to city to cure the masses and administer innoculation against the various malices and poxes. The Crone lay in the letterer-teachers and maesters of natural philosophy that lecture the low and highborn respectively.

The Crone lay in the hearts of those that took upon themselves the seeking and sowing of ken. The light of knowledge, known as enlightenment by the Priesthood Mahneanic, was to be brought forth no different than gospel and good news.

And so, the Priestess explained basic magicking terms and vocabulary to her newfound ward. The sort of knowledge apprentices of the Art learned under their master-wizards and acolytes were taught by their superior clergymen.

Mana, the substance of spirit and essence of existence and divine clay of the gods Themselves. The pronunciation varied anywhere from manna to mahna, having the same root word as the Heavenly Sage Herself; Mistress of Kennen Fruit and Patron Goddess of Magedom, be it the magicking of Sevenfold miracle or Academy spellcraft.

The Three Basins—the cavities of the subtle body or spirit—major internal spirit-organs wrought of mana and responsible for its storage en mass. Each was bound to a general physical locus in the body—an abrangent and diffuse area of dominion—and had a single point of cotermination; where flesh and spirit met to become one: navel, sulcus, and glabella.

The pathways mahneanic—often called meridians or channels— transported essence throughout the bodies. Subtle musculature coated the insides and outsides of these spirit-veins, endowing them with the ability to constrict and expand in conjunction with the breath, the blood, and the movement of the physical body.

The aura, the skin of the spirit and most superficial of the spiritual skeins—connective tissues of reality-in-between—that could interact with the Physical. This organ of the spirit was the most used for magicking in general, being the medium by which nigh all mages interacted with mana.

The Dual Realms of Being, specifically the rough differences between the Physical and Spiritual. One could be touched directly with but flesh and bone, yet the other was only accessible by way of magick.

This included the differences of the delineation of spatial-temporal fabric; what was space and time (in generalities), their functions in the Physical, and their warped nature whilst in the Realm of Spirit.

Bit by bit, morsel by morsel, the sellsword was fed knowledge of the arkane; not pure arkana borne of meditation upon the Wheel and long practice of the Art, but instead simple words to convey meaning.

Emilia avoided regurgitating too much information at once, lest she drown the poor lad in indigestible ken. Such was an important principle for effective teaching of any kind: most people could not assimilate knowledge that was not broken down into manageable chunks.

Like how most mammalian species required the use of enzymes and probiotica to dissolve sustenance into the proper size for intestinal absorption, especially in the case of herbivores, kennen had to be rendered just the same.

Not dissimilar to certain races of bird that regurgitated partially-digested nourishment to feed their mewling chicks; the babes simply did not possess the ability to chew or even properly process whole food.

How fitting that the Crone’s signs and omens are ravens and owls; beasts of higher ken that employ regurgitation and other methods of breaking down sustenance to rear their fledglings.

If only my comparison weren’t so…crass.

“Apologies, Mistress.” The Priestess said under her breath.

She swore she heard a twinkling and creaky bout of laughter from somewhere very far away; a distant itch on her awareness that might have not ever been there at all.

A whisper on the wind that could be either nothing of note or something more.

Emilia Forentes hoped that such was a fabrication of her insomnia-raddled and strained mind after having heard of the slaughter o’ the Sparrows.

Those touched by the gods did not live peaceful or calm lives.

Hells, most did not live at all after gaining such grand attention.

For all Their higher status in the Wheel, for all Their holiness, Emilia knew damn well that to catch the eye of the Divine directly was to tempt the wayward eye of fire with dry kindling in the drought months.

Like a tyke finding a curious insect and then pulling it apart with barely an ounce of their strength, such was the fate of those touched by the gods.

The Red Sparrow - 16th of Last Frost, Year 1125 A.E.

Deoch, having had his lads and lasses scour the outsides of the keep to his liking, found himself with a sizable force ready to storm the gates that separated courtyard ruins from abandoned kaer proper; or castle, as such fortifications were oft called in the South.

The tongue, though still Kedweni in spirit, was strange in these parts so far down the River Ydden that cut the Four Corners of Kedwen in twain. To Deoch’s ears, the speech was too flowery, too much like some Valencian-speak or a Floreni’s haggle.

It brought forth dissonance, of lutestrings untuned and nails clawing at gritty stone hewn. It was unease so strong it made the brow crease and the teeth grit and the muscles of the face clench in wincement; the feeling of wrongness a physical force just as apparent as the waft of heat that emanates from flame.

Dissonance laid not just in memory past of spoken things, but also in the present. In things seen that Deoch wished he had not the sight to witness.

In bodies desecrated and defiled, broken and remade in ruin for some meaning arkane that a simple mercenary captain could not parse. Deoch was not Stregor, he gave magick—be it black or white—a wide berth.

To play with the fire that was magick arkana was to tempt the godlings of Fate, or—Heaven’s forbid and Seven forfend—Fata Morgana Herself. The Lady of Pearls, She Who Weaves Web Atop the Willow Tree.

The Wayward and Prodigal Daughter of Fortuna and She Who Tempts with Honeyed Word and Shiny Things. The Magpie Fairy of Trickery Most Twisted.

All of the bansidhe’s titles spoke of Her cunning and willingness—nay, sheer need—to bring about misfortune. The Red Sparrow was no fool to tempt the Fates by dabbling in hedge magickery.

Deoch made a cross of penitence on his chest to ward off the foul things and black tidings that were to come. Oriath be willing, they would cull whatever warlock that had made this far away place their den and then retrieve Stregor—be he alive or already far gone down the River Pallus unto his next life.

We’s gots laddies on the sides, waitin’ to enter through nooks and cranies for a good ole’ pincer, Deoch told himself to assuage his nerves. It helped not, his tongue dry and his blood cold.

Yet, being ready or not; being calm or not, also mattered not. Often, violence gave a man just enough strength to fight, indifferent to martial skill. Bloodrush was a helluva druggae and all that.

Deoch inhaled and then sputtered out air slowly, in accordance to the Flowing-River Breath. Just because he was gambling on the rush of battle and the lust for sunder did not mean a bit o’ calm wouldnae help.

Stregor had taught him that. That man was the Alba to his Erebus, the stillwaters to Deoch’s rushing rapids. The calm and discerning eye to the storm of person that the mercenary captain was.

The Red Sparrow signed in hand as he called in birdsong.

The Lone Sparrow - 1st of Evening Star, Year 1125 A.E.

Barry breathed in slowly, desperately. It was an act of measured and controlled panic.

By simply touching upon those memories and speaking them out into the air, was to prod a wound raw and inflamed.

It hurt his chest in a way that should not be possible; there was no blade piercing his breast, so why did it pain him so?

What were these claws that ripped their way out from the confines of his heart?

Barry had an inkling of ken as to the pain he felt; he knew, partially, its reasoning and source:

The spirit was merely flesh-made-simple. The spirit hurt, and so the flesh hurt, too.

Or something similar.

Barry was not entirely sure where the mind began and the spirit ended. He was so very new to the magicking and arkane arts. But a few days ago, he was a simple, nine-damned sellsword for Oriath’s sake—scholarly pursuits were never foretold on his path. Much less magick and sorcery.

Focus, he chided no one but himself in a voice dripping with steel. Barry’s mental tongue lashing took the same tone and cadence as Stregor reproaching a new Sparrow for their follies done in battle.

Make fetters of breath.

The Flowing-River took Barry in its twists and turns, bringing the messy debris and driftwood of his thoughts along a single direction; recounting the end of his family-found.

He was put into chains, bound to relive it all as if he were once again back there on that wretched day.

Amidst the ash and body marred with the dust of his kith, the Lone Sparrow told tale of how he had earned the name.