The Sorcerer

Causality was a cruel, cruel mistress. The Three Weavers forever spun their webs in trickster ways. As such, strands and threads that avoided each other like the plague were destined to intertwine.

The Sorcerer had been simply taking a pleasant stroll, not a fortnight away from the Crossroads, when he felt malice on the surface of his mind. The Dreaded Gaze was always active, although in a diminutive form when not ritually cast. It quested out in the mental plane like a net, waiting for its insidious prey to fall victim to its trap.

Barry had gone out of his way to avoid brigands. He knew he couldn’t stop himself if he caught wind of them. He avoided the smaller bands that only threatened for coin and didn’t stoop so low into depravity. He went so far as to scry them more thoroughly with a fully opened Eye of Doom each time. Rarely was there too much blood on their hands. Their consciousness and minds didn’t hold the particular sins he looked for.

Greed.

Anger.

Lust.

Amusingly enough, he cared not for those. Everyone had them to a certain degree. The problem lied in those that let themselves succumb to their base needs, in turn not caring for the suffering they imposed upon others. The problem was never the mental animus of those emotions. It was the actions done when one gave into them without reprieve.

And so he looked for other things—sins that lead one to succumb to the great three. At its core, he quested for a mixture of malice—the intentional hurting of another for pleasure—and egotistical sin—caring only for oneself to the point where all manner of evil could be justified. These were, after all, the two main sins he focused on when he created the fell sorcery.

The other sins were just superficial vestments for the crux of what he hunted. And he hunted monsters. Though, he knew that the concept of “sin” was simply that. A conception of the mind—it made it no less real than a physical object, yet was tainted by his subjectivity.

It seemed those two sins were what he most hated. To never be able to sacrifice for another and to not care. To be able to cause harm with pleasure. Then again, he had an especially potent bloodlust. He felt it in his bones—the need to harm, to maim, to ravage.

To utterly and bitterly annihilate what stood in his path.

To take all that which was left of his foes and use it to strengthen himself further.

To kill.

Perhaps that was why he hated those two sins so much. They were a part of him, undeniable to the weave that made the tapestry of his being. Though the execution of his dark desires was considerably more moral than those of others, in the end, he was no different.

No less one of them. Yet, he could not let them live. For what did that say about him?

Will I one day succumb?

Let go and drift into what my mind tells me is natural.

Take upon the forbidden no different than Lilith took upon the Doomlust.

It seemed that Orianthian scripture came upon Barry’s mind more and more. Ever since the merging, it came without reprieve. It became hard to untangle where he started and where Charles did.

Like whispers upon the black of his mind, no different from his first sorcerous communion, came wisps of guidance.

[To want more is to lust. To lust for knowledge is the most dangerous of sins, for it brings only that which befell the first children.

[Doom.

[The True Name of the Fruit shall never be known. But, humanity has given it a fitting lumen. To lust for the knowledge of good and evil is to lust for doom.

[And yet, that is why we are here. Without folly, there is no knowing. Without mistakes, there is no advancement in skill.

[Without flaw, there is nothing.]

The words were not astringent like those of arcana. They were soft and harmonious, seeking to steer rather than to ingrain. It guided his hand rather than forcefully injected the noesis needed to do a specific act.

The speech was not a voice, more so concepts given imagery in his mind. There were no true “words,” and yet, Barry understood it all.

The Sorcerer didn’t entirely know what to make of it—perhaps it was some sage advice from Charles. So, he took them as fuel for the fire of his spirit. Even a tiny candle was better than being alone in the dark.

So little light.

The foundational workings of the Eye were foreign to Barry, as it was a sorcerous construct first and foremost. His soul-given intuition helped him only so much. What was interesting was that all of his magical senses were projected through the sorcery. His auric senses, be it the Luminous Mindsight, the Darken Sight, or the Beastial Trace, were conducted through the sympathetic pathways of the sorcery, no different than water down an irrigation canal.

Spring was in full bloom, though the air was still brisk at times. And yet, the beautiful sight was blemished by the existence of beasts without scruples. The mental plane itself felt like a web that connected to every living being. Pressure made up its color and sight, folding the mind-fabric of the plane in ways that heralded the existence of intelligent life. The Dreaded Gaze let the Sorcerer see the pressure minds put upon the Veil, marking those with Malice and Ego with a tinge of black.

Well, tinge it was not. It was a leaden ball the color of abyssal nothingness from which came waves of black, like smoke from a recently smothered flame.

The Sorcerer hung on the bark of a very thick oak, the shadows blanketing him as one of their own. He watched a group of five brigands in their camp. Three had very little waves of darkness rolling off their minds. It was middling, a few droplets of blood. An eye turned, a little silver taken.

Now the other two. They were black-hearts through and through.

The darkness that wafted from the two focal points of pressure came into the sympathetic pathways of the Eye of Doom. They conducted through them and into the Sorcerer. The feeling no different than abyssal fire from the Nine Hells festering through his veins.

To feel evil was to truly taste it. To hunt for it, one needed to know the abyss intimately.

The Sorcerer knew it in spades. His immortal soul was the manifestation of such a force in its entirety.

Barry could feel the Sin rune digging inside his mind, festering like thousands of maggots concentrated in a single point. The concentrated point came unbound, separating into lines that formed other symbols.

Greed.

Malice.

Anger.

Ego.

Lust.

The sigils came unbidden into his mind, drawn with vibrant colors of their representations. Greed—a circle with a point in its middle—was gilded in burning gold leaf. Malice—a circle with a cross above—was shining silver like the reflection of a blade. Anger—a lemniscate, the symbol for infinity, with a cross above—was dark crimson, the color of spilled blood. Ego—a hollow circle—was blinding abyssian black, the color of a voidmoon.

Lust—a crescent moon with a pentagram inside its curve—was purple, the color of the Fruit of Knowledge. The symbol itself was plastered upon all temples of Elaria throughout Lesser Kedwen.

And it shone like a beacon together with Malice and Ego.

But, it was not only those two who had black in their souls. The other three had their own devils and demons.

One was a middle-aged man, his face marred with the harsh kiss of Solaria. His mind, tinged in waves of grey, pulsed with two sins.

Greed and Ego.

The rest were unremarkable, the two knaves barely past their fifteenth winter. A bit of greed, some lust, yet barely enough malice and ego. Not enough fat to coat meat in the larder.

The band were dressed in a mixture of rag and cloth. Some higher-quality yet blood essence still clung to the fabric. The Tide told no lies. Well, perhaps it wasn’t so honest. At least, it didn’t obscure the truth of mortals to a sorcerer.

Their weapons, mostly falchions and a single shortsword. Either the wielder was a registered commoner or a disgraced minor lordling, or they simply took the blade from one.

Noble blades were not for the hands of a serf.

The Sorcerer waited patiently, not a single muscle moving nor tendon creaking. If only they knew of what stalked them right above their noses. He took in all of their peculiarities, studying their habits no different than the gods above amused themselves in the follies of mortals.

No different did he judge their sins.

They had looked up several times, and yet they saw nothing. For there was nothing to see. The forests this far south were thick and dense, and shadows abundant.

Solaria plunged beneath the firmament as Erebus chased Her from the other side.

Soon, the Sorcerer would chase his prey as well.

A voidmoon hung high in the black.

The Twitchy Bandit

Wenceslas had been fidgety since midday, his digits erratic and in excess haste. He hated waiting for new marks. One never knew when their comrades might turn on them instead. And such was especially common in swindler’s droughts.

He was the oldest. They would tear him apart first.

The bridge to Charliestead had been cleared of the troll sometime in the last full turn. Perhaps a fortnight ago. Maybe more. News had yet to arrive in any of the neighboring settlements.

If lonesome travellers and caravans of the meek didn’t make haste, Wenceslas’ head would be on a pike. Staying anywhere too long was a risk. Bounty-whores and sellswords could take wind of them. Too many bodies piling up in a single region was an easy way to turn into iron in another’s hands.

Wenceslas took back to his small tent, counting out his coin. He had gathered a few shillings and pence in the last moons. Mostly just cutting off the top from travellers. It was better to just take some coin and let them live.

After all, if the band killed all of them, they’d might as well be cutting their own throats.

Shillings were damn heavy things, being tiny bits of iron and all. Wenceslas needed a full-blade-and-a-quarter weight in shills to buy himself a new arm. His old falchion had gotten too rusted and weak, the edge chipped and scarred.

Just another traveller, and he’d get himself a proper blade, no third-generation hand-me-down sold because of hard times.

A true blade made of fresh steel. Like that of the chief.

The thought got his mouth watering and his digits pulsing in excitement. Yet no sound of tinkling metal came from him. Such a thing would be beckoning misfortune.

Wenceslas would even let Runt and Irek get their fun with whatever unlucky bastard was caught in their clutches. If it let him get a bigger share of coin, he’d sell his mum.

The Unlucky Traveller

Barristan and his daughter walked through the rapidly darkening forest. At the first news of the troll being slain, they ventured for a town northeast of Charlie. His foot had been lamed, and no one took a cripple for a laborer. He’d have to make his way to a smaller town and hope his middling skill in carpentry would help put food in the belly of Raphae.

She had her mother’s hair, a strain of dark blonde like blackbough wheat ripe for the harvest.

She’d turned sixteen winters last turn.

Ah, how the Twins and time change.

Barristan ruffled her hair as they walked, her right arm wrapped around him as he clutched a cane he had made himself. It was the same wood that was once part of her crib, fitting that it gave him support when he could no longer keep upright. He couldn’t bring much from home, and carrying an entire crib on his back was an impossibility.

A memento was enough. A shard of remembrance when Relika still took breath.

“Papa,” Raphae said, her voice worried as her eyes darted between the shadows. “Let us set camp. We won’t reach the southern Crossroads. Not even if we ambled along all night, would we reach there before midday of the day after the ‘morrow.”

Barristan smiled his usual proud grin. Her kedweni Common was so… complete. Not broken like his. He hated that he wouldn’t be able to afford a mentor in whatever backwater settlement they’d land in. She wouldn’t be able to marry a merchant’s son anymore.

And he’d throw himself down the blacken maw of the Void rather than leech off of her. So he never planned on that being for himself.

It was for her. It was all for her. Barristan only regretted not having enough coin to put her through an education. Perhaps then, marrying into the right family wouldn't be her only recourse for a proper winter. A winter where she still retained some fat and wasn't just skin and ivory twigs.

His smile quickly turned into a frown as his thoughts turned sullen.

Barristan felt the Call of the Grave hailing louder and louder ever since the last five cycles. His bones were weak. His sight from afar was as watered down as muddy ale. His breath caught more often than not.

“Aye, lass.” He acquiesced, his southern accent thick as elder-beard mead down the gullet. “Jus’ wish’in at ah wasunt such ah waste.”

“Oh, papa,” Raphae admonished gently, “you’re no waste. Now, let’s go find a nice dry spo-”

“My. Oh. My.” Said a grisly voice in a sultry tone. “What have we here?”

Five men came from the shadows, encircling them.

The hairs at the back of Barristan’s neck stood on end.

There weren’t supposed to be bandits in between the bridge and the Crossroads.

They were avoiding the troll, weren’t they?

News couldn’t have spread so fast, could it?

If they so easily surprised them, the brigands must’ve been watching them for long.

The circle wasn’t for him. They knew he couldn’t run.

Rage boiled in his veins, his blood coursing through him at a renewed speed. Thank the gods he taught Raphae how to use a dagger.

He would go down, but she would live.

By the gods, she would.

The Sorcerer

When the blackmoon reached its height, Barry descended upon the camp on threads of shadow. They hung him from his left arm like a web, elongating to further his descent.

There was no light for him to blot and signal his presence. Alba had averted Her gaze from what was to come.

At least two of the cutthroats were always at watch. He waited until the only two he would not kill were awake.

They were to witness.

They were to be warned.

And blood-curdling terror would be their teacher.

A blackened hand made of writhing darkness clamped around the mouth and throat of a lad. In his mind’s eye, the Sorcerer chanted, each word grim and final.

Take upon another’s Shadow in the dead of night,

Bind their spirit in the web of the hunter.

Shadow Lacquer.

The shadows came over the brigand, wrapping him in a cocoon of writhing black. The darkness morphed further, pulling the captured prey up into the boughs above. Like a sea of ensorcelled shadow, a lump of darkness slithered through the canopy.

Scream he did. Yet, no sound reached the ears of the mortals down below.

Barry could feel it through the vibrations of his sorcery. The screeches of terror would be forever bound unto his memories. To suddenly be without sight and trapped in shifting black, all while one’s spirit was clamped down and suppressed. It was a nightmarish experience, no doubt about it.

Yet, without such a scare, Barry would have to slit the man's throat sooner or later.

A few quick steps brought the Sorcerer to the next lad, and he did the same as the first, binding him to the darkness.

His twice-cast sorcery brought him down to two-thirds shade-spirit mana. His aether was still at three-quarters, though. The magic was costly in that it required much in the way of his shadowy reserves. Though his resources were mostly topped off, he still had to make this fast. Every second he held the constructs alive and stable, the longer and more mana he would burn.

The Sorcerer tugged at the spiritual strands that bound him to the shadow entities above, commanding them.

[Let them see what it is to come]

The shadows peeled back, exposing eyes wide in terror. White orbs with pinpricks of dark in a sea of writhing black. If there were any more than two sets of eyes, the sight would’ve straight out of a nightmare.

“Wakey, wakey!” Barry challenged, throwing a gout of flame from his right hand towards the tents. The canvas quickly alighted, the magical fire spreading much faster than a mundane blaze.

"Eggs and bakey!"

Screams of surprise erupted, as did three men from the flames.

“Get up, you ugly, blighted, whoresons!”

The Sorcerer breathed out slowly, letting his dark core out from its shackles. Mist bled from his lungs and body, coating the campsite in wraith-like fog.

The fires quickly died out in the darkness, letting the brigands not off without much more than the equivalent of superficial sunburns. Elemental flame did not burn as did the mundane kind. It spread faster and yet was much less destructive unless fed enough mana.

Star-fire was the exception as it was not elemental. The damn thing was celestial, its power coming from the luminous gems that glittered maddeningly up above.

Only, there was not a single star to give any semblance of light to the camp. The shadows had entirely consumed the firmament, plunging them in darkest dark.

Sound inside the cloud of wraith-mist was warped, coming from everywhere and nowhere. The chill seeped into their bones, making the bandits' limbs tremble in both fear and cold. At times, blurs and flutters darted through the blacken mist at the corner of their sight.

Whenever the cutthroats focused on the movement, the apparitions disappeared, returning to whatever nightmare realm they were borne from. The forms themselves were darker than the surrounding dark, their color a void in the black.

The Sorcerer pulled the fog back into his spirit as he chanted aloud.

“In the night, shapes and figures blend into the darkness,

“The black shrouds their contours as the serpent hides amidst the grass.

“Shadow’s Embrace.”

The wraith-mist slowly dissipated, thinning out as if it were under the sun. A man clad in black stood in the middle of the campsite. His hood was up, no glint to indicate opened eyes, clawing shadows dancing around his form. Like ripping apart a sheet of rotten fabric, holes formed in the tapestry that hung above the canopy, letting wisps of light into the camp.

Stars bled from his skin, zipping around the clearing the camp found itself in. The bolts stopped their arcs and ebb into orbs of soft light, the color of dandelions. And even with the added light, the eyes under the shadow-wrought hood were yet to be seen.

For they were not open.

“My word is thy sentence,

“And thy sentence is death.

“Moonsblood”

Fifth form: Tidal Slicer

In a wide arc, the Sorcerer unsheathed Moonsblood in the form of the Tidal Slicer from under his cloak. Its blade was sharp and definite, and yet within the confines of the shadow-steel, black danced and ebbed and flowed like ink. It was the twisted twin of damascene steel where the flowing designs were not frozen in white but instead writhing in black.

The Sorcerer sped forward, his legs pounding powerfully on the ground below. As his boots hit the earth, the shadows condensed, creating claws of materialized dark. The Forged claws gave him better traction, propelling him onward.

Inside his mind’s eye, he chanted.

From a trunk comes splitting tendrils.

Below they burrow deep.

Reach for thy prey,

And they shall be in chains.

Embracing Darkness.

Shadows condensed around the brigands’ legs, trapping their feet. Two of them tripped, but the third did not.

His blade came down on the standing black-heart, gliding through the air. It weighed nothing, being both a spirit-sword and carried by the etheric winds of the Tide given its namesake.

The bandit brought up his shortsword, intercepting the Sorcerer’s blade.

The blacken blade flowed through the sword, its shadow-steel morphing through the bandit’s block like it was made of water.

A thin line of black sped through the man’s neck, cutting mind from body without resistance. The bones might as well have been made of parchment.

Blood sank into the blade, imbuing it with the essence of vitality. It swirled inside like serpents, glowing softly like a candle wrought from scarlet.

A head, eyes open and lifeless, fell to the ground.

The shadows around the brigands’ feet dissipated, turning back into mundane dark.

One brigand ran, and the other stayed, rooted in fear.

He had chosen wisely to trust in his terror.

“Take upon another’s flesh in the dead of night,

“Marking them with the blood of thy veins.

“Hound of Ill Omen.”

The essence of blood swirling inside the sword coalesced onto the edges of its blade, shining vibrant red.

The Sorcerer swung the Tidal Slicer, a translucent copy of its edge flying forward.

As the wave of red travelled, it morphed into a silhouette of a mangy hunting hound, its muzzle frothing in the madness of the chase.

And chase it did.

The blood-curdling screams of the fleeing bandit assured the man frozen in fear that he had chosen right.

Seems I get no true blade made of steel, thought Wenceslas.

The brigand took his rusted falx and ripped it through his own throat, ravaging it in a single bound. It was an old falchion, tears and crooked teeth wrought upon its blade.

Better to be savaged by one's own hand than by another.

A man-like creature appeared from the shadows into the starlit camp. It walked on all fours, its limbs constricting no different than one under the stretching malice: tetanus. It was bloody-red, skin-flayed till raw muscle was its hide. Its teeth were visible, and so were its unblinking eyes.

Frightened orbs containing the last dregs of sanity looked at the Sorcerer.

It pleaded for death and escape from its Hells on Terra.

He brought his blade down onto the creature, severing its head.

To the Pale, ye go, wretch.

The Sorcerer then went from corpse to corpse, rifling through the spoils of battle. Spare coin and liquor and rations were taken. The rest, he touched a hand bathed in black flame. The silent fire eradicated all traces of the battle and the camp.

When the looting was done, the cocoons that held up the captured bandits dissolved, plunging them back into the embrace of Terra.

The Sorcerer disappeared from their sight in a waft of wraith-mist.

A chilling voice came from their backs, causing the hair at the back of their napes to stand on end.

“Go the nearest settlement, and find honest work.” The voice of the Sorcerer whispered calmly. “Speak no words of tonight. Tell no one of what happened. I will know.”

Two hands with the warmth of a corpse touched their necks. They felt their very spirits being trapped inside the belly of a beast.

When they finally dared to turn back, there was no one there.

Two trouser-soiled ex-bandits made their way through the forest like shambling dogs beaten to an inch of their lives.

The Sorcerer held some middling semblance of empathy for them. They were spared, after all. Yet, without this nightmarish lesson, they would’ve wrought suffering and injustice upon Aardwen. Sure, they’d be culled by a roving mercenary band or caravan, but it’d take time.

And those that suffered through rape, robbery, or murder had not the blessing of Aetheon.

A mocking smile appeared on Barry’s lips. The visage was more akin to a snarl than any image of joy.

All-benevolent my arse. No truly kind deity would let this horse shit run rampant.

That is if they were all-powerful.

Perhaps in their plane of thought, they are, yet in the prime? They hold as much authority as any other mortal.

Even after the brigands disappeared into the abyssal night, Barry still stood in the camp. Well, camp it was not, being entirely cleaned of any evidence to the contrary.

The Sorcerer had caught wind of something, a nexus of the Shadowfell. Though he had no true senses in which to gaze into the darken plane of gloom, he caught glimpses of it. In between blinks of the Dreaded Gaze, he saw shapes in the grey.

The shapes were an amalgamation of pressure and fissure, weight and worry. He felt the negative emotions hold themselves tight to the spot like possum tykes around their mum. They pierced through the Veil, digging straight into the demi-plane of apathetic shadow itself. The nexus leeched off of the planar vortice as much as the alien dimension did the same to it.

Symbiosis of a sort.

The feeling was not too dissimilar to flesh-blight flame. Yet the gloom-aspected mana had neither color nor substance in the same way the chthonian permutation did. The essence emanated cold instead of heat. Both had aspects of dark, yet one was of fire and the other ice.

The Sorcerer dug into the cold earth, his hands and flesh showing their true form. Meat, the color of dark bluish-black, and claws of abyssal obsidian erupted from under their wool. The black tore through the skin, eating away at the illusion like maggots.

A pile of bones was at the end of the grave, a single set covered loosely with a blanket of grey hide. A wooden cane sat alongside the remains. It had not rotten a bit, the wood instead retaining a bloody-red color that made it appear glossy as if some tincture of varnish had been applied to it.

The spirit inside the bones was middling at best. The soul had long since drifted away, leaving only the most base aspects that clung onto the prime with claw and fetter. A wisp of animus in a sea of endless nekrosis. No inner gate into the astral.

The skin hung taught over the skeleton, its orbs hollow and mouth exposed. The corpse was contorted and wrongly placed without proper care and respect.

Barry extended his aura over the remnant spirit, impressing calm and peace over it. The mind and the skin of the spirit were much like a lake with a dam. One only needed to open the floodgates to let loose its waters.

The candle of life pulsed briefly, injecting physic shards into the Sorcerer in response.

Fragmented memories joined his own, no more than brief flashes of sensory qualia.

Regret and shame were thick as Midian stout.

[Protect Her.]

The image of a lass of barely sixteen winters burnt into his mind’s eye. Her hair an unforgettable color of dark blonde, and her eyes amber.

[Raphae.]

It was a… strange reaction, but Barry could not fault the spirit much. A last-ditch effort to continue existing was not to be spoken ill of. And if he could and found the lass, he already had a place for her. A haven amidst the dark. Perhaps it would do.

Broken things clung together, and Barry felt himself the most broken of all. A lodestone that only attracted others like it instead of proper iron or steel.

[I shall do my best.]

Along with the words, Barry let meaning and mind through the empathetic connection.

A feeling of relief came through the mental binding, like a tightly bound fist finally letting go of its grasp.

The will that inhabited the bones and held together the spirit unraveled, dissipating into the Aether.

The hollow one turned to dust, leaving a single blood-red rod of wood behind. The Sorcerer picked up the cane in his hands-turned-human.

The blood-bound cane was infused to the brim with vitality. It pulsed with an inner life of its own. Probably an emotional anchor of sorts. This was the darken nexus I glimpsed in the Shadowfell. No doubt about it.

The magical object radiated potential. It could be a weapon against evil, a ward for the innocent, a memento for the grieving. A lump of copper that could fit any mold.

But, the Sorcerer had yet to choose. Really, it could be all three. It would be fitting to make an artefact of some sort out of it and give it to Raphae, the dead one’s daughter. Perhaps he’d get another companion against the dark. Someone else that would don arms and armor to fend off the black.

But maybe that was too much wishful thinking on his part. Not all had the disposition for his line of work. Though corporeal sex didn’t matter much when it came to magic, he supposed. He had long since burst forth from his mortal shackles. Why could others not?

Still, Barry supposed It’d be better that the lass just start anew instead of clinging onto the dead.

Barry knew he couldn’t. He would one day find the Man Clad in Black and stick his head on a pike, gods be willing or not.

The once hollowness in his heart was now replaced with an ember of smoldering wrath.

He would drag the fiend into the lowest ring of the abyssal Nine.

He had done so twice with exponentially increasing foes.

With a rapist and a Divines-possessed wraith already dragged into the Hells, what was just another warlock to him? He’d make sure the gaping maw of the abyss would be fed, if only for a turn.

Barry walked the blacken night, a voidmoon hung high in the firmament. Yet, the stars seemed to shine brighter still. Epiphany struck him as he fully realized a lesson so maddeningly obvious.

No matter if Alba was present or not, the stars still took to light amidst the dark.

A balance of black and white.

It was not just the physical and visible that he took note of. The ethereal planes connected to each other, forming a harmonious whole as well.

The Sorcerer immediately found the closest tree and sat atop its thick boughs. He sat cross-legged in a meditative pose, yet the creaking and swaying of the verdant limb didn't bother him in the slightest.

The Sorcerer was bound to the darkness itself.

Shadows did not fall.

He entered the black of his mind, his feet walking atop the grey waters of the mental plane. A step and a plunge into the bifrostian-gate brought him into his inner domain: a grey forest not unlike the glimpses he saw of the Shadowfell.

He summoned orbs of star-fire, void-flame, and bifrostian-blaze. The trinity rotated in front of him in a vertical manner. There was one more thing missing.

The Sorcerer plunged his hand made of night sky into his navel, digging out a core of abyssian black. The pain was excruciating, but he had already suffered worse. It had become routine.

The orb floated into the middle of the ensorcelled balls of flame, immovable as the firmament itself.

The Sorcerer clapped his hands together in a gesture not unlike a prayer, commanding the arcana to merge. The core of primordial dark devoured the orbs of celestial fire, adding them to its tapestry. A nimbus of black was left in its wake with a rainbow nebula swirling inside, luminous pinpricks, the colors of dandelions shone like gems, and dark stars burned amidst the void.

The nimbus floated above his palm, transfixed through whatever sorcery made his inner domain possible.

A single thought brought him to the standing stones.

Four had crumbled into dust in his presence, the vessels no longer being needed.

Another standing stone rose from greyen earth, parting the waters of the soul.

He placed his hand made of night upon its surface, imbuing the newborn arcanum into the rock.

Whispers from all around pierced his mind.

The child that walks needs no more hands to hold it upright.

Stand tall, o’ child. Thy haseth touched upon the core of the arcana passed down through generations. Darkness without light is hollow. And light without darkness is blight.

Wield the Arcanum of Black and White, its primordial dark and primeval radiance yours to command. The wisdom of the ancients is no more, for the Path has reached its recorded end. No others have ventured further.

No longer is thine power a thing of this world, but of the Eld.

Per aspera ad astra.

The whispers ceased, the veil over the sorcerous plane being lifted. Whatever will that remained inside his arcanums and soul dissipated like mist under Solaria at Her height.

Barry couldn’t help but feel… lost. The Call of Knowledge had been at his side since the start of his Path. And now, it was no more, for it was no longer needed. It was but an engram destined to do a single purpose. Barry felt it in his bones, the sorcerous intuition filling in the gaps where his mortal knowledge could not.

Perhaps the Call had once been a person, having had such a distinct speech pattern and all. And now it was gone.

And in its place came blinding light. It pierced the Sorcerer’s eyes like daggers of fulgur, branding pure arcana unto his eyes. The needles of light burned with an excruciating yet exhilarating intensity as the world turned to waves of pressure.

“To plot thine Path, thy needs sight.” Were its last words.

Sorcerous Standing Stones

The Arcanum of Black & White: The arcana of the firmament beyond.

Mana Amalgam: Eldritch mana.

Major Arcana: Primordial, primeval, darkness, radiance.

Minor Arcana: Stasis, transcendence, destruction, control.

Description: the Arcanum of Black and White is the arcanum of the celestial tapestry itself. It possesses four main aspects to which it may be channelled into. The arcanum is water, and the aspects are channels of a river. The floodgates of the soul and mind only need to be shut or open to focus onto a single aspect.

Dual aspect channeling dilutes the effects of the aspects channelled. Three or four-fold aspect channeling exacerbates arcane influence yet does not decrease the effects of the channelled aspects.

Arcane influence may be transmuted directly into usable mana according to its aspect. Transmogrification increases mana cost and burn exponentially per time used.

Take upon a balance of chaos and order. The knife’s edge is the road to enlightenment.

Aspect of Nix: The Essence of Night.

Mana Permutation: Primordial-dark mana.

Major Discipline: Manifestation.

Minor Disciplines: Manipulation, forging, conjuration, distillation.

Influence: Bends foreign magicks, especially those based on chaotic energies such as light, flame, or lightning. The control over light also applies to the mundane kind, allowing the caster to bend, subsume, or reflect it or any mana type related to it.

Primordial-dark mana is the seed of stasis, promising the cold of the void. When enough instances of and density of primordial-dark mana are present in a given loci, an Anteus Seed is conjured. Anteus Seeds are the waters of oblivion itself and allow the caster to reabsorb expended stasis-aspected mana. The Seeds are caustic and damaging to all but the caster or those they deem worthy.

Aspect of Lux: The Essence of Light.

Mana Permutation: Primeval-radiant mana.

Major Discipline: Manifestation.

Minor Disciplines: Evocation, manipulation, transmutation, distillation.

Influence: Bends the chaotic energies that bind all in the physical, be it light, flame, or lightning. Primeval-radiant mana is the seed of transcendence, promising the volatility of newborn stars. When enough instances and density of primeval-radiant mana are present in a given loci, a Nova Seed is birthed. Nova Seeds are wisps of the stars themselves and allow the caster to reabsorb expended transcendent-aspected mana. The Seeds are caustic and damaging to all but the caster or those they deem worthy.

This aspect produces two minor amalgams of mana: lightning essence and fay-fire. Fay-fire is the distilled essence of lightning, carrying with it the power of storm. Lightning mana is an etheric “fake” of the physical phenomena. Fay-fire emits tendrils of lightning as its chaotic energies try to escape. As the energy has a will of its own, it drains the practitioner’s will equal to the amount of mana present. Fay-fire is attracted to void-flame, seeking it as a lodestone does to metal.

Aspect of Vocixes: The Essence of Nothingness.

Mana Permutation: Void Mana

Major Discipline: Evocation.

Minor Discipline: Distillation.

Influence: Evokes the caustic black-blood of the void in between stars. This aspect produces but a single amalgam of mana, an acidic flame-like substance that sticks to surfaces like oil. It corrodes everything equally, be it steel or wood, yet its weakness lies in the immaterial. Spirits of living beings resist void-fire, causing it to act more like acid than a flame, slowing its consumption of flesh. The aspects of void-fire must be precisely and cautiously manipulated, for they are the vitriol of existence.

Void mana may be distilled from void-fire, creating a wisp of chaos incarnate, a Potentia Seed. Similar to grey mana or aether in that it may be easily transmuted. Yet, they differ in that Potentia Seeds are highly volatile and prone to manifesting a host of various effects.

Aspect of Astra: The Essence of Sun and Star.

Mana Permutation: Astral Mana.

Major Discipline: Evocation.

Minor Discipline: Distillation.

Influence: Evokes the luminous essence of the stars themselves. This aspect produces but a single amalgam of mana bound in the form of fire. Its fiery arcana may be suppressed to bring forth bright light instead of searing heat and flame.

Star-fire is flame condensed from the solar ichor of celestial conflagrations. It is costly for both soul and spirit. The soul must first transpose the astral arcana onto the Center. The Center must then transport the arcana into the limbs or other focal points where amorphous mana is used as fuel to bring star-fire into being. The flame itself is intensely hot, and the caster uses exponential mana per time spent in contact with star-fire. For the celestial-blaze must be contained, lest the astral energies run rampant.

Astral mana may be distilled from star-fire, creating a shard of light, a Fulmina Seed. The mana contained within the Seed is explosive in nature, much more so than star-fire.

Nixian Sorceries:

Dark Mirror - Primordial Manifestation (Dark): evokes the essence of night itself. The manifestation can redirect energy-based magicks such as pyromancies, electromancies, and astromancies. Primordial dark seeps from the Center, coating both flesh and spirit in a blacken astral mirror. All chaotic magicks are recorded and remade in the soul, waiting to be drawn upon at a later time. Fill thy mind with the essence of light.

Spell Chant - Primordial Manifestation (Dark): “Take upon the luminous pinpricks that dwell in the void, and shadows shall come. Dark Mirror.”

Shadow Double & Starlight Transposition - Etheric Forging - Celestial Conjuration (Dark - Light): creates a double of shadow, transporting one's awareness into it. Their sight and feeling are confined to the double. The double is connected to the caster by a tendril of shadow essence through the navel. If the tendril is broken, the magic is dispelled.

Whilst controlling the double, time stops when still and flows normally when moving. The double cannot physically hold anything, and most objects pass through it, but it cannot pass through solid walls. The double is seen as a dark blur in the physical.

The double can be used as an anchor point, bringing the caster forth through the veils of reality in a single bound. Large amounts of energy-dense mana are needed. As such, this technique both belongs to the domains of Nix and Lux. Starlight Transposition can be extended to any object bound with a Shadow Binding. Shadow Lacquer can be used as an anchor point for living beings but may only transpose those willing.

The double is an etheric construct bound to a physical form of shadow mist. The dark blur seen is its corporeal form, and as such, may be targeted. Antithetical mana permutations may weaken its material form and thus limit its range as an anchor point. During the day, its transportation range is heavily limited compared to the darken hours. Its mana cost can be supplanted by solar essence during the light, allowing for short bursts of transposition.

The double itself is created from shade-spirit mana, and thus, during the Forging of such a construct, one-third of the caster’s etheric mass is used. If said spirit is not reintegrated through the celestial conjuration or the shadow tendril is cut, it is lost until reclaimed. The lost etheric mass turns into a shadow entity such as that from Shadow Lacquer, waiting until it can be reclaimed by the caster.

Spell Chant I - Etheric Forging (Dark): “Take upon the luminous pinpricks that dwell in the void. Shadow Double.”

Spell Chant II - Celestial Conjuration (Light): “And shadows shall come. Starlight Transposition.”

Path of Shadows - Planar Manipulation - Sympathetic Conjuration (Dark): subsumes the caster into the plane of shadow itself. Allows one to walk between bodies of darkness, linking them together with sympathetic threads.

Shadow-walking in pure darkness does not work as shadow is a child of light and dark. It needs both to properly thrive. Considered wizardry for the purposes of casting ability. Those that wield Authority upon the Source beyond the Weave may cut thy access to this spell.

Luxian Sorceries:

Bifröstian Flame - Primeval Manifestation (Light): evokes flames condensed from chaotic energies that form storms atop metals. The fuel for fay-fire can be partially gathered from the surroundings themselves or from entirely within. The mana cost is dependent on how much free ambient charge is present.

Spell Chant - Primeval Manifestation (Light): "Drink upon the chaotic energies found in all. And light shall come. Bifröstian Flame.”

Spear of the Heavens - Elemental Manipulation - Celestial Evocation (Lightning): evokes etheric lighting from the various ethereal realms. As the spirit of tempest is channeled through the caster, its physical form is pulled in twain. This technique requires a long channel time for it to complete and cast.

Spell Chant - Elemental Evocation (Lightning): "Balance the chaotic energies found in all. And lightning shall fall. Spear of the Heavens"

Celestial Wellspring - Celestial Evocation - Manipulation - Transmutation (Holy - Light - Dark): a multi-discipline and arcane technique, combining both Nixian and Luxian fire. Suppresses the burning qualities of void-flame, releasing its aspect of combustion. As such, void-flame does not spread but instead builds-up like water upon a basin. Fay-fire can then be condensed into the dark anchor, causing the arcane energies to strike upon the void basin. Since the aspects of void-flame are not destruction-oriented and instead tuned to become a focal point, the spirit doesn’t fight it as aggressively as the primary transmutation.

Drown thy enemies in the waters of oblivion, and then burn them in the light of the heavenly bridge.

Spell Chant I - Celestial Evocation - Transmutation (Dark): “Drown in the waters of the oblivion. Darkness of the Firmament.”

Spell Chant II - Celestial Evocation - Manipulation (Holy - Light): “Burn in the light of the heavenly bridge. Celestial Wellspring.”

Eyes of the Eventide - Sorcerous Sight (Dark - Light): a sorcerous organ that allows the wielder to peer at the Weave of arcana itself. The inner workings of reality are not to be hidden from thy eyes of erebeian sclera and abline iris.

The Lunar Sight of Black and White is attuned to energy-based arcana, seeing the world as but waves of transference. Arcane influence may be transmuted to increase sensitivity to light or dark-aspected mana, acting as a limited arcane transmogrifier.

The Eyes of the Eventide are etched upon the spirit itself, taking a portion of thine aether for themselves. As such, life-flame may be channeled directly onto them, allowing sight into the Aether itself.

Open the sight of the Soul to the Weave.

The Sorcerer

All in all, four arcanums had become but one. Star-fire and void-flame. Dark-mirror and fay-flare. They melded together to form a congruent whole. The pieces were always there, yet uncombined and unrefined.

The Sorcerer had scoured the adipose of his magicks, rendering their truest self. Well, closer to their truest self, at least. It was no different than taking oil from animal fat—the arcanums had been condensed and refined into the skeleton of what they were.

Light and dark.

A tenuous balance between chaos and order.

For such power to be so close to his grasp for so long and not to be used was frustrating, to say the least. Then again, this level of sorcery was dependent upon a pattern and knowledge. How arcanums were merged and distilled was what defined sorcerous power. So, it was less about absolute power density and more about complexity.

Though it was also important how much brute mana the Sorcerer had access to. The mortal soul entered the equation as the base number where the immortal mind was the scalar. Since it was a multiplicative effort, increasing either was fine. It mattered not which order the numerals were placed.

The next step on evolving this eldritch arcanum seemed to lie in incorporating animus and nekrosis. At least, that was Barry’s best guess. Though, he’d leave that for some time far later. To mix in unmatured and nebulous arcana together was to beg for doom. He had yet to even discover the breadth of what those two animatory and thanatotic energies could achieve respectively.

Barry dropped down from his meditation atop the trees, walking through the night once again. Power oftentimes seemed to already be inside the individual. One only need to learn to tap into it. Imagination was the ability to touch upon that latent potential.

Creativity was the Sorcerer’s greatest strength.

And now, power incarnate blazed inside his eyes.

He called upon it, the feeling scales being lifted from his sight. His sclera turned abyssian black as his irises turned pure white orbs of scintillating light amidst the dark.

The nebulous night turned into waves of pressure. Objects and bodies of mana and matter that radiated energy glowed in this otherworldly sight. After Barry had acclimated to the new sensory input, he realized what the waves were—heat and force. The light was animus, and darkness ghastly edra—nekrosis. Lines and streams of light coursed through trees and flora and small critters while black inhabited the background.

The sorcerous sight was costly in mana, burning through half of his aether in just shy of a few hours. It seemed best to use it only in short and focused bursts as the farther away he extended the sight, the more hungrily devoured his reserves. The sight used not only amorphous grey mana—aether—but also used mental, life, light, dark, and other aspects of bodily spirit. It was simply harder to gauge those specific amalgams than it was to use aether as a simplified account of his mana expenditure.

Even if the Sorcerer had infinite aether reserves, his spirit and body would need rest to recompose the elemental mana burned. No different than mortal muscles needing their rest to recuperate and strengthen.

He pushed further his sight, piercing through the Veil. What he saw beyond were thousands of threads connecting in mesmerizing ways to form a metaphysical tapestry. He would have to practice much longer to make any heads or tails of the patterns he saw as the Weave itself.

The Sorcerer ignited the aether inside his eyes.

Green flames danced amidst the dark, resembling shapes of trees and silhouettes of animals. The waves of transference disappeared, and the perception of animatory force heightened. Not unlike closing his eyes to better hear, this particular function of the Eyes of the Eventide seemed to focus his awareness.

Barry dismissed the Sight, returning to his aura senses as the mana burn had already become too much.

Now, what of this “eldritch” mana?

Barry knew of the word “eld,” which essentially meant “other.” Yet, he knew not of this otherworldly mana. Perhaps it was something beyond the Veil—a type of essence belonging to the ever-shifting astral sea. He had read mentions of it throughout his tomes yet hadn’t found a proper primer or work dedicated to the astral itself.

He knew souls floated and ebb through its psychic currents and that it was a plane that merged both physical and spiritual. But much more than that, he did not know. It resembled the Aether in its primevality yet housed the immortal mind instead of the mortal soul.

More questions for another turn. Now was the time to travel back to the crossroads and find the lost lass, Raphae.