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The Arcane Order |
| Azeron stood up from his desk and raised his
arms in a stretch, his back cracking twice as he leaned back. The
fingers of his left hand pressed hard to massage the muscles of the
right, sore from hour upon hour of scribing. But before him was the
final product. He had compiled the aged tomes and manuscripts that had
been uncovered. Now, perhaps, they would be able to sort through this
and make sense of it all.
His mind was spinning. So much had happened recently that he was unsure if the exhaustion was the result of his newfound condition, or the fatigue of his work. Reaching down, he picked up a pile of books, and carried them downstairs, where more would be able to study them... |
| An Ancient Manuscript
I remain completely baffled by the malady that lies here before me. Though my art is incomplete, and I am sometimes unable to master an affliction, I have never before been in such darkness as to the origin of one. Ah, darkness. Yes, that is quite appropriate for what grips my patients. How else to describe a sickness that withers and drains them without leaving any clues as to what is the cause? They show no signs of illness except a wasting away that seems to come from no determinable source. Worry comes to me that I will be unable to do anything for these folk. But beyond that I fear something much worse. My first “patient”, long since passed, was the only victim of this affliction known to me. Now, dozens show the signs of this silent death, and still I fail to grasp its origin. It spreads not by simple exposure to a victim, and its horrible increase cannot be measured by any means available to me. I am completely baffled as to why one man falls victim and another remains free of it, though they be brothers working the same mines, eating the same gruel, and sleeping in the same damp tent. I fear greatly that relief from this vile disease will not be soon found. A Tattered Journal It has been a long, harsh winter,. more ruinous than most. Our food supplies have dwindled, and wood for the fire is nearly gone. The snows have yet to retreat, and I fear to think of what may await us should conditions remain as they are. We have survived fierce winters before, but it is not only the weather that worries me... Our children. They do not show the signs of the plague, but others whisper of it. The healers say they can do nothing for them, that they should rest to regain their strength; but I sit and watch them grow weaker every day. No, not weaker. Further away. Their bodies still seem well enough, but they do not wish to do anything... speak, eat, move. To see them before me with the life drawn out of them... I cannot bear it much longer. There is a heaviness in our home that I can feel. I cannot explain it exactly, but it is a physical gloom. It brings the taste of death with it and steals hope from us. I feel it so strongly, yet I am able to go on. Barely. How badly must the children be afflicted... An Age-worn Diary As is my custom each year after the Northern Pass has opened, I made my way into the mountains, to check on the hunters and trappers that make the region their home during the harsh winters. As pressing as matters have been in Minoc since the arrival of the Affliction, Brother Garret has assured me that he has matters well in hand. For some time, I was certain that I would feel some inner obligation to return as quickly as possible. But once the journey began, I found myself relieved that I had not been asked to stay. The Affliction has frustrated our best healers and scholars, and, Light forgive my cowardice, I desire to be as far from it as I can. I cannot describe my surprise at finding the Affliction waiting for me in the barren wilds. I found the huntsman Benjaar in the trapping cabin that he has maintained for twelve years now. Immediately, I knew that something was amiss, for the piles of wood outside were nearly depleted, though there were several trees nearby ripe for the cutting. Inside, I found the grizzled hunter, his full beard turned stark white many winters before its time. I recognized the draining properties of the Affliction immediately. I am vexed at how Benjaar could have contracted the sickness in the solitude of his mountain trapping cabin. He swears to me that no man, and virtually no creature has seen him in nearly five months. Yet when I made my way into the Northlands, I found him weakened beyond imagination. Perhaps there is some beast that has passed the affliction on - the scar on his back resembles a vicious attack, yet he has no recollection of receiving the wound... A Forgotten Tome The text that precedes this has faded with time... ...over a fortnight, and yet still we have heard nothing. Time grows short for many, I fear, and what hope they had for a cure is rapidly fading. The Healers here had tried all that they might do to forestall the effects of this affliction, yet we have prolonged its progression far too long already. Tis the waiting that is most maddening. To know that the key lies in this elven gift, and yet to not know the whereabouts of the mystical root is causing myself much worry. If only they could find some clue as to its whereabouts. But my worrying accomplishes nothing. And I must bear the burden of knowing that, when it is found, it will be too late for some among us. I can only pray that they hurry, for I do... The text continues, but is unreadable... |
| An Ancient Letter
It is truly astonishing! Through no amount of magical training or study has something like this been encountered before. I know not what this means for our theories on the origins of mystical power, but I believe they may in truth be incomplete, if not greatly lacking. A new form of magical energy which no one of the college has ever before dealt demands the deepest investigation! And we have found no less than that! Nestled in the body of a dying ranger, Rasmus and I have discovered a magical energy that defies explanation. We must be careful in our research, for surely it is this same energy that is killing the unfortunate victim. But think of the volumes of knowledge that might be gleaned from this one subject! Some will, of course, make the obligatory protests in the name of right and decency. This is to be expected. But knowledge cannot be constrained to such narrowly structured ideals. This MUST be understood. Who can refuse to acknowledge the need to investigate and analyze this 'Dark Energy'? A meager woodsman — a nobody — crippled by this consuming force never previously known will not stand in the way of learning. Instead, he will be our tool, our looking glass. We will coax much understanding from his dying body before he expires. I bid you hurry, Estevan. I cannot guarantee the he will live much longer, and any research would certainly be incomplete without your presence. Signed, A Burned Journal How could I have been such the fool? In my quest for knowledge, I lost sight of all else. In my lust for power, I dared cross the line between wisdom and obsession. And now I pay dearly for my work. Now, I will pay with my life. Is this the final revenge of the penniless, provincial farmer who came to us for help? Does his spirit still roam, now satisfied in my demise? What a fool I was. And what a monster I became in the pursuit of this mad dream. I can still hear that man’s cries as I conducted my experiments. Surely I reasoned that he was worth the price. Surely one man could be sacrifice so that the Mage Winston would discover the true meaning of power. But how I have fallen. Cursed with the same affliction that felled my subject. Already, my assistant Rasmus has fallen victim to it. My dear friend Estevan will have naught to do with me now. And can he be blamed? The mages of the tower never understood this disease as I did. They have always feared that it is a sickness like a cough or a fever. They never accepted its true... The rest of the book is burned beyond readability. |
| An Urgent Letter
To the Paladins at the Enclave: I should have seen it from the beginning. From the day I arrived here, Reizon has stalked the countryside. Cowering under the facade of a sage, he wormed his way into the core of this village, destroying it from the inside out. Two nights ago, Baron Merkon was found dead, and his sinister sage had vanished. Twas a most gruesome death. Though I held no love for the man, he did not deserve to suffer as he did. I wish him rest in whatever afterlife he has departed to. As for Reizon, the mystery is now revealed. Last night, he found me asleep in my room. Thinking I was untrained in the combat arts, he approached me with his sword drawn. I was alert as soon as he neared me, but I did not move. Then, as he stood poised to strike, I leapt from my bed, slashing at his throat with dagger on the nightstand. I watched as lifeblood flowed freely from his wound. Yet he did not fall. He lunged at me with his blade, and in the darkness of the room, I could not dodge quick enough. He caught me in the side, and I thought surely he would deliver a second, killing stroke. He did not. Instead, he leapt out of the window, laughing hysterically. I tended to my wounds as best I could. I felt weak and drained from the attack. But I was certain I would survive... This morning, I am counted among the Afflicted. Keep a wary eye, brethren. Even now there is, roaming the lands, a being of malicious intent who bears an ailment so deadly, that our greatest methods of healing cannot best it. There is only death for me, and for the village of Paws. But this must be stopped. I only hope that this letter will reach you before more fall victim to this plague. Signed, An Aged Text Finally our forces may rest at ease. The enemy that has plagued us for so long has suffered his final defeat. Even now, brother Herodius has spirited off to Lockhorn Keep to tell Lord Trevain of our victory. His people will be overjoyed. Though he supported us fully, there is no doubt in my mind that he feared the loss of every man he sent. And yet, we return to him, to sing of our battle! The Battle of Sylva has been won. The sorcerers that we sought made themselves known, and did attempt to meet us in combat most desperate there. Both elf and paladin fought bravely, side by side against our common foe. And perhaps we would have been overtaken. But in the final days of battle, the Healers of the Ankh and the Elven Priests came to the battlefield and performed a ritual of such power that every corrupted foe fell, and every maligned spirit fled! And to see the sorcerers themselves running in fear! It is a sight I will not soon forget! Tonight we rest. But tomorrow, we will ride into Lockhorn Keep as heroes! It will truly be a day to remember. I know in my heart that my children and my children’s children will sing of this day for generations to come! A Mysterious Message To my Lord Trevain, May this letter find thee vigilant and prepared for the enemy. I, Carson Bryn of the Lord’s Infantry, did venture forth as twas thy command, in the hopes that I wouldst find the land purged of the villain we have fought for so long. Indeed, for the first month, I found no evidence of the sorcerers which brought the affliction to our lands. Yet, to my dismay, I have just this day seen their number once again stalking about. But, milord, most alarming is the nature of their presence. They move silently, calling upon their powers only to build their growing army. I followed them for three days, observing their advance. The numbers of vile undead that they have gathered sends chills into my bones. Moreover, their march seems not to be random, but an orderly journey headed for thine stronghold. If they continue, they shall reach thee two days hence. I am sending this message with my fastest rider, in hopes to give thee adequate time in which to build a defense. One can only guess as to the madness of this attack. Perhaps vengeance is thick in their minds, that they would avenge their loss at Sylva. If, indeed, the Order of the Ankh still bears a presence in Lockhorn Keep, then I would pray you seek their aide in repelling this army of undead before you are overcome by it. Thine humble servant, A Missive Brother Erebeth: Be aware that we have pushed back the dreaded Scions. The Paladins of the Ankh have won a victory in the vallen of Sylva, and will be regrouping at Lockhorn Keep in order to prepare their final offensive. In the meantime, Brother Bergen will be leading a caravan to your hidden enclave. They carry precious cargo: the components for the ritual of sundering, wherewith we were able to sever the tie through which the Scions were draining their victims. They include among them the rare Silver Ginseng provided to us by the elves of Sylva. Now, while the Scions are at their weakest, we hope to defeat these vile sorcerers once and for all. I know that it is only a matter of time now, before we restore our land. Peace be with you, A Blood-Stained Parchment I bear both sad and urgent news. Our brother, Jarvis, has finally been put to rest. The affliction that has dwelt in him for such a long time has finally finished its work. Though it was his discoveries that helped expose the deceit of the sorcerers, he was powerless in his struggle against the same sickness that he tried so hard to cure. And so, even after these villains have been repelled, the wounds they brought to our land have yet to heal. There is but one hope left. Lord Trevain has given us leave, so that we might move the elven root that was used at Sylva from Lockhorn Keep to our fortress in the Serpent’s Spine. We only await the arrival of Paladin Brom and Trevain’s most trusted scout, Malachi, who will guide us through the region. When we receive word from them that it is safe, we will depart. But we will not risk the safety of the root. I hope that they return quickly, for there have been strange events of late. One of Lord Trevain’s stable-hands has gone missing, and two homesteads on the outskirts of town were found attacked. The locals fear marauders, but Brom fears a return of the sorcerers. I must admit, that at times I fear that something is stalking us... and that is all the more reason to move this enchanted root as soon as possible. This is, perhaps, the only means by which a cure for the dreaded affliction shall be found. I pray that it reaches our stronghold in time. We will hurry. Sergei, A Tattered Manuscript We will fall today. Our final defense will be crushed under the abominable heel of these fiends. There is no hope left except that these words may be found. We have neither the strength nor the will to resist. Walking dead give us no pause for rest, and they neither give nor ask for mercy. Our ranks are diminished from losses taken in battle, but the fear that grips our hearts makes us all like children, not fighting men, and that saps us more surely than lack of numbers. We stare death in the face as we fight. It stares back and mocks us as we fall. These hordes of ghoulish monstrosities do not slow, they do not weaken. Their wicked grins are painted in our minds as a reminder of our grim fate. For two weeks now we have been under siege in the Hall of Lords. Just having returned from a celebration hunt, we were ill-prepared for the undead army awaiting us. Even so, we rallied to battle, outraged at an attack in our own wooded hills. We did not then know the horror of these vile beings. We knew not of their unearthly endurance, their willingness to take a blade in the ribs in order to stand close enough to rip your throat from your neck. We did not expect to face a foe without fear, without regret, without emotion. We were not prepared to see our fallen consumed where they lay or, Light restore them, rise up to join the ranks of the enemy. Lord Trevain himself is now counted among their number. These men who followed him are given to utter despair. Inevitable as it is, we are not yet beaten. But can there be honor in fighting to the end? Will the sacrifice of our souls to these abominations serve any purpose? But what choice do we truly have? Escape, cowardly though it may be, is preferable to damnation. But what escape is there for us? We are trapped here. Here we will fall, and here we are forever cursed. A Scorched Letter Some text precedes, but it is burned beyond readability... ...surely ours. But, even as the tide of battle turned, a new foe struck out at the heart of our victory. He descended from the sky, with huge outstretched wings. I have heard Paladins speak, on occasion, of the daemons who can be found staking the land. And so it was that I was filled with total awe and utter fear of the thing that swept down before us. Its mission was clear and decisive. The creature tore through rows of flesh and steel in order to reach his goal. I stood only yards away from the thing, and yet I was frozen in terror before it. I was not alone. The days we have spent fighting have left us with little strength. And so he reached his goal as I stoop gaping. Even as the Healers and Priests completed their ritual, felling the armies of undead, this daemon came down upon them, rending meat from bone and slaying each where they stood. By the time those with fight left in them made their way to the daemon, he was taking flight again, with the precious root in his hand. No sooner had he begun, than he had finished his task, leaving us standing there, powerless against him. In the meantime, those few sorcerers that remained fled quickly into the woods. The Paladins that remain hoped to pursue them into the wood and begin the fight anew. But Lord Trevain’s men have no strength for it. The peoples’ spirits are low, and most wish only to bury the dead. A Journal of Erebeth the Healer The days have been long and the nights longer. It has been two weeks since we heard word from Lockhorn Keep that the caravan was being sent with the components for the ritual. It is my fear that they have been intercepted by the Scions. If this is true, then it is over. But I must hope. Perhaps they were delayed for some important
purpose. Or perhaps they have conducted the ritual elsewhere... But I
would presume that word would be sent to me so that I could cease this
infernal waiting. Time will tell, I suppose. Perhaps if we are lucky, our awaited caravan is on the other side of
the mountain, trying to dig their way in. I only hope that we can dig
our way out soon. We do not even think of that caravan that should have arrived at our
hidden enclave over a month ago. If they ever made it here, they have
surely turned back now. I must now resign myself to the notion that I am trapped in the valley with a killer. I know for certain that my days are numbered. So I will spend them trying to gather the remaining notes compiled by the Sacred Order of the Ankh concerning the Scions. Perhaps this information will be of use to others where we failed. |
| A Torn Page
This page is obviously continued from another source... awaiting the presence of the other reagents. Next, the elves presented us with two other reagents. I had seen them before, and yet had never before used them. For it was clearly known that these ingredients were only used in profane and sinister arts. But they were needed. They would provide the doorway with which to attack the dark powers wielded by the sorcerers. And so we took five portions of dead wood for each sorcerer we had spied and, brittle as it was, and crumpled it in our hands, once again placing the contents in a vial. Some text seems to be missing. A Burned Page This page is obviously continued from another source... added them in the order in which they had been prepared. The first provided protection and healing from the dark powers. The second drew forth the dark power that animated the undead. The third drew forth the dark essence within the sorcerers themselves, leaving them open to attack. And the final shone the light of purity, destroying the darkness within them. The ritual utterly drained us as we completed the casting. But the effects were instantaneous. Before us, the armies of undead fell silent, and the sorcerers began... The text continues, but is unreadable. |
| An Ancient Scroll
The scroll is tattered and worn, and the first portion of text is totally unreadable... ...must be swift and strong. Only a truly mortal blow will complete the ritual. Yet, even as the soul is Devoured, the sorceries placed by the Lord of the Dead will sustain them, even to the point of ultimate suffering, where death is a sweet release. Yet death shall not yet come. Then, using the dark gift, the true Scion must say those words not written — those words taught by the Lord of the Dead. With this recitation, the rite is complete, and the Devouring shall begin. The Scion will draw from the victim’s essence and will be made whole again. And as it is below, so shall it be above. And as the Dark Lord is strengthened, so then shall his faithful be granted more strength. But beware those who wish... The text obviously continues after this, but is unreadable. |
| Baal'morda: Lord of the Dead
In an age long past, there was a great and terrible entity. This entity possessed great power and great malice. At the dawn of the earliest age, he bestowed his gifts upon creatures that shared his hatred for the light, and all that sought it out. So it was the the great Daemon Lords came to power. Called Balrons by the tongues of mortals, these creatures possess but a fraction of the power held by their master, the Ancient Adversary. Yet his was enough. For their power was unmatched in the realm of men. So it was that Baal'morda came into existence. Ascended from the ranks of the Daemon Lords, he was called “The Lord of the Dead.” It was he who first gave the secrets of Necromancy to mortals. And it was he who raised up a dark army to lay waste to the kingdoms of the west during the first age. Though his efforts were thwarted, he was not destroyed then. And Baal'morda returned with a more subtle plan. He taught his knowledge to a select few, called his Scions, and sent them into the world to feed and grow and fill Him with power. This effort may have succeeded were it not for the efforts of zealots named the Sacred Order of the Ankh. It was their Inquisition that found those that had been corrupted by Baal'morda, and caused the close of that chapter in history. While the destruction of Baal'morda is never discussed, it is this historian’s opinion that he did indeed fall victim to his own hungers. For, without the means to gain sustenance as he had through his Scions, then it stands to reason that he is no longer a threat to the realm. A Journal from Wind Of the darker magicks, none is so depraved and despicable as that of the summoners. (Here we use the negative adjectives not to provide unobjective bias, but rather to sustain the notion of such practices as they are held within a moral view. Consequently, descriptiveness that may appear to lean toward one perspective is given leniency considering the level of open-mindedness that abounds.) Summoning refers to the nature and source of their power, not to the implementation of this power. Most commonly known is Necromancy, though there are ways to achieve similar (albeit lesser) results and effects through more standard magicks. Though there are few practitioners, those who partake are unswervingly devoted and bound to it. The path that one must follow in its full discovery makes it impractical to be constrained by moral conscience. Power is granted in exchange for utter obsequiousness, which rewards not mastery of form and discipline, but single-minded lust and passion. The source of this magic is the Patron, the provider of the mystical energies that his followers manipulate into magical effects and spells. A Patron must be of immense mystical might in order to bestow such upon his servants (fearful beings, indeed). The cost to the Patron is likely great (though fiends of this caliber should not be underestimated), but the cost to the servant is irreparable. This is the storied “selling your soul to the devil.” Despite this price, there are those who seek this path willingly, for the benefit can be great. It is unclear what benefit the Patron derives from the arrangement, though some theorize that the master is made mightier through his followers. Others hold that the Patron feeds from his followers in ways more subtle than those by which he nourishes them. Perhaps the bond is something crafted for mere amusement. It is not... The text obviously continues after this, but is unreadable. Of Runes In discussing runes, it is understood that the rune is both the vocabulary of the mystical language, used to call forth and shape energy, and it is also the physical representation of the desired result of such processes. As the foci for spells, runes distill the energies that flow through them, providing a purer, sustained emanation that cannot be duplicated by incantation or ritual alone. Runes provide the base for adhesive and persistent enchantments. Their duality in ethereal and physical realms provides for the marriage of mystic energy and corporeal matter. This being well known and understood, it is highly relevant that certain mystical forms make use of runic symbols to promote and sustain the effects of their rituals. And because of the durability of such usage, we have the opportunity to study such a specimen. As you are aware of the history of the Anpana and their infiltration by the so-called sorcerers, it is not surprising to find a remnant of the sorcerers' temple left to us. The visible rune denotes the presence of great magical energies, not simply some mundane spell in containment. This single rune, however, does not provide ample insight as to the nature of the magic bound here. Further investigation does reveal the presence of what may have been another rune, though it has obviously been revoked. The rock and stone which remains to house the first rune has at its base the charred form of the dark rune. |
The
Library Arcane: The Lord of the Dead