| BLACKWATER ANOINTMENT - (EMERGENCIES ONLY) Entwines the soul of the user with Blackwater from the spirit world, creating a permanent bind between the physical and the spiritual world through use of old, forgotten channels, embodying the caster with significant boons from the stars themselves at a cost.
Ingredients: 1 man, bound or cooperative 1 flask of moonwater 1 sharp implement 1 piece of fabric
~ Note from Witch Krokant, Second Era of the Howling Moon: - spell cannot be und- ~ Note from Witch Flimili, First Era of the Redwater Dominion: -ying to trick us, don- ~ Note from Witch Richono, Fifth Era of Sin: Don’t trust the st- ~ Note from Johnathan, the Tailor, Friday: I don’t know what this is. This is my wife’s book. ~ Note from Witch Lazamop, Second Era of The Illusion of Death: -ey almost got me. Their plan spans gen-
Recipe: While beneath the stars ⭘ Rip the man’s liver out and strike it with your fist until it is a paste ⭘ Rip the man’s eyes out, but do not disconnect from the cord. ⭘ Chew on eyes while they are still attached. ⧂ Spit chewed eyes back into opposite sockets. Be careful to never sever the cord. If either cord is severed, acquire new man. ⭘ Carve depicted sigil into man using cutting implement. ⭘ Fill carved markings with liver paste. ⭘ Soak towel in moonwater and wrap it around his head. ⭘ Lay your body atop his, pressing your face against the wet towel. ⭘ Chant the listed incantations until you both suffocate.
If the stars are pleased, they will bestow their boon. |
~ A Suspiciously Damp Grimoire that never seems to get dry
| ~ [Witch Perchta] ~ |
| ???, Female, Witch of the Blackwater |
| Location: The Dead City |
What is there even left?
Perchta sits there, knelt down on the ground, her head resting against the debris of what was her home that her hands are held beneath, too weak to lift off of the place she had settled into, too weak to lift off of her friends.
Why is it that everywhere she goes, nothing good ever happens to her in the end?
The coolness of the metal presses against her forehead, sapping the heat from her body as she remains there in the mist that constantly rains down from the sky, pressing through her already soaked clothes, now more easily than before as her displacing screams and movements have stopped and she sits there without a single thing in the world to console her.
Sure, she can have some quiet mornings now and then. She can have a good afternoon and maybe a span of the few odd weeks or even months in which things will range from being normal to good.
— And then, every time, without fail, it will all come crashing down over her head.
The Witch sits there, having no tears left to sob with or air to scream with, as she just stares at the ruined cobblestone ground on which her scuffed knees rest, atop her torn dress, her arms hanging limply at her side.
Every time, it gets taken from her.
Every time she gets a tiny, little piece of life, someone comes and takes it from her.
She’s so tired of rebuilding. She’s so tired of making new things, just so that other people can take them from her.
What even is there left? She doesn’t have a home. She can never have a home. She doesn’t have any friends, since she can never have friends. She doesn’t have a single, solitary reason to do anything, because no matter what she does, she can’t protect it.
The soft winds of autumn press through the quietened city, carrying smells of old wood and dampened ash through the strands of her blonde hair, which drift alone in hundreds of singular strands that never seem to connect to one another.
Yovel is gone. Spillaholle is gone. Gauden is gone.
They’re all gone. She’s the only one left.
There’s nothing left for the world to take.
The witch opens her eyes, staring at her own distorted reflection, inches from her face in the gold, and it stares back at her, as a reflection ought to do under ideal circumstances. Their eyes connect, and they stare at one another, the vision through the entryway to the soul disrupted by the shining glimmer that comes forever more from the east, bounding off of the soft metal. The glowing rays catch on the gold, streaking over it and breaking her reflection with slow pulses that ebb in and out like the tide — it’s washing her away. Her reflection fades and comes back in, only to fade again.
Like a heartbeat.
Not even the sight of herself is allowed for her to have.
The woman lifts her hands, striking against the metal, clawing at it with fingernails that break off from the pressure. But why would she want to do that?
Why would she want to look at something like herself? Something so incapable and stupid, so ugly and weak and worthless. She’s nothing. She has nothing because she is nothing — the universe is so simple, isn’t it?
Her head turns, glaring at the star in the distance, shining with a mocking brightness towards her, revealing the malignancy of her existence for all around her to see, even in this blackness of total night. She doesn’t want to be seen. She doesn’t want to be heard or known of or thought of ever again.
The woman rises to her feet, looking down at the rubble of what was once the kitchen for an old knife that sticks from a broken drawer.
As long as this world exists, as long as there is light anywhere that could shine upon her, she’ll never find the quiet and peace that she longs for, she’ll never find the ability to hide from those who are intent on tormenting her for all of her days.
She turns to a group of members of the sect, who have been quietly shuffling around her this whole time, cleaning up the mess.
“Come with me,” she says, pointing at a man who slowly turns his head toward her.
She’s going to extinguish it, the light, the lights — all of them. She’s done being the one who is taken from. This time, she’s going to take and she’s going to take everything.
| ~ [Markali, the Woodsman] ~ |
| Orc, Male, Woodsman |
| Location: A Quaint Home at the Foot of the Tower of Isaiah |
The new residence of the family is a quaint little cottage that can be found at the foot of the imposing building that is known as the Grand Tower of Isaiah. This tower is a representation of power and prosperity, and it exerts a strong influence over the landscape in its immediate vicinity. It serves as a constant reminder of the divine presence of Isaiah, the great deity that the people who live in this land adore. Isaiah is thanked by his family every night as they settle down to supper by bowing their heads in prayer and expressing their gratitude for the meal that is about to be served to them; he makes sure of it.
The children don’t quite understand his harshness in making them pray, but they do not grasp the nature of their situation or the generosity of their benefactor.
Markali leads the prayer with a deep, resonating voice that can be heard throughout the peaceful cottage, praying for the continued compassion and mercy of Isaiah.
His wife may have been upset about them leaving their old gods for this one. However, her discomfort quickly vanished after the finishing of their home and the fullness of their childrens’ bellies, more than they had ever done for them.
“Hallow,” finishes the man, as they do with every prayer before every meal.
“Hallow,” resounds back around the table, as people begin to talk about their day and eat.
Life is good here.
The dishes rattle, as a quake moves through the ground. Everyone looks down towards the ground.
| ~ [Aurin, the Meek] ~ |
| Human, Male, Crusader {Legendary Swordsman} |
| Location: Floor -50 of the Sub-Tower of Isaiah |
Further.
Just a little further.
The ground rumbles, stones falling from above as he presses onward, the ten-thousand boots of his brothers and sisters crashing down next to him, behind him, within him. He is the tip of the blade, the first man in and the first man out. That is his place in life.
— Wild, cascading energies burst out all around him, his sword resting in a violent slumber against the blade of the enemy that he has come to encounter.
His eyes shine through the slits of his visor, the fabrics of his armor, and the shawls wrapped around him blowing in the violent winds that generate between him and the monstrosity, born of the tower’s bowels.
As a boy, he had to go further. As a man, he had to go further. Now here, as the person he is in this singular moment, he has to go further. There’s always only one direction, one path. To think that there is another, to think that you can go in any direction but forward is weakness. It's a weakness of the soul and heart.
The metal of his gauntlets comes close to glowing, superheated by the metal that is cooking in the magical burst as he presses the weight of his body against the opponent, who does the same as they engage in honorable conflict. The leather, wet from the moisture of the fabrics beneath them, which have absorbed his sweat in abundance, hisses audibly together with the whine of the radiance.
Aurin looks into the eyes of the enemy, a great knight clad in the armor of the old ways, the pupils glowing with energy and zeal that command it too to move forward. However, unfortunately for them both, they are heading in opposite directions.
Now, it remains only to be seen who can push harder.
— That of course, is him.
Aurin steps forward, bringing his body closer to the blades — the metal of the enemy’s body and weapon cracking, the ground shaking as if it were trying to cast him alone off of it. But he can’t move anywhere else. He can’t go left, he can’t go right, he can’t go back, because that is where his brothers and sisters all stand in both body and spirit and not just those of the crusade, but all the people’s of this world who do not have the capacity to do what he does.
— Push.
The world explodes into violent light, with a chunk of the tower blasting away and crashing into the waters of the lake below.
| BLACKWATER ANOINTMENT - (EMERGENCIES ONLY) Entwines the soul of the user with Blackwater from the spirit world, creating a permanent bind between the physical and the spiritual world through use of old, forgotten channels, embodying the caster with significant boons from the stars themselves at a cost.
Ingredients: 1 man, bound or cooperative 1 flask of moonwater 1 sharp implement 1 piece of fabric
~ Note from Witch Krokant, Second Era of the Howling Moon: - spell cannot be und- ~ Note from Witch Flimili, First Era of the Redwater Dominion: -ying to trick us, don- ~ Note from Witch Richono, Fifth Era of Sin: Don’t trust the st- ~ Note from Johnathan, the Tailor, Friday: I don’t know what this is. This is my wife’s book. ~ Note from Witch Lazamop, Second Era of The Illusion of Death: -ey almost got me. Their plan spans gen-
Recipe: While beneath the stars ⭘ Rip the man’s liver out and strike it with your fist until it is a paste ⭘ Rip the man’s eyes out, but do not disconnect from the cord. ⭘ Chew on eyes while they are still attached. ⧂ Spit chewed eyes back into opposite sockets. Be careful to never sever the cord. If either cord is severed, acquire new man. ⭘ Carve depicted sigil into man using cutting implement. ⭘ Fill carved markings with liver paste. ⭘ Soak towel in moonwater and wrap it around his head. ⭘ Lay your body atop his, pressing your face against the wet towel. ⭘ Chant the listed incantations until you both suffocate.
If the stars are pleased, they will bestow their boon. |
~ A Suspiciously Damp Grimoire that never seems to get dry
| ~ [Witch Perchta] ~ |
| ???, Female, Witch of the Blackwater |
| Location: The Dead City |
What is there even left?
Perchta sits there, knelt down on the ground, her head resting against the debris of what was her home that her hands are held beneath, too weak to lift off of the place she had settled into, too weak to lift off of her friends.
Why is it that everywhere she goes, nothing good ever happens to her in the end?
The coolness of the metal presses against her forehead, sapping the heat from her body as she remains there in the mist that constantly rains down from the sky, pressing through her already soaked clothes, now more easily than before as her displacing screams and movements have stopped and she sits there without a single thing in the world to console her.
Sure, she can have some quiet mornings now and then. She can have a good afternoon and maybe a span of the few odd weeks or even months in which things will range from being normal to good.
— And then, every time, without fail, it will all come crashing down over her head.
The Witch sits there, having no tears left to sob with or air to scream with, as she just stares at the ruined cobblestone ground on which her scuffed knees rest, atop her torn dress, her arms hanging limply at her side.
Every time, it gets taken from her.
Every time she gets a tiny, little piece of life, someone comes and takes it from her.
She’s so tired of rebuilding. She’s so tired of making new things, just so that other people can take them from her.
What even is there left? She doesn’t have a home. She can never have a home. She doesn’t have any friends, since she can never have friends. She doesn’t have a single, solitary reason to do anything, because no matter what she does, she can’t protect it.
The soft winds of autumn press through the quietened city, carrying smells of old wood and dampened ash through the strands of her blonde hair, which drift alone in hundreds of singular strands that never seem to connect to one another.
Yovel is gone. Spillaholle is gone. Gauden is gone.
They’re all gone. She’s the only one left.
There’s nothing left for the world to take.
The witch opens her eyes, staring at her own distorted reflection, inches from her face in the gold, and it stares back at her, as a reflection ought to do under ideal circumstances. Their eyes connect, and they stare at one another, the vision through the entryway to the soul disrupted by the shining glimmer that comes forever more from the east, bounding off of the soft metal. The glowing rays catch on the gold, streaking over it and breaking her reflection with slow pulses that ebb in and out like the tide — it’s washing her away. Her reflection fades and comes back in, only to fade again.
Like a heartbeat.
Not even the sight of herself is allowed for her to have.
The woman lifts her hands, striking against the metal, clawing at it with fingernails that break off from the pressure. But why would she want to do that?
Why would she want to look at something like herself? Something so incapable and stupid, so ugly and weak and worthless. She’s nothing. She has nothing because she is nothing — the universe is so simple, isn’t it?
Her head turns, glaring at the star in the distance, shining with a mocking brightness towards her, revealing the malignancy of her existence for all around her to see, even in this blackness of total night. She doesn’t want to be seen. She doesn’t want to be heard or known of or thought of ever again.
The woman rises to her feet, looking down at the rubble of what was once the kitchen for an old knife that sticks from a broken drawer.
As long as this world exists, as long as there is light anywhere that could shine upon her, she’ll never find the quiet and peace that she longs for, she’ll never find the ability to hide from those who are intent on tormenting her for all of her days.
She turns to a group of members of the sect, who have been quietly shuffling around her this whole time, cleaning up the mess.
“Come with me,” she says, pointing at a man who slowly turns his head toward her.
She’s going to extinguish it, the light, the lights — all of them. She’s done being the one who is taken from. This time, she’s going to take and she’s going to take everything.
| ~ [Markali, the Woodsman] ~ |
| Orc, Male, Woodsman |
| Location: A Quaint Home at the Foot of the Tower of Isaiah |
The new residence of the family is a quaint little cottage that can be found at the foot of the imposing building that is known as the Grand Tower of Isaiah. This tower is a representation of power and prosperity, and it exerts a strong influence over the landscape in its immediate vicinity. It serves as a constant reminder of the divine presence of Isaiah, the great deity that the people who live in this land adore. Isaiah is thanked by his family every night as they settle down to supper by bowing their heads in prayer and expressing their gratitude for the meal that is about to be served to them; he makes sure of it.
The children don’t quite understand his harshness in making them pray, but they do not grasp the nature of their situation or the generosity of their benefactor.
Markali leads the prayer with a deep, resonating voice that can be heard throughout the peaceful cottage, praying for the continued compassion and mercy of Isaiah.
His wife may have been upset about them leaving their old gods for this one. However, her discomfort quickly vanished after the finishing of their home and the fullness of their childrens’ bellies, more than they had ever done for them.
“Hallow,” finishes the man, as they do with every prayer before every meal.
“Hallow,” resounds back around the table, as people begin to talk about their day and eat.
Life is good here.
The dishes rattle, as a quake moves through the ground. Everyone looks down towards the ground.
| ~ [Aurin, the Meek] ~ |
| Human, Male, Crusader {Legendary Swordsman} |
| Location: Floor -50 of the Sub-Tower of Isaiah |
Further.
Just a little further.
The ground rumbles, stones falling from above as he presses onward, the ten-thousand boots of his brothers and sisters crashing down next to him, behind him, within him. He is the tip of the blade, the first man in and the first man out. That is his place in life.
— Wild, cascading energies burst out all around him, his sword resting in a violent slumber against the blade of the enemy that he has come to encounter.
His eyes shine through the slits of his visor, the fabrics of his armor, and the shawls wrapped around him blowing in the violent winds that generate between him and the monstrosity, born of the tower’s bowels.
As a boy, he had to go further. As a man, he had to go further. Now here, as the person he is in this singular moment, he has to go further. There’s always only one direction, one path. To think that there is another, to think that you can go in any direction but forward is weakness. It's a weakness of the soul and heart.
The metal of his gauntlets comes close to glowing, superheated by the metal that is cooking in the magical burst as he presses the weight of his body against the opponent, who does the same as they engage in honorable conflict. The leather, wet from the moisture of the fabrics beneath them, which have absorbed his sweat in abundance, hisses audibly together with the whine of the radiance.
Aurin looks into the eyes of the enemy, a great knight clad in the armor of the old ways, the pupils glowing with energy and zeal that command it too to move forward. However, unfortunately for them both, they are heading in opposite directions.
Now, it remains only to be seen who can push harder.
— That of course, is him.
Aurin steps forward, bringing his body closer to the blades — the metal of the enemy’s body and weapon cracking, the ground shaking as if it were trying to cast him alone off of it. But he can’t move anywhere else. He can’t go left, he can’t go right, he can’t go back, because that is where his brothers and sisters all stand in both body and spirit and not just those of the crusade, but all the people’s of this world who do not have the capacity to do what he does.
— Push.
The world explodes into violent light, with a chunk of the tower blasting away and crashing into the waters of the lake below.
