Nine. Nine people were supposed to be meeting that day in the depths of Caen’s sewers. But only eight showed up, eight pairs of hands, only five of which still held their rings in place. Eight people, seven men and one woman, stood in the dark while staring at the flames of a bonfire while nervously fiddling with their thumbs, waiting. Silently begging for their last companion to arrive.
There was no real bond among the Demiurges, no connection beyond their shared love for knowledge and the hatred they amassed for the Church of the Saints and its repressive ways, so their anxiety didn’t really come from a place of concern for their lost comrade.
No. Their only fear was the plan.
The bonfire was burning, the cauldron was waiting for its flaming embrace. Each member of the guild brought ingredients to burn: mementos, relics, stolen pieces of sentimental value loaded with enough emotion for their ritual… but that wouldn’t be enough on its own. Magic, after all, is composed of three things: Emotion, a Rune, and blood. One member less in the ritual meant more blood would be necessary from the rest of the group. None of the Demiurges wanted to bleed more than necessary. So they begged to the skies, prayed to their personal gods, silently cried for the missing man to come trotting with an embarrassed smile under his cloak.
But he would not arrive. Timotheos was long dead, and they were all that was left.
“... We’ll start without him.” Said one of the robed figures, finally running out of patience. The others looked at him, begging for someone to be brave enough to refuse and postpone the ritual, but none of them did.
So the ritual carried on.
Each member of the Guild had their own theory about magic itself, a different way to return magic to the cold, mundane lands of Jericho. Be it through alchemical, physical or psychological experimentation, they all tried to follow the steps left to them by their beloved Founder… but none of them had managed to get even closer to obtaining a Rune of their own. All they had were the rings the Founder had made for them, a list of cities, and the spell that allowed them to meet from a distance in a safe, sealed room.
None of them had managed to innovate even a bit… but that was about to change. Their plan was going to ensure that. Years of planning, gathering and deciding had led them to that very moment, burning the many fruits of their experimentation in the cauldron. Some of them wept in silence, frustrated, peer-pressured into wasting years of their life just for this one chance. But deep down, they all felt the same: they all knew this would be worth it.
“Let emotion overflow, brethren. Offer your blood to the cauldron!”
This all was a bit too “culty” for the taste of the most orthodox of those figures, but desperation had pushed them this far. Each one raised a single arm towards the cauldron, making a soft incision in their palms and letting the blood drip down. The flames turned to a weak green.
“It’s working!”
“It really is!”
“Now, hold hands!”
They had been designing this ritual for a while, but they had no real guarantees that it would work. Holding hands in a circle around a burning cauldron, letting the fumes of magic fill their lungs…
“Envision the Tree! Look past reality and find the rune hidden in this city!”
Green flames surge from the cauldron, as the combined wills of eight people tried to steer the winds of time into a new direction, to peek into the secrets of the world once again.
To cultivate the gift of magic is to defy Fate itself, but sometimes Fate finds ways to fight right back…
—--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The beautiful walls of the portuary city of Caen were very well guarded, and so tall that they could be easily seen from afar. A bastion built to last a long time after the fall of the Great Golden Empire, and it truly showed.
The way leading up to the gates of the city was very busy, with long lines of caravans in the morning dodging all the dangers of the forest for a chance to do business in the active metropolis. This was a great chance for the city to get its due, so the guards were instructed to stop each and every wagon and demand a little compensation for the honor of doing business in one of the busiest cities in Normadia.
“One at a time, one at a time!” Called the guard in charge of the toll. “Everyone will get in, so keep it civilized or you will be kicked out of the line!”
The day seemed to be starting like any other, with the carts moving lazily through the gates one after the other… when a scream broke the tranquility of it all. A desperate plea coming from the surrounding forests.
“Sanctuary! Please! Help!”
From within the woods came a figure dressed in ragged clothes, his face was a visage of absolute hysteria. With marks of blood and mud all over him, his appearance was so violent that the guards almost immediately took aim for this crazed person, but he was so far gone into fear that he couldn’t even stop at the threat.
“It’s coming this way! The horde!”
The caravaneers immediately started to push around, trying to force the guard to let them in as soon as possible, and of course the guards faced two choices in this conundrum: either let them in out of human decency or enforce the law coldly. They looked at each other for a moment, then gave a look to their General… and the seasoned old soldier, gruff and grumpy as he was, seemed to hold mercy above money for once in his life.
“What are you bastards waiting for!? Let them in, now! I don’t want to see a single idiot outside of these gates by the moment I close them!”
This would mean trouble with the Mayor, but the General decided to shake those concerns away for now. He would immediately make his way outside of the gates, to hold the madman by the shoulders and shake him in person.
“Snap out of it, cur! What in the blazes are you talking about now!? The Horde!?”
“They— they are coming! They devoured everyone in my caravan! I managed to escape but the others—”
There was a moment of silence, interrupted by another terrible scream coming from the woods… this one closer to a howl, or a primitive warcry. The General gulped, cold sweat rolling down his neck.
“Get inside, now! And no more screaming!” He pushed the madman to the side, now facing the forest while narrowing both eyes. And just as he feared, he started seeing the shadows creeping through the trees. “Dear Saints Above…”
There was no time to waste in the slightest, and the man knew it very well. He signaled his guard to immediately send scouts and make sure the city was not being besieged from several sides, calling soldiers to form lines around the main gate… and he prayed.
He prayed like he had never done before.
Nine. Nine people were supposed to be meeting that day in the depths of Caen’s sewers. But only eight showed up, eight pairs of hands, only five of which still held their rings in place. Eight people, seven men and one woman, stood in the dark while staring at the flames of a bonfire while nervously fiddling with their thumbs, waiting. Silently begging for their last companion to arrive.
There was no real bond among the Demiurges, no connection beyond their shared love for knowledge and the hatred they amassed for the Church of the Saints and its repressive ways, so their anxiety didn’t really come from a place of concern for their lost comrade.
No. Their only fear was the plan.
The bonfire was burning, the cauldron was waiting for its flaming embrace. Each member of the guild brought ingredients to burn: mementos, relics, stolen pieces of sentimental value loaded with enough emotion for their ritual… but that wouldn’t be enough on its own. Magic, after all, is composed of three things: Emotion, a Rune, and blood. One member less in the ritual meant more blood would be necessary from the rest of the group. None of the Demiurges wanted to bleed more than necessary. So they begged to the skies, prayed to their personal gods, silently cried for the missing man to come trotting with an embarrassed smile under his cloak.
But he would not arrive. Timotheos was long dead, and they were all that was left.
“... We’ll start without him.” Said one of the robed figures, finally running out of patience. The others looked at him, begging for someone to be brave enough to refuse and postpone the ritual, but none of them did.
So the ritual carried on.
Each member of the Guild had their own theory about magic itself, a different way to return magic to the cold, mundane lands of Jericho. Be it through alchemical, physical or psychological experimentation, they all tried to follow the steps left to them by their beloved Founder… but none of them had managed to get even closer to obtaining a Rune of their own. All they had were the rings the Founder had made for them, a list of cities, and the spell that allowed them to meet from a distance in a safe, sealed room.
None of them had managed to innovate even a bit… but that was about to change. Their plan was going to ensure that. Years of planning, gathering and deciding had led them to that very moment, burning the many fruits of their experimentation in the cauldron. Some of them wept in silence, frustrated, peer-pressured into wasting years of their life just for this one chance. But deep down, they all felt the same: they all knew this would be worth it.
“Let emotion overflow, brethren. Offer your blood to the cauldron!”
This all was a bit too “culty” for the taste of the most orthodox of those figures, but desperation had pushed them this far. Each one raised a single arm towards the cauldron, making a soft incision in their palms and letting the blood drip down. The flames turned to a weak green.
“It’s working!”
“It really is!”
“Now, hold hands!”
They had been designing this ritual for a while, but they had no real guarantees that it would work. Holding hands in a circle around a burning cauldron, letting the fumes of magic fill their lungs…
“Envision the Tree! Look past reality and find the rune hidden in this city!”
Green flames surge from the cauldron, as the combined wills of eight people tried to steer the winds of time into a new direction, to peek into the secrets of the world once again.
To cultivate the gift of magic is to defy Fate itself, but sometimes Fate finds ways to fight right back…
—--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The beautiful walls of the portuary city of Caen were very well guarded, and so tall that they could be easily seen from afar. A bastion built to last a long time after the fall of the Great Golden Empire, and it truly showed.
The way leading up to the gates of the city was very busy, with long lines of caravans in the morning dodging all the dangers of the forest for a chance to do business in the active metropolis. This was a great chance for the city to get its due, so the guards were instructed to stop each and every wagon and demand a little compensation for the honor of doing business in one of the busiest cities in Normadia.
“One at a time, one at a time!” Called the guard in charge of the toll. “Everyone will get in, so keep it civilized or you will be kicked out of the line!”
The day seemed to be starting like any other, with the carts moving lazily through the gates one after the other… when a scream broke the tranquility of it all. A desperate plea coming from the surrounding forests.
“Sanctuary! Please! Help!”
From within the woods came a figure dressed in ragged clothes, his face was a visage of absolute hysteria. With marks of blood and mud all over him, his appearance was so violent that the guards almost immediately took aim for this crazed person, but he was so far gone into fear that he couldn’t even stop at the threat.
“It’s coming this way! The horde!”
The caravaneers immediately started to push around, trying to force the guard to let them in as soon as possible, and of course the guards faced two choices in this conundrum: either let them in out of human decency or enforce the law coldly. They looked at each other for a moment, then gave a look to their General… and the seasoned old soldier, gruff and grumpy as he was, seemed to hold mercy above money for once in his life.
“What are you bastards waiting for!? Let them in, now! I don’t want to see a single idiot outside of these gates by the moment I close them!”
This would mean trouble with the Mayor, but the General decided to shake those concerns away for now. He would immediately make his way outside of the gates, to hold the madman by the shoulders and shake him in person.
“Snap out of it, cur! What in the blazes are you talking about now!? The Horde!?”
“They— they are coming! They devoured everyone in my caravan! I managed to escape but the others—”
There was a moment of silence, interrupted by another terrible scream coming from the woods… this one closer to a howl, or a primitive warcry. The General gulped, cold sweat rolling down his neck.
“Get inside, now! And no more screaming!” He pushed the madman to the side, now facing the forest while narrowing both eyes. And just as he feared, he started seeing the shadows creeping through the trees. “Dear Saints Above…”
There was no time to waste in the slightest, and the man knew it very well. He signaled his guard to immediately send scouts and make sure the city was not being besieged from several sides, calling soldiers to form lines around the main gate… and he prayed.
He prayed like he had never done before.
