The realm itself is forever trapped in night-time, for it is said when Balthial turned aside from heaven, the celestial hosts withdrew the sun’s light from his lands. Instead light is provided by the ever full moon, or the countless crystal spheres that hang from posts along the streets and cast their alchemical illumination about them. No streams or rivers flow within Balthial’s domain, for Enmity’s Lord, Antipathy Jones, has long since overseen the construction of a spider’s web of viaducts to carry water down the side of the Sepulchre to the hamlets and into the farmland beyond.
Locus Balthial is sometimes called the Grey Necropolis, for it is a place akin to a cemetery or graveyard, haunted by vengeful spirits, mournful wraiths, embittered shades and the manifested memories of a countless forgotten crimes. The land is not merely the domain of the dead, although their numbers are great, but also of the living. In addition to the countless pilgrims who frequently pass along its ill-favoured streets to seek benediction for their sins from the Fallen Angel, the Chancel is inhabited by everyday folk who eke out a pitiful existence serving their Noble masters as warriors or footmen or in countless other duties for which spirits are unsuited, or making a living offering services to other travellers.
By far the greatest danger to the Chancel inhabitants comes not from the wandering spirits and shades, who are content to keep their misery to themselves, but from the Four Deaths – baneful spirits that stalk the land and its inhabitants, trying to over throw their most hated foes, the Sovereign Powers themselves.
The Hall of Memory is true to its nature. In fact, all the Halls are, for Memory has many flavors
The first Hall is the outer face, the recollections shared with everyone. High on the hill it sits, a stately long building open to all comers. The open gallery runs down the center, where memories picked for their artistic merit or educational value sparkle and float above their thought globes, the fist sized amber spheres of crystal that the Chancel's artificers craft. Visitors are encouraged to sample the gallery's wonders, the better to apreciate the Domain. Surrounding the gallery are rooms. They are the Room of Rememberance, where your own memories are summoned forth that you might relive them, the Room of Contemplation, where memories are reflected upon and reshaped, and the Room of Forgetting, where those memories no longer desired are cast aside.
The second Hall is the inner face, the one shared only with the few. Its doors are not marked, but those turning the right corner in the gallery find themselves in the winding paths of the corridors of memory. They twist and turn into a maze of passageways and stairs, with many things to be found within them. There are dioramas forged from memories, where one may walk in places long gone, or join in the revels and tortures of scenes long past. There are cages where living memories snarl and bite the bars, hungering for hosts. There are display cases of the lesser mnemonics, items haunted by memories that refuse to leave. There are the dark places where memories that aren't lurk, shadows of the future and figments of the past that wasn't. Persons of note and stature are allowed within the second Hall, but never without a guide, usually a memory of the path they must walk. Those who ignore their guide can become lost in memory, and even if they find their way free again, rare is the one who is unchanged.
The final Hall is the private face, the one unshared with anyone. Only Memory and his Imperitor have set foot with it. Deep in the heart of the corridors (thought that is not the only entrance), protected by miracles of Privacy, Secrecy, and Concealment, the true Hall sits wrapped in upon itself. A long hallway, stretching as far as can be seen, broken only where it is crossed by other hallways. On both sides, simple wooden shelves. The shelves have small rounded depression on them, and sitting in each is a memory sphere. It glitter from within. There is a small label below each sphere, noting its nature. These are the horded treauses of Memory, each one holding a memory of such craft and artisty that it was worthy of being trapped in amber and preserved. These are the memories that were carefully kept, enlessly polished, and never forgotten. There are oft shared recollections of transcendent joy, and private terrors of absolute torment. There are encounters in the park with a long lost friend, and the last sunset over the spires of Atlantis. Not human memories alone, the birthing pain of Krakatoa is there, the travel log of a smell too. It is Memory's private collection, a tribute to his Domain. Sometimes, a sphere will be removed, to be shared with one deserving. Always it is returned.
The first Hall is the outer face, the recollections shared with everyone. High on the hill it sits, a stately long building open to all comers. The open gallery runs down the center, where memories picked for their artistic merit or educational value sparkle and float above their thought globes, the fist sized amber spheres of crystal that the Chancel's artificers craft. Visitors are encouraged to sample the gallery's wonders, the better to apreciate the Domain. Surrounding the gallery are rooms. They are the Room of Rememberance, where your own memories are summoned forth that you might relive them, the Room of Contemplation, where memories are reflected upon and reshaped, and the Room of Forgetting, where those memories no longer desired are cast aside.
The second Hall is the inner face, the one shared only with the few. Its doors are not marked, but those turning the right corner in the gallery find themselves in the winding paths of the corridors of memory. They twist and turn into a maze of passageways and stairs, with many things to be found within them. There are dioramas forged from memories, where one may walk in places long gone, or join in the revels and tortures of scenes long past. There are cages where living memories snarl and bite the bars, hungering for hosts. There are display cases of the lesser mnemonics, items haunted by memories that refuse to leave. There are the dark places where memories that aren't lurk, shadows of the future and figments of the past that wasn't. Persons of note and stature are allowed within the second Hall, but never without a guide, usually a memory of the path they must walk. Those who ignore their guide can become lost in memory, and even if they find their way free again, rare is the one who is unchanged.
The final Hall is the private face, the one unshared with anyone. Only Memory and his Imperitor have set foot with it. Deep in the heart of the corridors (thought that is not the only entrance), protected by miracles of Privacy, Secrecy, and Concealment, the true Hall sits wrapped in upon itself. A long hallway, stretching as far as can be seen, broken only where it is crossed by other hallways. On both sides, simple wooden shelves. The shelves have small rounded depression on them, and sitting in each is a memory sphere. It glitter from within. There is a small label below each sphere, noting its nature. These are the horded treauses of Memory, each one holding a memory of such craft and artisty that it was worthy of being trapped in amber and preserved. These are the memories that were carefully kept, enlessly polished, and never forgotten. There are oft shared recollections of transcendent joy, and private terrors of absolute torment. There are encounters in the park with a long lost friend, and the last sunset over the spires of Atlantis. Not human memories alone, the birthing pain of Krakatoa is there, the travel log of a smell too. It is Memory's private collection, a tribute to his Domain. Sometimes, a sphere will be removed, to be shared with one deserving. Always it is returned.
Towering pillars made of black marble set with starkly white Ionic capitals mark the boundaries of the courtyard leading up to the House of Revenge. Trees and bushes in various states of decay and agony have been twisted in hundreds of grotesque and disturbing shapes, never seeming to change whilst gazed upon. The long, curving walk up to the house is inlaid with hundreds, if not thousands, of blood-red stones that fit perfectly together at the corners, with not a single blade of grass or root dividing them.
It looms at the top of the hill, a gargoyle of a manor devoid of light save for the occasional guttering candle or torch. Past the huge ebony door lies a darkly baroque, high-vaulted entrance hall with dual staircases reaching up and around to either side of the hall as massive arms descending from the second floor. The floor underfoot is an inlaid parquet of black and white, a checkerboard pattern that disappears beneath myriad doors leading to other rooms and hallways. Dark-hued paintings hang on the walls, of scowling men and hawk-eyed women, of thunderstorms crowning a mountain or a madman's gleaming knife. Overhead, a single crystal chandelier adorned with a hundred candles casts a glittering, fractured light over the forboding hall below.
The second floor is the most well-lit of the two floors in the sombre house, though this does not appear to be intentional. Large, gaping holes were blasted in the roof at some point in the past and have never been repaired; burnt wood and ash litter the shredded carpet and pockmarked floors in the rooms which were destroyed. In the centre of the largest of these rooms, possibly once an orchestral hall, sits the burned-out remains of an American B-24, with several skeletons arrayed in a grotesque manner against the blackened fuselage. On this floor, the halls are filled with painting after painting, sculpture after sculpture, of acts of revenge. At the far end of one of the halls there are two ornately carved wooden doors which open into a grand library, whose shelves are filled with thousands upon thousands of books. The vast majority of these have a single name inscribed on the spine in golden letters, perhaps written by a single hand. The stories contained therein are brutally violent, with the occasional illustrations done in a dark and ominous tone, made all the more potent by the flickering light in the library, cast by embers that sit undying in iron lanterns.
A door twice as tall as a man and four abreast sits at the far end of the entrance hall and leads to a stone staircase going underground below the manor house. Long, twisting stairs lit only by torches kept in iron braziers lead down, down, until coming out at a dark passageway. The only hint of light in these gloomy passages is the next candle in a long progression of occasional flickering lights. From time to time, though, one of the candles flares brightly, illuminating the pale stone walls. Maddened handwriting, scrawled in ink, blood, hatred or desire covers the walls, the countless scripts leering palpably at unwary onlookers. In the deepest place of these catacombs, behind a door wrought from the blackest ebony and studded with dark ironwork, there is a room whose walls, ceiling, and floor are made entirely of jet-black stone. No light is reflected from these; indeed the only light at all is provided by a pair of burning white candles that sit in iron holders at the corners of a stately writing desk, itself made of mahogany or some similar wood. The chair accompanying the desk is high-backed, its carvings baroquely ornate. On the desk sits an inkwell, with a black raven's feather sitting silently in waiting for its next user, as well as a single book. Its intricately worked leather cover is inlaid with thin threads of gold and silver, studded with black onyx gems and with a single phrase written in the True Tongue in a glossy ink: "The Targets of Revenge." The pages within, made of a thick, sturdy paper, are blank.
It looms at the top of the hill, a gargoyle of a manor devoid of light save for the occasional guttering candle or torch. Past the huge ebony door lies a darkly baroque, high-vaulted entrance hall with dual staircases reaching up and around to either side of the hall as massive arms descending from the second floor. The floor underfoot is an inlaid parquet of black and white, a checkerboard pattern that disappears beneath myriad doors leading to other rooms and hallways. Dark-hued paintings hang on the walls, of scowling men and hawk-eyed women, of thunderstorms crowning a mountain or a madman's gleaming knife. Overhead, a single crystal chandelier adorned with a hundred candles casts a glittering, fractured light over the forboding hall below.
The second floor is the most well-lit of the two floors in the sombre house, though this does not appear to be intentional. Large, gaping holes were blasted in the roof at some point in the past and have never been repaired; burnt wood and ash litter the shredded carpet and pockmarked floors in the rooms which were destroyed. In the centre of the largest of these rooms, possibly once an orchestral hall, sits the burned-out remains of an American B-24, with several skeletons arrayed in a grotesque manner against the blackened fuselage. On this floor, the halls are filled with painting after painting, sculpture after sculpture, of acts of revenge. At the far end of one of the halls there are two ornately carved wooden doors which open into a grand library, whose shelves are filled with thousands upon thousands of books. The vast majority of these have a single name inscribed on the spine in golden letters, perhaps written by a single hand. The stories contained therein are brutally violent, with the occasional illustrations done in a dark and ominous tone, made all the more potent by the flickering light in the library, cast by embers that sit undying in iron lanterns.
A door twice as tall as a man and four abreast sits at the far end of the entrance hall and leads to a stone staircase going underground below the manor house. Long, twisting stairs lit only by torches kept in iron braziers lead down, down, until coming out at a dark passageway. The only hint of light in these gloomy passages is the next candle in a long progression of occasional flickering lights. From time to time, though, one of the candles flares brightly, illuminating the pale stone walls. Maddened handwriting, scrawled in ink, blood, hatred or desire covers the walls, the countless scripts leering palpably at unwary onlookers. In the deepest place of these catacombs, behind a door wrought from the blackest ebony and studded with dark ironwork, there is a room whose walls, ceiling, and floor are made entirely of jet-black stone. No light is reflected from these; indeed the only light at all is provided by a pair of burning white candles that sit in iron holders at the corners of a stately writing desk, itself made of mahogany or some similar wood. The chair accompanying the desk is high-backed, its carvings baroquely ornate. On the desk sits an inkwell, with a black raven's feather sitting silently in waiting for its next user, as well as a single book. Its intricately worked leather cover is inlaid with thin threads of gold and silver, studded with black onyx gems and with a single phrase written in the True Tongue in a glossy ink: "The Targets of Revenge." The pages within, made of a thick, sturdy paper, are blank.
Behind the shadowed manor of Revenge lies a twisted tangle of nightmarish plants, sprawling masonry and scrabbling things spawned from the most evil of thoughts. The eternal moonlight of Locus Balthial barely makes an impression on the blackness and the gloom that lies under the uppermost branches of twisted trees. It is very easy to become lost in the Garden if one is unaware; the paths move and shift about before one's very eyes, and the plants twist themselves into newly horrifying shapes.
Head-height thornbushes, composite things crafted from all manner of European brush and shrubbery, form the walls of the obscene hedge maze. The stone underfoot, despite a clinging sensation of disgust, is a pale and reflective white, the only thing in the Garden that bears light to any who walk in it. Many of the stones are engraved with Latin words, names or graffiti; the masons of Rome contributed to the garden. Trees spike up without rhyme or reason, leafless branches stabbing into the sunless sky as though trying to reach up and tear out the stars to plunge the Garden into perpetual blackness.
Scattered about the Garden, between the shifting thornbushes and the twisted mockeries of trees, lie the occasional treasures of Dark Passion. All too frequently, they are visible for a moment and then gone the next, though there are some few monuments that are more commonly seen than others. A palatial neo-colonial white marble fountain from Argentina perpetually spouts blood and black ichor, the runoff from decades of butchery and murder in South America. The noxious concoction constantly overflows the lip of the fountain, spilling onto the ground and watering the Garden with its hate. Statues occur within the Garden, mounted on pedestals crafted of pure spite or viciousness. The panic of Laocoön and his sons is but a flicker compared to the utter mind-numbing terror evinced on the cold marble depictions of frightened old people chased by village mobs, or starving children being kept from eating by a greedy, thoughtless man. The Garden's gazebo, perhaps its most morbidly intriguing feature or its evil centrepiece, is actually two parts of two buildings that have been melded into one.
On one side of the gazebo is a Rabbinic pulpit and a copy of the Torah bound with human skin. On the apse-like structure behind the pulpit, sections of the Torah in Biblical Hebrew perpetually play over the pink marble in crimson-red script, suggesting destruction and doom to any who do not heed the printed words precisely. Instead of a Rabbi, however, a monstrous thing grows behind the pulpit, made of thorns and exuding poison from every fetid inch of itself.
On the opposite side of the pulpit is a twisted, horrendous version of a mihrab, hewed from pink stone identical to that of its antagonist on the other side of the gazebo. Rolling script in classical Arabic scrolls across the stone in crimson calligraphy, calling for fiery death to non-believers and those who do not literally follow the words printed in the dark-hued writing. Set on a perch made from dark mahogany wood is a copy of the Qur'an with its cover made of human skin and behind the pulpit sits a twisted obscenity very much akin to the one at rest behind the Rabbinic pulpit.
The air itself seems to revolt when the sharp odors of the two creatures meet, roughly in the center of the gazebo. There are no seats nor prayer mats for worshippers, just the two creatures on their pulpits, perpetually glaring at one another through unseen eyes. The creatures never speak to outsiders, and rarely to each other. However, when they do speak it is with the roar of frenzied mobs; during these verbal wars the gazebo shakes to its foundation, threatening to topple and shatter against the Roman walkway. Utterly alien to Prosaic Earth, these things seem instead to be living embodiments of hatred, fear, anger and all the myriad thoughts that Humanity harbors towards itself.
Head-height thornbushes, composite things crafted from all manner of European brush and shrubbery, form the walls of the obscene hedge maze. The stone underfoot, despite a clinging sensation of disgust, is a pale and reflective white, the only thing in the Garden that bears light to any who walk in it. Many of the stones are engraved with Latin words, names or graffiti; the masons of Rome contributed to the garden. Trees spike up without rhyme or reason, leafless branches stabbing into the sunless sky as though trying to reach up and tear out the stars to plunge the Garden into perpetual blackness.
Scattered about the Garden, between the shifting thornbushes and the twisted mockeries of trees, lie the occasional treasures of Dark Passion. All too frequently, they are visible for a moment and then gone the next, though there are some few monuments that are more commonly seen than others. A palatial neo-colonial white marble fountain from Argentina perpetually spouts blood and black ichor, the runoff from decades of butchery and murder in South America. The noxious concoction constantly overflows the lip of the fountain, spilling onto the ground and watering the Garden with its hate. Statues occur within the Garden, mounted on pedestals crafted of pure spite or viciousness. The panic of Laocoön and his sons is but a flicker compared to the utter mind-numbing terror evinced on the cold marble depictions of frightened old people chased by village mobs, or starving children being kept from eating by a greedy, thoughtless man. The Garden's gazebo, perhaps its most morbidly intriguing feature or its evil centrepiece, is actually two parts of two buildings that have been melded into one.
On one side of the gazebo is a Rabbinic pulpit and a copy of the Torah bound with human skin. On the apse-like structure behind the pulpit, sections of the Torah in Biblical Hebrew perpetually play over the pink marble in crimson-red script, suggesting destruction and doom to any who do not heed the printed words precisely. Instead of a Rabbi, however, a monstrous thing grows behind the pulpit, made of thorns and exuding poison from every fetid inch of itself.
On the opposite side of the pulpit is a twisted, horrendous version of a mihrab, hewed from pink stone identical to that of its antagonist on the other side of the gazebo. Rolling script in classical Arabic scrolls across the stone in crimson calligraphy, calling for fiery death to non-believers and those who do not literally follow the words printed in the dark-hued writing. Set on a perch made from dark mahogany wood is a copy of the Qur'an with its cover made of human skin and behind the pulpit sits a twisted obscenity very much akin to the one at rest behind the Rabbinic pulpit.
The air itself seems to revolt when the sharp odors of the two creatures meet, roughly in the center of the gazebo. There are no seats nor prayer mats for worshippers, just the two creatures on their pulpits, perpetually glaring at one another through unseen eyes. The creatures never speak to outsiders, and rarely to each other. However, when they do speak it is with the roar of frenzied mobs; during these verbal wars the gazebo shakes to its foundation, threatening to topple and shatter against the Roman walkway. Utterly alien to Prosaic Earth, these things seem instead to be living embodiments of hatred, fear, anger and all the myriad thoughts that Humanity harbors towards itself.
I have been here for a long, long time. Millennia have passed, civilisations risen and tumbled down into little more than dust and still I, and this place, have endured. It is my home, a place I have spent countless centuries shaping so that my time residing here might better match my soul and the essence of my Estate.
The endless spider webs of towering aqueducts that dominate the dark and starless expanse of the perpetually moonlit sky are my accomplishment. A passion of near two thousand years, the souls of many of the nameless workers still reside in the Chancel as its pallid, spirit host. The deeply baroque and gothic nature of the works came about as a natural extension of this place long before the prosaic Earth had found the phantom of that architectural style buried deep within the spirits of rock and stone. Immense pillars of dark-stained brass carved and banded with vast protective runes of hideous potency fashioned from black granite alchemically fused with star metal support the disconcertingly thin channels of black marble which transport the precious supplies of water around Locus Balthiel. Early 21st Century author H. P. Lovecraft found much of the inspiration for his famous writings from his one pilgrimage here and, as such, I am able to read his works and derive from them a certain self-motivated pleasure. In short his use of imagery and focus on the morbidly unmentionable things of the universe derived from this place amuses me.
Still those cyclopean edifices are but one of the projects I have undertaken in my years in the Chancel. My brother Memory could surely give a fuller account of them than I though, most have faded from my recollection over the span of years having been deemed too unimportant or unimaginative to be worth taking the time to file away for later admiration. Ah, but there are some that stand out! I shall endeavour to detail a number of these later in this text.
A certain type of person gravitates to Locus Balthiel even if they do not know why they come. Those bearing grudges and terrible obsessions, those in whose souls darkness has taken root and found fertile soil to nourish it’s seed. Brother Memory’s Hall may still retain some of Lord Balthiel’s old, Angelic past and the most recent incarnation of our intimately material Familia member, Blades, has shown that the nature of Heaven and the painful, mocking beauty therein still has a place somewhere in my Imperator’s great soul yet these aspects are most oft drowned by the darkness. So has it been for as long as my memory stretches back for Lord Balthiel had Fallen long before even my enNoblement and that great event occurred many lifetimes before the current faces of my Familia came into being.
Of course with the centre of the Chancel revolving around such a tangible symbol of this Locus’ disturbed and necromantic nature as the Black Amarai – The Dark Lord India raged when our Lord stole that cabalistic gem from him as I can assuredly attest – it should come as little surprise that such individuals eventually find their paths wending here. Ah but I digress, this was originally intended as an overview of the architectural nature of my works in this place, not a speculation as to the characters of those who make pilgrimage to my home. Still, with our esteemed Warden, placed here by the Lord Balthiel when it became markedly obvious as to my Familia’s consistent lack of ability in manipulating the stuff of the Realm, being one Brutus of Roman infamy such things do bear an accounting, albeit a brief one.
I have, in my years in this place, overseen and lead the construction and design of many buildings which have now stood since, seemingly, time immemorial. The mausoleums and barrows of the famous and infamous who have been inspired chiefly by my Estate have been built here for thousands of years. The landscape around the Sepulchre is dotted with my constructions, all deeply evocative of the bodies and souls trapped within (it is a far better tomb that can constrain the soul of the occupant as well as his corporeal remains and a far greater warning to those who would cross me as well.)
The domain of these vaults of the damned spreads across the blasted, moonlit moors out to the Chancel’s edge, however their presence grows thinner the further form the great Sepulchre one wanders. Towns of the living and the dead have formed around the greatest and many pilgrims come to pay their respects to the inhabitants of these vast graves. Of course these constructions must have a centre, a focus from which I can begin my work. This is why the historians of the prosaic find the resting places of the notorious so difficult to locate. In a practise initially begun by one of the faces of Revenge the prosaic graves of these individuals are taken themselves into Locus Balthiel where they form the heart of larger, more ornate and grandiose, edifices. In this way the spirit of their inhabitants is captured both literally and metaphorically in the necropolis that was are slowly constructing.
All of this is, however, of little import beside my greatest achievement. My abode within the Chancel is usually referred to as The Demesne of Enmity. I have constructed it and added to it over all my numberless centuries living here. When I first arrived it was little more than a grand mausoleum, a characterful enough place but hardly a worthy home for one of the Nobilis, even in that bygone era. Nonetheless that tomb forms the very heart of my residence and I still take it as my own, personal chambers.
The Demesne itself is a rambling, sprawling affair. The layout is designed to confuse and delude would be visitors for I enjoy my privacy and long ago discovered that such mortal concepts as distance held little meaning here. When one has enough time on ones hands at least; and I have nothing if not time. Why, each of my tombs to those of my Estate that I deem worthy takes me a hundred years or more to craft and I do not begin work on one before another has been finished. I am reserving the next such for Caitlin, my current Anchor, for she of all the people alive at this time is a worthy recipient of such an honour. I digress again, I apologise. I was discussing my residence in Locus Balthiel.
There are both more and less buildings than the eye will attest to in my corner of the Chancel. Each building has it’s own, unique character yet the overall effect would almost certainly be described as antiquated, gothic and disturbing. I have heard some of the pilgrims describe solid the glances they have caught of it as a ‘haunted manor house out of the unimaginable nightmares of ancient man.’ I rather like it myself, very human. Of course I did give Mr. Lovecraft – did I mention that I am a great fan of his work? – a personal tour of my Demesne so the imagery used should probably not be all that surprising. My home gave him much of his inspiration for his interpretation of sleepy New England, or so I have been told.
Ah, but to the buildings I suppose? Each is a repository for Enmity in one form or another. Hatred and antipathy, animosity and bitterness, loathing, spite and rancour. All have their place here and there are places for all. In the buildings are books and artefacts, paintings and trains of thought. All things in which enmity has found a home and which have, over time, found their way here. I can find whichever building I wish with a thought but that is an ability saved only for myself, and Lord Balthiel I suppose, if he cared to try. Others must be shown by me, except for my Familia who can always step through the mire of confused distances and angles to cut through to my private chambers should the need arise.
In some of the rooms there are great stores of texts and treatise, in others a single object on a plinth or in a case. The most dangerous of these are chained to the bones of the Chancel, protected by powerful wards and guarded by specially trained ghosts, The Children of Malice, who will slay any who enter their domain unaccompanied by me without hesitation or thought. There are few such artefacts in truth and I have forgotten about most. I have been alive too long. One of these days I must get around to clearing out my outbuildings. One of these days...
Ahem. Once more I find my unnecessary verbosity is distracting me from my goals, even in written form. So to conclude this piece I shall endeavour to explain the central mausoleum, my private chambers, as best I can. Built in a style ancient before I was born it is forged of brass and obsidian cooled in blood shed in the name of my Estate and set in the hideous form of the skeleton of some unspeakable beast from outside of Creation. To even look upon the shape of the degenerate creature is to find ones eyes and mind sliding away. Having failed to grasp the true monstrosity of it most viewers will immediately erase the sight of it from their memories. Those ordinary mortals who do not... well, let us say that dementia animus would be a kind end compared to the suffering inflicted upon their souls. The only cure is a swift death or a visit to my brother Memory to erase the offending image from their consciousness. I admit that I normally simply deliver the swift death that they crave, it is far easier and I do not like to bother my brother in his Hall. The place is too bright and revealing for my eyes.
Walking inside the fanged maw of the distressingly carnal brute one comes to my true home. It is perhaps not what one would think from the outside. Originally the insides were bare and spartan, devoid of any personalisation, the rooms defined only by the stylised rotting skin crafted from sheets of brass. Upon those walls and the obsidian bones of the faux creature carvings and murals of scenes from places not meant to be depicted within the bounds of Creation were plainly visible. All in all it was perhaps not the best place for a new Power to be exploring.
Now, though, things are different. It is amazing how much clutter and junk one can acquire over the millennia. The essential structure is still there, the rooms defined by obsidian bone and brass skin, yet the character of the beast has been unalterable changed. The pictorial etchings remain yet some of their ethereal and otherworldly, soul-destroyingly bastardised nature is subdued and deflected. Paintings and tapestries line the corridor walls, scenes and images depicting wars, battles, riots and brawls, the results of blood-feuds and bitter enmity from all across the world and all across time. There are few actual rooms within the belly of the beast. Only three in fact. There is my personal audience chamber where I greet my Familia should they desire to speak with me, this is done out in elegant yet old style from the highest points of the Renaissance, designed to impose, impress and lend a classical tone to the proceedings. It also serves to throw off any preconceptions that those I am greeting may have. Suffice to say that the tormenting carvings are entirely covered in this room.
The second room is my sleeping chamber. There is little here apart from a large and ornate four-poster bed decked out in black velvet with purest white silk sheets. I rarely use this room however as I do not need sleep but for those rare occasions that I choose to rest my eyes I prefer to do so in sumptuous comfort.
Finally there is my study, the only place in the whole of my Demesne that I truly have an attachment to. Here the walls are lined with book shelves and those shelves are full to overflowing. On them reside all manner of jars containing a plethora of alchemical substances and experiments. By far dominating these, however, are the books. I have a vast collection of treatise from throughout Creation on the arts of alchemy and, especially, summoning, both the mundane and High varieties. On the floor is a permanent pentagram which I carved there millennia ago and consecrated with the blood of thirteen virgins mixed with quicksilver and purest salt. The lines are still as virulently powerful today as they were when I first cast it. I use this for summoning, but only of the mundane kind. High Summoning is only attempted in the specially designed bunker buried deep under the Black Amarai, I would never be so foolish as to practise such in my own rooms!
Throughout my private chambers there are wards and seals, powerful magicks of the protective kind which prevent my from being summoned by any save perhaps Lord Balthiel Himself whilst I am in my home. The door to my study is especially heavily warded and none apart from me may enter, nor even touch the door, without death coming upon them. I am sad to say that such an end did once befall one of my own Familia many centuries past. It is a mistake that I have taken great pains to ensure does not occur again! It was many years before the next Blades forgave me... More than this, though, there is one door that I keep guarded. Three of The Children of Malice stand guard upon it at all times and you must go through a carefully crafted maze at the rear of the mausoleum to even reach it. The door is warded even more heavily than that of my study and even I must perform a sequence of long and complex rituals before I can touch and open the portal. And portal it is, this door is one of only three in the whole Chancel that leads to the underground catacombs where the circles are drawn for I and my Familia to practise the ancient and terrifyingly dangerous arts of High Summoning. The other two doors are equally heavily warded and I am uncertain as to where they come out, I have never dared touch them for I do not know their rituals and ways...
The endless spider webs of towering aqueducts that dominate the dark and starless expanse of the perpetually moonlit sky are my accomplishment. A passion of near two thousand years, the souls of many of the nameless workers still reside in the Chancel as its pallid, spirit host. The deeply baroque and gothic nature of the works came about as a natural extension of this place long before the prosaic Earth had found the phantom of that architectural style buried deep within the spirits of rock and stone. Immense pillars of dark-stained brass carved and banded with vast protective runes of hideous potency fashioned from black granite alchemically fused with star metal support the disconcertingly thin channels of black marble which transport the precious supplies of water around Locus Balthiel. Early 21st Century author H. P. Lovecraft found much of the inspiration for his famous writings from his one pilgrimage here and, as such, I am able to read his works and derive from them a certain self-motivated pleasure. In short his use of imagery and focus on the morbidly unmentionable things of the universe derived from this place amuses me.
Still those cyclopean edifices are but one of the projects I have undertaken in my years in the Chancel. My brother Memory could surely give a fuller account of them than I though, most have faded from my recollection over the span of years having been deemed too unimportant or unimaginative to be worth taking the time to file away for later admiration. Ah, but there are some that stand out! I shall endeavour to detail a number of these later in this text.
A certain type of person gravitates to Locus Balthiel even if they do not know why they come. Those bearing grudges and terrible obsessions, those in whose souls darkness has taken root and found fertile soil to nourish it’s seed. Brother Memory’s Hall may still retain some of Lord Balthiel’s old, Angelic past and the most recent incarnation of our intimately material Familia member, Blades, has shown that the nature of Heaven and the painful, mocking beauty therein still has a place somewhere in my Imperator’s great soul yet these aspects are most oft drowned by the darkness. So has it been for as long as my memory stretches back for Lord Balthiel had Fallen long before even my enNoblement and that great event occurred many lifetimes before the current faces of my Familia came into being.
Of course with the centre of the Chancel revolving around such a tangible symbol of this Locus’ disturbed and necromantic nature as the Black Amarai – The Dark Lord India raged when our Lord stole that cabalistic gem from him as I can assuredly attest – it should come as little surprise that such individuals eventually find their paths wending here. Ah but I digress, this was originally intended as an overview of the architectural nature of my works in this place, not a speculation as to the characters of those who make pilgrimage to my home. Still, with our esteemed Warden, placed here by the Lord Balthiel when it became markedly obvious as to my Familia’s consistent lack of ability in manipulating the stuff of the Realm, being one Brutus of Roman infamy such things do bear an accounting, albeit a brief one.
I have, in my years in this place, overseen and lead the construction and design of many buildings which have now stood since, seemingly, time immemorial. The mausoleums and barrows of the famous and infamous who have been inspired chiefly by my Estate have been built here for thousands of years. The landscape around the Sepulchre is dotted with my constructions, all deeply evocative of the bodies and souls trapped within (it is a far better tomb that can constrain the soul of the occupant as well as his corporeal remains and a far greater warning to those who would cross me as well.)
The domain of these vaults of the damned spreads across the blasted, moonlit moors out to the Chancel’s edge, however their presence grows thinner the further form the great Sepulchre one wanders. Towns of the living and the dead have formed around the greatest and many pilgrims come to pay their respects to the inhabitants of these vast graves. Of course these constructions must have a centre, a focus from which I can begin my work. This is why the historians of the prosaic find the resting places of the notorious so difficult to locate. In a practise initially begun by one of the faces of Revenge the prosaic graves of these individuals are taken themselves into Locus Balthiel where they form the heart of larger, more ornate and grandiose, edifices. In this way the spirit of their inhabitants is captured both literally and metaphorically in the necropolis that was are slowly constructing.
All of this is, however, of little import beside my greatest achievement. My abode within the Chancel is usually referred to as The Demesne of Enmity. I have constructed it and added to it over all my numberless centuries living here. When I first arrived it was little more than a grand mausoleum, a characterful enough place but hardly a worthy home for one of the Nobilis, even in that bygone era. Nonetheless that tomb forms the very heart of my residence and I still take it as my own, personal chambers.
The Demesne itself is a rambling, sprawling affair. The layout is designed to confuse and delude would be visitors for I enjoy my privacy and long ago discovered that such mortal concepts as distance held little meaning here. When one has enough time on ones hands at least; and I have nothing if not time. Why, each of my tombs to those of my Estate that I deem worthy takes me a hundred years or more to craft and I do not begin work on one before another has been finished. I am reserving the next such for Caitlin, my current Anchor, for she of all the people alive at this time is a worthy recipient of such an honour. I digress again, I apologise. I was discussing my residence in Locus Balthiel.
There are both more and less buildings than the eye will attest to in my corner of the Chancel. Each building has it’s own, unique character yet the overall effect would almost certainly be described as antiquated, gothic and disturbing. I have heard some of the pilgrims describe solid the glances they have caught of it as a ‘haunted manor house out of the unimaginable nightmares of ancient man.’ I rather like it myself, very human. Of course I did give Mr. Lovecraft – did I mention that I am a great fan of his work? – a personal tour of my Demesne so the imagery used should probably not be all that surprising. My home gave him much of his inspiration for his interpretation of sleepy New England, or so I have been told.
Ah, but to the buildings I suppose? Each is a repository for Enmity in one form or another. Hatred and antipathy, animosity and bitterness, loathing, spite and rancour. All have their place here and there are places for all. In the buildings are books and artefacts, paintings and trains of thought. All things in which enmity has found a home and which have, over time, found their way here. I can find whichever building I wish with a thought but that is an ability saved only for myself, and Lord Balthiel I suppose, if he cared to try. Others must be shown by me, except for my Familia who can always step through the mire of confused distances and angles to cut through to my private chambers should the need arise.
In some of the rooms there are great stores of texts and treatise, in others a single object on a plinth or in a case. The most dangerous of these are chained to the bones of the Chancel, protected by powerful wards and guarded by specially trained ghosts, The Children of Malice, who will slay any who enter their domain unaccompanied by me without hesitation or thought. There are few such artefacts in truth and I have forgotten about most. I have been alive too long. One of these days I must get around to clearing out my outbuildings. One of these days...
Ahem. Once more I find my unnecessary verbosity is distracting me from my goals, even in written form. So to conclude this piece I shall endeavour to explain the central mausoleum, my private chambers, as best I can. Built in a style ancient before I was born it is forged of brass and obsidian cooled in blood shed in the name of my Estate and set in the hideous form of the skeleton of some unspeakable beast from outside of Creation. To even look upon the shape of the degenerate creature is to find ones eyes and mind sliding away. Having failed to grasp the true monstrosity of it most viewers will immediately erase the sight of it from their memories. Those ordinary mortals who do not... well, let us say that dementia animus would be a kind end compared to the suffering inflicted upon their souls. The only cure is a swift death or a visit to my brother Memory to erase the offending image from their consciousness. I admit that I normally simply deliver the swift death that they crave, it is far easier and I do not like to bother my brother in his Hall. The place is too bright and revealing for my eyes.
Walking inside the fanged maw of the distressingly carnal brute one comes to my true home. It is perhaps not what one would think from the outside. Originally the insides were bare and spartan, devoid of any personalisation, the rooms defined only by the stylised rotting skin crafted from sheets of brass. Upon those walls and the obsidian bones of the faux creature carvings and murals of scenes from places not meant to be depicted within the bounds of Creation were plainly visible. All in all it was perhaps not the best place for a new Power to be exploring.
Now, though, things are different. It is amazing how much clutter and junk one can acquire over the millennia. The essential structure is still there, the rooms defined by obsidian bone and brass skin, yet the character of the beast has been unalterable changed. The pictorial etchings remain yet some of their ethereal and otherworldly, soul-destroyingly bastardised nature is subdued and deflected. Paintings and tapestries line the corridor walls, scenes and images depicting wars, battles, riots and brawls, the results of blood-feuds and bitter enmity from all across the world and all across time. There are few actual rooms within the belly of the beast. Only three in fact. There is my personal audience chamber where I greet my Familia should they desire to speak with me, this is done out in elegant yet old style from the highest points of the Renaissance, designed to impose, impress and lend a classical tone to the proceedings. It also serves to throw off any preconceptions that those I am greeting may have. Suffice to say that the tormenting carvings are entirely covered in this room.
The second room is my sleeping chamber. There is little here apart from a large and ornate four-poster bed decked out in black velvet with purest white silk sheets. I rarely use this room however as I do not need sleep but for those rare occasions that I choose to rest my eyes I prefer to do so in sumptuous comfort.
Finally there is my study, the only place in the whole of my Demesne that I truly have an attachment to. Here the walls are lined with book shelves and those shelves are full to overflowing. On them reside all manner of jars containing a plethora of alchemical substances and experiments. By far dominating these, however, are the books. I have a vast collection of treatise from throughout Creation on the arts of alchemy and, especially, summoning, both the mundane and High varieties. On the floor is a permanent pentagram which I carved there millennia ago and consecrated with the blood of thirteen virgins mixed with quicksilver and purest salt. The lines are still as virulently powerful today as they were when I first cast it. I use this for summoning, but only of the mundane kind. High Summoning is only attempted in the specially designed bunker buried deep under the Black Amarai, I would never be so foolish as to practise such in my own rooms!
Throughout my private chambers there are wards and seals, powerful magicks of the protective kind which prevent my from being summoned by any save perhaps Lord Balthiel Himself whilst I am in my home. The door to my study is especially heavily warded and none apart from me may enter, nor even touch the door, without death coming upon them. I am sad to say that such an end did once befall one of my own Familia many centuries past. It is a mistake that I have taken great pains to ensure does not occur again! It was many years before the next Blades forgave me... More than this, though, there is one door that I keep guarded. Three of The Children of Malice stand guard upon it at all times and you must go through a carefully crafted maze at the rear of the mausoleum to even reach it. The door is warded even more heavily than that of my study and even I must perform a sequence of long and complex rituals before I can touch and open the portal. And portal it is, this door is one of only three in the whole Chancel that leads to the underground catacombs where the circles are drawn for I and my Familia to practise the ancient and terrifyingly dangerous arts of High Summoning. The other two doors are equally heavily warded and I am uncertain as to where they come out, I have never dared touch them for I do not know their rituals and ways...
A little way from the metaphorical centre of the chancel can be found the Field of Honour. It is a barren and wild expanse of moor-land, criss-crossed by a spiders web of cobbled paths or paved walkways. In amongst these pathways are scattered hundreds of life sized statues; some positioned beside paths or at prominent intersections, others standing alone amongst the overgrown brambles and bracken.
The statues come from all eras of human history, and their arrangement seems to follow no rhyme or reason with regard to time– medieval knights stand shoulder to shoulder with Japanese samurai or Moorish warriors, Iriquoi braves pose opposite Italian renaissance artisans, Neolithic tribesmen crouch amongst roman legionaries. The material they are constructed from likewise varies from statue to statue – from rough stone, to pristine white marble, to polished obsidian to a hundred others.
One thing is constant between them however; every figure is carrying or using a naked blade of some description – and these are always actual weapons as opposed to carved representations, all blades eventually find their way home. This is where those who have served the estate of Blades are honoured; from peasants to kings, from warriors to craftsmen, from scholars to heroes to artists – despite what some believe there are many ways to worship the Blade. Each statue bears a small metal plinth - giving the name of the person depicted by the statue, the nature of their service, and the name of the blade in their hands.
It is said that if you lay your hands on one of the statues and concentrate deeply, the truly dedicated will see a glimpse of the life of the person and their service to Blades. It is whispered that if you spill your blood on one of the blades and whisper it’s name, a little of the wisdom of the statues subject enters you, honing and sharpening skills far beyond normal. The more drops spilt the more knowledge is gained…but for each drop the contact burns away a year of your life. Pilgrims still come to walk the unmarked paths, touch the heroes and, perhaps, make a blood offering as a mark of devotion. Less come then in times past, but still they come nonetheless.
On a bare hill overlooking the field is the residence of the current angel of Blades – Faith Deltarion. Though it’s sovereign is just recently changed, the house of Blades looks as it has for many, many years – a detailed recreation of a medium sized 16th century Japanese dwelling, such as might have been occupied by a village headman or influential samurai. In the main Faith is content to leave the dwelling as it is. She hasn’t had time to do much shaping, and besides, she rather likes the contrast to the gothic architecture making up the majority of chancel buildings – of course the real reason is that she loves all things samurai and has dreamed of living in a house like this.
The main living quarters consists of three low wooden buildings forming a u-shape around a formal garden, complete with traditional rock garden. Inside the furnishings are spartan and keeping with the period – tatami matting covering the floor, wood and paper panel dividing the rooms, scattered futons and cushions and the occasional bonsai tree or incense holder on a low table in the corner. In addition to the traditional furnishings however blades of every kind and description occupy almost every available space - mounted on the walls, standing in racks and lying on low benches.
Other then Blades herself the house is home to three servants – a gardener, a cook and a geisha. They are creations of the previous sovereign that Faith hasn’t the heart to dismiss – the gardener is inspired, the cook exceptional, and the geisha…well she’s a little unsure what she’s going to do with a trained geisha. Currently she seems happy enough keeping order in the spacious Dojo behind the house proper so that’s what Faith lets her do. As with the main house the Dojo is filled with a massive selection of different blades – including a selection of finely balanced wooden practice blades. At present it is simply used by Faith, but when needed it provides the perfect place to instruct the occasional gifted student that arrives on pilgrimage, to spar with friends and challengers, or to duel with worthy opponents or other challengers.
Beyond the house and Dojo there is another much larger hill. On the top of that is the Shrine of Blades - a hauntingly beautiful structure of domes, pillars, arches and towers, all of a pure white stone never seen in the mundane world. The stone glows with a light that seems to dance in the air and sing against the skin of those who observe it. Visitors are said to never be quite the same after having stood in such light, and this is likely true – for the stone is as close to that used in the brightest realm as any mortal is ever likely to see.
Inside the shrine are vast rooms floored with mosaics of staggering complexity and beauty, depicting aspects of the estate of Blades. Murals similarly adorn the walls and throughout it all the stone bathes the interior in pure light – reflecting in scintillating colours off the immaculately polished blades that are exhibited throughout.
However there is more to the shrine then static images and polished weapons – it is also the realm of the five masters. These are powerful spirits of the estate of blades, each said to posses the sum total of all humanities knowledge of the blade. They teach, demonstrate and educate tirelessly – or simply engage in seemingly eternal duels to celebrate the expression of blades in motion for all to see and delight in. During such duels they will seem to sustain appropriate wounds, in the rare instances an attack penetrates glittering defence, but they are spirit stuff and can never really take lasting harm from such – swiftly recovering to no matter how grievous the injury.
All are free to wander the corridors and echoing rooms of the shrine – except for the inner sanctum at the very core of the shrine. The inner sanctum is barred to all except the Power of Blades (and those she may designate) and should any try to penetrate it they will likely be swiftly destroyed by the masters long before they came into contact with the powerful magics and wards set to guard.
Such measures are necessary because in the catacombs that extend deep beneath the sanctum are stored the most perfect, beautiful, and deadly blades ever forged – blades of angels and devils, mortals and gods, lovingly cherished and cared for by their Sovereign. Blades that help define the very essence of the estate. Blades that must never, never be let fall into the wrong hands.
Such protection is doubly necessary as deep in the catacombs that there is a heavily protected tunnel that leads to the chambers where the eldritch high-summoning circles are inscribed. It is here that the sovereign of Blades is often required to bring her most deadly weapons, such as might be used if the unthinkable happens and a called monstrosity breaks its bonds.
The statues come from all eras of human history, and their arrangement seems to follow no rhyme or reason with regard to time– medieval knights stand shoulder to shoulder with Japanese samurai or Moorish warriors, Iriquoi braves pose opposite Italian renaissance artisans, Neolithic tribesmen crouch amongst roman legionaries. The material they are constructed from likewise varies from statue to statue – from rough stone, to pristine white marble, to polished obsidian to a hundred others.
One thing is constant between them however; every figure is carrying or using a naked blade of some description – and these are always actual weapons as opposed to carved representations, all blades eventually find their way home. This is where those who have served the estate of Blades are honoured; from peasants to kings, from warriors to craftsmen, from scholars to heroes to artists – despite what some believe there are many ways to worship the Blade. Each statue bears a small metal plinth - giving the name of the person depicted by the statue, the nature of their service, and the name of the blade in their hands.
It is said that if you lay your hands on one of the statues and concentrate deeply, the truly dedicated will see a glimpse of the life of the person and their service to Blades. It is whispered that if you spill your blood on one of the blades and whisper it’s name, a little of the wisdom of the statues subject enters you, honing and sharpening skills far beyond normal. The more drops spilt the more knowledge is gained…but for each drop the contact burns away a year of your life. Pilgrims still come to walk the unmarked paths, touch the heroes and, perhaps, make a blood offering as a mark of devotion. Less come then in times past, but still they come nonetheless.
On a bare hill overlooking the field is the residence of the current angel of Blades – Faith Deltarion. Though it’s sovereign is just recently changed, the house of Blades looks as it has for many, many years – a detailed recreation of a medium sized 16th century Japanese dwelling, such as might have been occupied by a village headman or influential samurai. In the main Faith is content to leave the dwelling as it is. She hasn’t had time to do much shaping, and besides, she rather likes the contrast to the gothic architecture making up the majority of chancel buildings – of course the real reason is that she loves all things samurai and has dreamed of living in a house like this.
The main living quarters consists of three low wooden buildings forming a u-shape around a formal garden, complete with traditional rock garden. Inside the furnishings are spartan and keeping with the period – tatami matting covering the floor, wood and paper panel dividing the rooms, scattered futons and cushions and the occasional bonsai tree or incense holder on a low table in the corner. In addition to the traditional furnishings however blades of every kind and description occupy almost every available space - mounted on the walls, standing in racks and lying on low benches.
Other then Blades herself the house is home to three servants – a gardener, a cook and a geisha. They are creations of the previous sovereign that Faith hasn’t the heart to dismiss – the gardener is inspired, the cook exceptional, and the geisha…well she’s a little unsure what she’s going to do with a trained geisha. Currently she seems happy enough keeping order in the spacious Dojo behind the house proper so that’s what Faith lets her do. As with the main house the Dojo is filled with a massive selection of different blades – including a selection of finely balanced wooden practice blades. At present it is simply used by Faith, but when needed it provides the perfect place to instruct the occasional gifted student that arrives on pilgrimage, to spar with friends and challengers, or to duel with worthy opponents or other challengers.
Beyond the house and Dojo there is another much larger hill. On the top of that is the Shrine of Blades - a hauntingly beautiful structure of domes, pillars, arches and towers, all of a pure white stone never seen in the mundane world. The stone glows with a light that seems to dance in the air and sing against the skin of those who observe it. Visitors are said to never be quite the same after having stood in such light, and this is likely true – for the stone is as close to that used in the brightest realm as any mortal is ever likely to see.
Inside the shrine are vast rooms floored with mosaics of staggering complexity and beauty, depicting aspects of the estate of Blades. Murals similarly adorn the walls and throughout it all the stone bathes the interior in pure light – reflecting in scintillating colours off the immaculately polished blades that are exhibited throughout.
However there is more to the shrine then static images and polished weapons – it is also the realm of the five masters. These are powerful spirits of the estate of blades, each said to posses the sum total of all humanities knowledge of the blade. They teach, demonstrate and educate tirelessly – or simply engage in seemingly eternal duels to celebrate the expression of blades in motion for all to see and delight in. During such duels they will seem to sustain appropriate wounds, in the rare instances an attack penetrates glittering defence, but they are spirit stuff and can never really take lasting harm from such – swiftly recovering to no matter how grievous the injury.
All are free to wander the corridors and echoing rooms of the shrine – except for the inner sanctum at the very core of the shrine. The inner sanctum is barred to all except the Power of Blades (and those she may designate) and should any try to penetrate it they will likely be swiftly destroyed by the masters long before they came into contact with the powerful magics and wards set to guard.
Such measures are necessary because in the catacombs that extend deep beneath the sanctum are stored the most perfect, beautiful, and deadly blades ever forged – blades of angels and devils, mortals and gods, lovingly cherished and cared for by their Sovereign. Blades that help define the very essence of the estate. Blades that must never, never be let fall into the wrong hands.
Such protection is doubly necessary as deep in the catacombs that there is a heavily protected tunnel that leads to the chambers where the eldritch high-summoning circles are inscribed. It is here that the sovereign of Blades is often required to bring her most deadly weapons, such as might be used if the unthinkable happens and a called monstrosity breaks its bonds.
Deep within the bowels of the hill atop which sits the node of our Chancel, the Black Amarai with its Warden, the treacherous Roman Brutus, is a sprawling complex of catacombs. Situated here, deep inside the earth and rock at the heart of the Chancel, lie the Circles of High Summoning. Ancient even before the acquisition of the Black Amarai, memories from forgotten antiquity even when Slinks with Malice was called as the Power of Enmity these Circles remain unblemished by time and untouched by the changes wrought in the land about them.
To those unfamiliar with them the catacombs are a confusing mass of primitive tunnels hewn into the very bedrock of the stuff of the Chancel. Prehistoric stone carvings line the walls and depict scenes of primitive horrors, ancient blood sacrifices and rituals, the translated descriptions of which could kill a mortal where they stand if they were spoken out loud. It is a place of dark and brooding, ancient, uncaring evil and malice.
Yet, eventually, all paths will lead you to the central chamber of this antediluvian nightmare. A huge dome hacked and shaped from the core of the hillside, this room pulses with the barely contained energy of the Circles of High Summoning. Three interlocking circles gouged from the rock floor and filled with a mixture of salt, iron and blood drawn from the still warm corpse of an Aaron’s Serpent and surrounded by eldritch and mighty runes of binding and protection dominate the room.
Within these are four other circles, three for the summoners, warded and shielded with some of the most powerful magics ever imbued, those performing the rituals should not leave their protection. The fourth circle is the central and most important circle, surrounded by ancient runes of binding carved into the rock in the True Tongue and consecrated with the intermingled blood of Angel and Excrucian it is to this space that the creatures from outside of Creation are summoned in all their terrible splendour.
Leading to this room are, despite the seemingly countless twists, turns and intersections, only three separate routes. Each enters the chamber through a doorway placed so as to not break any of the circles and leads back to another doorway somewhere within the underground complex. Of these three doors one takes you to the private abode of the Power of Enmity, another takes you to the catacombs which delve beneath the residence of Blades and the third leads to the Hall of Memory although only that Power knows precisely where within the Hall. The entrance used most often by the Powers not of those Estates (Revenge and Dark Passion and Obsession) is that under the home of Blades.
To those unfamiliar with them the catacombs are a confusing mass of primitive tunnels hewn into the very bedrock of the stuff of the Chancel. Prehistoric stone carvings line the walls and depict scenes of primitive horrors, ancient blood sacrifices and rituals, the translated descriptions of which could kill a mortal where they stand if they were spoken out loud. It is a place of dark and brooding, ancient, uncaring evil and malice.
Yet, eventually, all paths will lead you to the central chamber of this antediluvian nightmare. A huge dome hacked and shaped from the core of the hillside, this room pulses with the barely contained energy of the Circles of High Summoning. Three interlocking circles gouged from the rock floor and filled with a mixture of salt, iron and blood drawn from the still warm corpse of an Aaron’s Serpent and surrounded by eldritch and mighty runes of binding and protection dominate the room.
Within these are four other circles, three for the summoners, warded and shielded with some of the most powerful magics ever imbued, those performing the rituals should not leave their protection. The fourth circle is the central and most important circle, surrounded by ancient runes of binding carved into the rock in the True Tongue and consecrated with the intermingled blood of Angel and Excrucian it is to this space that the creatures from outside of Creation are summoned in all their terrible splendour.
Leading to this room are, despite the seemingly countless twists, turns and intersections, only three separate routes. Each enters the chamber through a doorway placed so as to not break any of the circles and leads back to another doorway somewhere within the underground complex. Of these three doors one takes you to the private abode of the Power of Enmity, another takes you to the catacombs which delve beneath the residence of Blades and the third leads to the Hall of Memory although only that Power knows precisely where within the Hall. The entrance used most often by the Powers not of those Estates (Revenge and Dark Passion and Obsession) is that under the home of Blades.
Somewhere on the Chancel grounds, at the tip of one of the shadows cast by the black-spired Amarai, sits a twisted, menacing thicket. Marked by the passage of time and uncounted multitudes of boots, a stone pathway made of white marble leads through the tangle of brush, always seeming to disappear around the next thorn tree. While walking this path, a visitor or traveller will notice the angry trees and brush, leafless limbs gesturing with unvoiced wrath and hatred.
Behind a group of three blasted and burned pine trees, themselves linked by an intricate network of evil vines, a dark thing protrudes over the surrounding plants. Rounding the next bend to look at it, it becomes apparent that this thing is some sort of grave or monument. Its smooth, roughly circular dome is marked heavily by inscriptions and scribblings in archaic and modern Greek, promising bloody vengeance on unnamed enemies. Numerous twisted poppets hang by the entranceway into the circular building, invoking protection or aid from unnamed gods and goddesses. The entranceway itself is framed in the blackest of marbles, with the door made from aromatic cedar wood.
The door is never open for casual viewing; when the occupants wish to travel in and out of the building, they simply walk through the door, passing out through the other side. At least two ghosts live here, frequently remarked upon by those determined enough to see what lives in the evil thicket. The older of the two wears hoplite armour and never speaks, instead bearing his sword with a gravity born of millenia of undeath, and eyes that seem to have every year since his birth etched into them. Those eyes reflect a terrible, undying rage barely held in check by whatever means the ghost possesses. His face and exposed skin is covered by numerous twisting scars, many of them jagged and ugly, hints of some ancient, savage battle.
The younger of the two ghosts is the more vocal of the two, but even then she speaks infrequently and in modern Greek. She dresses in paramilitary fatigues, typically carrying some sort of blade or blunt weapon. Her skin is similarly marked by scars and lines, almost eerily so if she is ever seen at the same time as the hoplite. Her name is never given, nor does she or the hoplite move beyond the borders of the thicket.
On nights when the wind blows, an ominous whistling sound rises from the tholos, and nameless beings from deep within the ancient tomb rise up. They cast themselves to the gales, spreading ethereal wings or riding the unseen breeze with unseen means. When the moon and stars shine just right on the tholos, its dull exterior becomes matte black, indistinguishable from the distant void of Outer Space. When it occurs, red-figure images appear on the exterior of the tholos, showing a man at the head of an army of Greeks marching against an opposing army, possibly from Persia or Turkey. This never lasts longer than a few moments, and when it fades it shows the apparent leader of the army being cut down in his valiant last stand by several enemy soldiers. When the flickering starlight fades, the red-figure images disappear, and the tholos returns to its nonreflective grey state, and the brush in the thicket begins to move. Those who have seen this phenomenon have later sworn that it took them longer to reach the boundaries of the thicket than it did to enter it.
Behind a group of three blasted and burned pine trees, themselves linked by an intricate network of evil vines, a dark thing protrudes over the surrounding plants. Rounding the next bend to look at it, it becomes apparent that this thing is some sort of grave or monument. Its smooth, roughly circular dome is marked heavily by inscriptions and scribblings in archaic and modern Greek, promising bloody vengeance on unnamed enemies. Numerous twisted poppets hang by the entranceway into the circular building, invoking protection or aid from unnamed gods and goddesses. The entranceway itself is framed in the blackest of marbles, with the door made from aromatic cedar wood.
The door is never open for casual viewing; when the occupants wish to travel in and out of the building, they simply walk through the door, passing out through the other side. At least two ghosts live here, frequently remarked upon by those determined enough to see what lives in the evil thicket. The older of the two wears hoplite armour and never speaks, instead bearing his sword with a gravity born of millenia of undeath, and eyes that seem to have every year since his birth etched into them. Those eyes reflect a terrible, undying rage barely held in check by whatever means the ghost possesses. His face and exposed skin is covered by numerous twisting scars, many of them jagged and ugly, hints of some ancient, savage battle.
The younger of the two ghosts is the more vocal of the two, but even then she speaks infrequently and in modern Greek. She dresses in paramilitary fatigues, typically carrying some sort of blade or blunt weapon. Her skin is similarly marked by scars and lines, almost eerily so if she is ever seen at the same time as the hoplite. Her name is never given, nor does she or the hoplite move beyond the borders of the thicket.
On nights when the wind blows, an ominous whistling sound rises from the tholos, and nameless beings from deep within the ancient tomb rise up. They cast themselves to the gales, spreading ethereal wings or riding the unseen breeze with unseen means. When the moon and stars shine just right on the tholos, its dull exterior becomes matte black, indistinguishable from the distant void of Outer Space. When it occurs, red-figure images appear on the exterior of the tholos, showing a man at the head of an army of Greeks marching against an opposing army, possibly from Persia or Turkey. This never lasts longer than a few moments, and when it fades it shows the apparent leader of the army being cut down in his valiant last stand by several enemy soldiers. When the flickering starlight fades, the red-figure images disappear, and the tholos returns to its nonreflective grey state, and the brush in the thicket begins to move. Those who have seen this phenomenon have later sworn that it took them longer to reach the boundaries of the thicket than it did to enter it.
Perhaps the least conspicuous of all the Noble's homes, Obsession makes a modest (by Noble standards at least) two storey dwelling on the edge of the temple grounds his residence. From the outside the dwelling appears as a colonial residence, fitting into the theme of the Locus with a colonaded porch. The only sign that it is the home of Obsessions comes to the wary observer - the lintels over the doors and windows, along with the edges of all the steps leading into the house, are all etched with hundreds of tiny warding sigils designed to keep the unwelcome out - a relic from the previous Lady Obsession's end days.
Inside the contrast is stark - the entire place opens out into several spacious rooms, the clutter and trappings of most of the other Nobles abandoned in favour of a more minimalist approach. Polished wooden floors, tall, white walls and lots of glass style the occupier as a modern man. The only real decoration are a smattering of paintings - a selection by Van Gogh, Picasso and their contemporaries, all of their own little obsessions - and the odd objet d'art liberally (but tastefully) scattered about.
In fact, the appartment could have been plucked from any 21st century bachelor pad, right down to the leather sofas and plasma television, were it not for the lengths to which the minimalism has been taken in places - only four of the rooms have any furnishings (the lounge, the kitchen, the bedroom and the bathroom), the others are completely empty. Obsessively so.
The other oddity is one swiftly adopted by Antimony after he came to realise quite why his predecessor needed so many wards - the security systems are rather formidable. Beyond the conventional locks and bars and reinforced doors and windows and burglar alarms, Obsession has been teaching himself magic and most of the entrances (and walls) are now warded (doubly so, for most of his predecessor's wards remain active). Antimony has twice had to stop himself refreshing the wards. Such activity would be ... obsessional.
The final quirk that marks the appartment out as odd is Antimony's 'cat' - actually a creature from beyond Creation beloved of his predecessor that has behaves - if not looks - like a feline. It has taken to curling up on Obession's lap when he watches the rather random selection of television programs available in the Chancel - mostly nostalgia from his youth, thanks to Memory.
Inside the contrast is stark - the entire place opens out into several spacious rooms, the clutter and trappings of most of the other Nobles abandoned in favour of a more minimalist approach. Polished wooden floors, tall, white walls and lots of glass style the occupier as a modern man. The only real decoration are a smattering of paintings - a selection by Van Gogh, Picasso and their contemporaries, all of their own little obsessions - and the odd objet d'art liberally (but tastefully) scattered about.
In fact, the appartment could have been plucked from any 21st century bachelor pad, right down to the leather sofas and plasma television, were it not for the lengths to which the minimalism has been taken in places - only four of the rooms have any furnishings (the lounge, the kitchen, the bedroom and the bathroom), the others are completely empty. Obsessively so.
The other oddity is one swiftly adopted by Antimony after he came to realise quite why his predecessor needed so many wards - the security systems are rather formidable. Beyond the conventional locks and bars and reinforced doors and windows and burglar alarms, Obsession has been teaching himself magic and most of the entrances (and walls) are now warded (doubly so, for most of his predecessor's wards remain active). Antimony has twice had to stop himself refreshing the wards. Such activity would be ... obsessional.
The final quirk that marks the appartment out as odd is Antimony's 'cat' - actually a creature from beyond Creation beloved of his predecessor that has behaves - if not looks - like a feline. It has taken to curling up on Obession's lap when he watches the rather random selection of television programs available in the Chancel - mostly nostalgia from his youth, thanks to Memory.
Haunted Hotel
Among the myriad lower-slung tombs and graves in Locus Balthiel from across time and space, one building seems unusual in its lack of ornamentation or elaborate landscaping. It is old by the standards of modern America, but by the standards of Creation it is newborn. The corners of the boxy building are set with slowly corroding copper cylinders that run from the ground floor up to the ornate brass and stone carvings at the corners of the roof. The windows set in the dark grey granite walls are lined with green-colored Art Deco elaborations, mostly copper sheets riveted to the stonework or rolled up in tubes. From the ground, there is little visible at the roof of the building except for two small stone obelisks and several 1920s-style gargoyles, primarily faces carved from stone and set into the corners of the building.
The lobby is a sumptuous display of Roaring Twenties luxury; thick red carpeting covers the parquet hardwood floor, itself varnished and polished to near a mirror sheen. Doors carved from dark-colored woods and set with small brass numbers lead off to rooms, while much more discreet doors painted a shade of cream to match the wallpaper lead to the kitchens or the garage. Around the lobby at carefully measured intervals, small wooden tables hold porcelain vases in which are held small bundles of yellow flowers. Above these hang mirrors, made of highly polished metal set in bright brass frames. Sweeping staircases lead up to the second floor, while gates of wrought iron denote the presence of elevators. Brass fixtures set with glass light bulbsand the occasional gaslight, augmented with brass chandeliers hanging from the ceiling, provide just enough light to give the lobby a luxurious air. From somewhere in the lobby, an unseen pianist and orchestra plays soothing music.
After leaving the lobby, however, one is never sure just where one will end up. The floors of the hotel change from one day to the next, or indeed one moment to the next, so that a person might step from the Art Deco lobby onto a floor resembling a 1980s Socialist apartment from Eastern Europe. The next day, however, he or she will leave the lobby and enter a sweeping, high-ceilinged floor of a building that seems to have been copied or taken from ancient Rome. The laws of space seem far more flexible here, as some of the floors are from buildings whose height far exceeds the limited open air in the building.
One of the more commonly seen floors, however, appears to have been stolen from late 1700s France. Entering this floor is always akin to stepping in from a hot summer day in the garden; a warm breeze blows in over one's shoulder, carrying with it the scent of countless roses and other unseen flowers. A long, sprawling hallway greets the eye, marked off into panels with gilded lines of wood. Numerous chairs and couches rest here and their, their floral print fabric and gilded woodwork suggesting that they are more for ornamentation than any practical use. Crystal chandeliers hang from the ceiling, hung with hundreds of white wax candles whose light refracts and colours the countless faces of the crystal. Tables and writing desks sit here or there, many of them holding some number of books. Many of these, in turn, have single names written on their paper or leather spines in gold ink, written with a spidery hand. There are almost no pieces of furniture or decoration around the painted panels in the walls, however, as these are left without possible distractions. In these panels, though, are colourful and vivid depictions of acts of horrid violence. Gentlemen in sharply trimmed suits shoot each other in the face from point-blank range with large-calibre pistols, while in another scene men and women stab their own children in fits of jealous rage. As one gazes upon the pictures, the citizens of the floor slowly materialize, many of them with horrendous gaping wounds. Here a man calmly walks down the hall, boot heels tapping against the polished hardwood floor, though half of his skull has been blown away. There a finely dressed woman quietly plays a spectral harp to produce ethereal, haunting notes. Long and bloody gashes are present on either side of her stomach, her breasts and the base of her neck.
This, then, seems to be the secret of the Hotel; depictions of acts of violence, rage, anger and thwarted passion adorn each of the floors, regardless of its origin. Once these are seen and grasped for what they truly are, myriad ghostly beings appear as if from thin air, many of them bearing still-bloody wounds or the bloated appearance of corpses. On the Roman floor, for instance, an unbelievably vast mosaic covers the entire expanse underfoot, showing the murder of scruffy-seeming people by a wrathful legion. When one looks at this picture, the marching of booted feet resounds in the hallway as legionnaires, their faces twisted with incredible hate, troop down the middle of the open expanse, driving a mob of screaming Gauls before them, killing them at will until the lines of soldiers and mob of people disappear through the walls. Then the hall is returned to relative quiet.
Among the myriad lower-slung tombs and graves in Locus Balthiel from across time and space, one building seems unusual in its lack of ornamentation or elaborate landscaping. It is old by the standards of modern America, but by the standards of Creation it is newborn. The corners of the boxy building are set with slowly corroding copper cylinders that run from the ground floor up to the ornate brass and stone carvings at the corners of the roof. The windows set in the dark grey granite walls are lined with green-colored Art Deco elaborations, mostly copper sheets riveted to the stonework or rolled up in tubes. From the ground, there is little visible at the roof of the building except for two small stone obelisks and several 1920s-style gargoyles, primarily faces carved from stone and set into the corners of the building.
The lobby is a sumptuous display of Roaring Twenties luxury; thick red carpeting covers the parquet hardwood floor, itself varnished and polished to near a mirror sheen. Doors carved from dark-colored woods and set with small brass numbers lead off to rooms, while much more discreet doors painted a shade of cream to match the wallpaper lead to the kitchens or the garage. Around the lobby at carefully measured intervals, small wooden tables hold porcelain vases in which are held small bundles of yellow flowers. Above these hang mirrors, made of highly polished metal set in bright brass frames. Sweeping staircases lead up to the second floor, while gates of wrought iron denote the presence of elevators. Brass fixtures set with glass light bulbsand the occasional gaslight, augmented with brass chandeliers hanging from the ceiling, provide just enough light to give the lobby a luxurious air. From somewhere in the lobby, an unseen pianist and orchestra plays soothing music.
After leaving the lobby, however, one is never sure just where one will end up. The floors of the hotel change from one day to the next, or indeed one moment to the next, so that a person might step from the Art Deco lobby onto a floor resembling a 1980s Socialist apartment from Eastern Europe. The next day, however, he or she will leave the lobby and enter a sweeping, high-ceilinged floor of a building that seems to have been copied or taken from ancient Rome. The laws of space seem far more flexible here, as some of the floors are from buildings whose height far exceeds the limited open air in the building.
One of the more commonly seen floors, however, appears to have been stolen from late 1700s France. Entering this floor is always akin to stepping in from a hot summer day in the garden; a warm breeze blows in over one's shoulder, carrying with it the scent of countless roses and other unseen flowers. A long, sprawling hallway greets the eye, marked off into panels with gilded lines of wood. Numerous chairs and couches rest here and their, their floral print fabric and gilded woodwork suggesting that they are more for ornamentation than any practical use. Crystal chandeliers hang from the ceiling, hung with hundreds of white wax candles whose light refracts and colours the countless faces of the crystal. Tables and writing desks sit here or there, many of them holding some number of books. Many of these, in turn, have single names written on their paper or leather spines in gold ink, written with a spidery hand. There are almost no pieces of furniture or decoration around the painted panels in the walls, however, as these are left without possible distractions. In these panels, though, are colourful and vivid depictions of acts of horrid violence. Gentlemen in sharply trimmed suits shoot each other in the face from point-blank range with large-calibre pistols, while in another scene men and women stab their own children in fits of jealous rage. As one gazes upon the pictures, the citizens of the floor slowly materialize, many of them with horrendous gaping wounds. Here a man calmly walks down the hall, boot heels tapping against the polished hardwood floor, though half of his skull has been blown away. There a finely dressed woman quietly plays a spectral harp to produce ethereal, haunting notes. Long and bloody gashes are present on either side of her stomach, her breasts and the base of her neck.
This, then, seems to be the secret of the Hotel; depictions of acts of violence, rage, anger and thwarted passion adorn each of the floors, regardless of its origin. Once these are seen and grasped for what they truly are, myriad ghostly beings appear as if from thin air, many of them bearing still-bloody wounds or the bloated appearance of corpses. On the Roman floor, for instance, an unbelievably vast mosaic covers the entire expanse underfoot, showing the murder of scruffy-seeming people by a wrathful legion. When one looks at this picture, the marching of booted feet resounds in the hallway as legionnaires, their faces twisted with incredible hate, troop down the middle of the open expanse, driving a mob of screaming Gauls before them, killing them at will until the lines of soldiers and mob of people disappear through the walls. Then the hall is returned to relative quiet.
The Skeletal Hunt
Heinrich, in the time since his enNobling, has been working on the Skeletal Hunt. When Heinrich was alive, the eldest members of the Bärmann family took occasional trips to the mountains to hunt wild boar. It was a long-standing family tradition dating back centuries, though after Heinrich's death the family ceased the practice. This has caused him no end of annoyance. Nonetheless, he has resurrected the tradition, after a fashion, with the aid of the Chancel's inherent magic and his own power within it.
The Chancel's morbid nature gave it a plethora of bones and pieces that were unused, as their inhabiting souls had long since departed for elsewhere. These were not only humans, though humans were the most common. With the aid of archaic necromantic tomes, he was able to bestow a measure of life to abandoned skeletons. His first experiment, on the bones of a French huntsman killed by murderous trees in the 14th century, was a success. Since then, he has resurrected a small group of skeletal hunters, perhaps six of them. Going two steps farther, he sought the bones of horses and massive boar-hounds, bringing to life a nightmarish menagerie to properly fill out the hunting party. Having bestowed protective Preservations on these walking dead, a twisted Hunt occasionally sounds a rotted horn into the perpetual evening in the Chancel.
The Hunt does not always search for ghostly boars, though when one is found, the entire Hunt is mustered in all its eerie glory to go on the chase. Instead, it is more common for it to hunt otherworldly creatures that have been found in the Chancel, perhaps with the occasional summoning of suitable creatures from elsewhere in Creation. Heinrich, when he joins the Hunt, does so on the skeleton of a massive horse, whose mane of midnight-black hair and tail are still intact on its white-bleached bones. Instead of a rifle or a sabre, he carries a medieval boar spear with a wide, leaf-shaped head and cruelly made slices in the side, the better for gouging into flesh and wounding or killing the quarry instead of simply knocking it down.
Heinrich, in the time since his enNobling, has been working on the Skeletal Hunt. When Heinrich was alive, the eldest members of the Bärmann family took occasional trips to the mountains to hunt wild boar. It was a long-standing family tradition dating back centuries, though after Heinrich's death the family ceased the practice. This has caused him no end of annoyance. Nonetheless, he has resurrected the tradition, after a fashion, with the aid of the Chancel's inherent magic and his own power within it.
The Chancel's morbid nature gave it a plethora of bones and pieces that were unused, as their inhabiting souls had long since departed for elsewhere. These were not only humans, though humans were the most common. With the aid of archaic necromantic tomes, he was able to bestow a measure of life to abandoned skeletons. His first experiment, on the bones of a French huntsman killed by murderous trees in the 14th century, was a success. Since then, he has resurrected a small group of skeletal hunters, perhaps six of them. Going two steps farther, he sought the bones of horses and massive boar-hounds, bringing to life a nightmarish menagerie to properly fill out the hunting party. Having bestowed protective Preservations on these walking dead, a twisted Hunt occasionally sounds a rotted horn into the perpetual evening in the Chancel.
The Hunt does not always search for ghostly boars, though when one is found, the entire Hunt is mustered in all its eerie glory to go on the chase. Instead, it is more common for it to hunt otherworldly creatures that have been found in the Chancel, perhaps with the occasional summoning of suitable creatures from elsewhere in Creation. Heinrich, when he joins the Hunt, does so on the skeleton of a massive horse, whose mane of midnight-black hair and tail are still intact on its white-bleached bones. Instead of a rifle or a sabre, he carries a medieval boar spear with a wide, leaf-shaped head and cruelly made slices in the side, the better for gouging into flesh and wounding or killing the quarry instead of simply knocking it down.
The current outline of the Harvest idea is Kuro's - he actually suggested it ages ago and I didn't pay it enough attention. The idea is that you take an 'impression' of a pilgrim associated with your Estate, by default by capturing their memories in the Memory Globes, and then give these for Balthiel for him to assimilate, granting you DPs in return. Since it'd be a 'copy' of the individuals concerned, you wouldn't have to worry about destroying an example of your estate.
Other individual methods of taking these impressions, appropriate to your Estate, might also exist - isn't Faith going to do it by the spirits of swords attuning themselves to their wielders? You could work it into your Hunt idea if you wanted Oddsod, or you could have the Hunt as your own, separate way of contributing to the harvest.
The main way of performing these Harvests would be by putting up pieces of fiction about these pilgrims associated with your Estate. I might well give out some DPs for other random acts of senseless creativity and coolness on the boards too (I'll dish out some retrospectively for all the great stuff you've done on here already), though I'd like the Harvest to get honoured a bit.
Also bear in mind the examples of your Estate you take the impression from don't have to be human, or even animate - everything's got a spirit! Collaborative efforts that combine several of your Estates in one entity are good too - I daresay Balthiel would be doubly interested in the knife used to commit a famous revenge killing.
Other individual methods of taking these impressions, appropriate to your Estate, might also exist - isn't Faith going to do it by the spirits of swords attuning themselves to their wielders? You could work it into your Hunt idea if you wanted Oddsod, or you could have the Hunt as your own, separate way of contributing to the harvest.
The main way of performing these Harvests would be by putting up pieces of fiction about these pilgrims associated with your Estate. I might well give out some DPs for other random acts of senseless creativity and coolness on the boards too (I'll dish out some retrospectively for all the great stuff you've done on here already), though I'd like the Harvest to get honoured a bit.
Also bear in mind the examples of your Estate you take the impression from don't have to be human, or even animate - everything's got a spirit! Collaborative efforts that combine several of your Estates in one entity are good too - I daresay Balthiel would be doubly interested in the knife used to commit a famous revenge killing.
The Lantern
On a dark grey granite shelf overlooking the perpetually twilit moors of Locus Balthiel, there is a single tree. It is not a living tree, as it has been blasted and torn by the ravages of time and exposure to miracles that shook Creation. Its long, spiny branches reach out in the manner of broken fingers, jabbing at the sky or the surrounding air. From one of these branches, hanging at a small juncture between two forks in the wood, is a single lantern.
The cast-iron lantern is not particularly large, nor particularly heavy. It sways back and forth slowly on its branch, creaking and occasionally squeaking from the iron loop set into its top. The glass panes set into the iron occasionally refract the interior light to cast dancing, macabre shadows on the stone around the tree or the bark of the tree itself. For the most part the lantern leads a quiet existence, burning peacefully from its lonely perch. It was placed here on this shelf at a time many years ago, even by the reckoning of Heaven and Hell.
There is a cave that opens onto this shelf, eventually leading far back into the bowels of the catacombs underneath the House of Revenge. This cave has led to innumerable places in the past, from ancient walled cities and fortresses to men's houses on islands in the southern Pacific or the world's darkest woods. This cave sometimes produces a soft breeze of air which belies its ominous origins somewhere deep in the darksome catacombs. The Power of Revenge occasionally walks out from this cave to look out over whatever vista the tree and lantern currently watch. They too have moved with the passage of time, having once overseen English cliffs where landed Northmen both old and new and mountains in the Andes where the Spaniards and the Inca made war, as well as scores of other places. Over all these times and places, the lantern has swayed peacefully on its branch.
From time to time, the small white candle in the lantern is run to uselessness by the flickering flame dancing from its wick. The Keeper of Revenge must replenish this candle, which requires no small sacrifice. When the candle dies out, the Keeper of Revenge must take and shape a human soul to replace the expended nub. Minute, rolling text inscribed on the lantern relates a thousand names of souls burned ages ago. It is not the most pleasant of ways to die, imprisoned in an iron cage for a soul-life slowly burning away to nothingness. The Keepers of Revenge have always said that the souls, once burnt to cinders, are freed to return to the cycle of incarnation. The gentle light and reassuring presence of the lantern and its tree easily justify the reaping of souls.
On a dark grey granite shelf overlooking the perpetually twilit moors of Locus Balthiel, there is a single tree. It is not a living tree, as it has been blasted and torn by the ravages of time and exposure to miracles that shook Creation. Its long, spiny branches reach out in the manner of broken fingers, jabbing at the sky or the surrounding air. From one of these branches, hanging at a small juncture between two forks in the wood, is a single lantern.
The cast-iron lantern is not particularly large, nor particularly heavy. It sways back and forth slowly on its branch, creaking and occasionally squeaking from the iron loop set into its top. The glass panes set into the iron occasionally refract the interior light to cast dancing, macabre shadows on the stone around the tree or the bark of the tree itself. For the most part the lantern leads a quiet existence, burning peacefully from its lonely perch. It was placed here on this shelf at a time many years ago, even by the reckoning of Heaven and Hell.
There is a cave that opens onto this shelf, eventually leading far back into the bowels of the catacombs underneath the House of Revenge. This cave has led to innumerable places in the past, from ancient walled cities and fortresses to men's houses on islands in the southern Pacific or the world's darkest woods. This cave sometimes produces a soft breeze of air which belies its ominous origins somewhere deep in the darksome catacombs. The Power of Revenge occasionally walks out from this cave to look out over whatever vista the tree and lantern currently watch. They too have moved with the passage of time, having once overseen English cliffs where landed Northmen both old and new and mountains in the Andes where the Spaniards and the Inca made war, as well as scores of other places. Over all these times and places, the lantern has swayed peacefully on its branch.
From time to time, the small white candle in the lantern is run to uselessness by the flickering flame dancing from its wick. The Keeper of Revenge must replenish this candle, which requires no small sacrifice. When the candle dies out, the Keeper of Revenge must take and shape a human soul to replace the expended nub. Minute, rolling text inscribed on the lantern relates a thousand names of souls burned ages ago. It is not the most pleasant of ways to die, imprisoned in an iron cage for a soul-life slowly burning away to nothingness. The Keepers of Revenge have always said that the souls, once burnt to cinders, are freed to return to the cycle of incarnation. The gentle light and reassuring presence of the lantern and its tree easily justify the reaping of souls.
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