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And we made it to the end of a month of dead folks ~~
22. the Voiceless Departed (“silence”)
It’s not always strange gates, crossroad slips or bloodied ceremony. Sometimes, all that’s needed is the right place, the right time, and to want it enough — and the dead can reach out to the living without calamity.
But it’s not perfect. Even if they can see each other, even if there’s a shiver of sensation as spirit touches flesh, no sound can pass between them.
A safe meeting, unaided, for both sides; imperfect, but it can exist.
23. Lady Rose (“vampire”)
For her first century, Rose was a monster.
She justified it with her own grisly death, her dishonoured burial, her horrible freedom from it — none of which changed the horrors she caused in turn.
For her second century, Rose was a bloodstained penitent, learning control.
She walked away from hermitage with a wise dead heart and tempered hunger.
For a century, now, Lady Rose is a dire guardian.
A single drink is all she asks of her supplicants.
24. the Ghost Howler (“werewolf”)
Whether wolf or man or beast between it’s always the same.
He stalks roads and hallways, forests and farms, market squares and city blocks, a snarling, howling tangle of agony and rending fangs.
Only the silver spike thrust through his buried ribcage keeps him from hunting across the entire land.
And destroying those bones will not end him.
Only returning his pelt, flensed from him with silver and spite, will put an end to his rage.
25. Mrs. Dawn (“Frankenstein”)
This time it’ll work. This time for sure.
Every new moon, that’s what she’s said to herself, to her workrooms, to the new corpse laid out neatly on a marble table while she worked feverishly.
But this time —
Alas, no. Not this time.
The dead rise; but not with new life. And a restless soul trapped in dead flesh was not what she wanted.
Another new moon wasted.
She sighs and lifts a holy blade to end yet another experiment.
Next time.
26. the Tiny Ones (“invisible”)
Not every ghost and haunt and spectre brings great harm, or takes over one’s body, or pines from a mirror’s reflection.
Honestly, most of the dead have nowhere near such power, for good or for ill.
So they do what they can, the best way they can.
A shiver of coolness against hot skin.
A knife skitters concerningly across the table.
Candles flutter when they shouldn’t, in answer to whispers of fear or hope.
Faint nudges from unseen souls.
27. Peony (“witch”)
“Why, certainly. You’ve come all this way, after all.”
Peony’s tiny cottage at the end of the twisting paths is no prime travel destination; so if someone is at his door, he pushes grey curls from his face and gets up to greet them.
And Peony has what they come for: philtre to speak with spirits? incense with afterlife visions in its smoke? Bone-knives?
Yes, yes. All of that, for a favour or a kiss.
But if malice is afoot, he knows; and taints his gift.
28. Bloody Tears (“drop”)
The origin of these deep crimson gems is unknown — are they a spectre’s crystallized trauma, the tears of a truly grieving vampire, the congealed mourning of those who lost their most-beloved? All? None?
Impossible to say.
Three things:
They cannot be faceted nor carved.
Owners of a Tear say they bring a gentle ennui that sustains one through one’s own pain. The unliving will not harm one who carries a Tear.
Rumours of curses are unverified.
29. the Doves (“mirror”)
There’s a wandering hunter who answers to Dove. He’s been around a long time, never aging.
Dove comes to the market square at evening-time with a brace of birds or other such, trades for small sundries. He’ll help if you ask him. Quiet, not wild.
Except when his eyes burn bright and pale and he shies from the graveyard.
He’ll still help. Bloodier help, then.
And say it’s the other Dove who’s too gentle for the work, and that was the end of him.
30. Dead-Kindling (“crackle”)
The dead are tied to the living world. And that tie is a weakness —
But not as much as being forgotten.
To truly be rid of the dead?
Purge them. Tear down their monuments. Burn their works, their images, their name into ash.
Listen to the pitiless sounds of destruction; know that for every single one there’s a wail of despair on the other side.
The second death’s not pretty.
And you, you’ll be remembered by others for it.
Don’t you worry.
31. the Ebon Seraph’s Book (“magic”)
It’s the work of a dozen lives — or an exemplar created by a cold hand under duress. Or neither.
The Ebon Seraph’s Book — though that title is not found on it — is a tome of deepest black, both cover and pages, its delicate notations in bone-white and crimson and silver.
Boneservants? Vampire alchemy? Becoming a living ghost? Spells of blasphemy nestled next to purity? All here.
Just a drop of blood on the clasp, there you go …
22. the Voiceless Departed (“silence”)
It’s not always strange gates, crossroad slips or bloodied ceremony. Sometimes, all that’s needed is the right place, the right time, and to want it enough — and the dead can reach out to the living without calamity.
But it’s not perfect. Even if they can see each other, even if there’s a shiver of sensation as spirit touches flesh, no sound can pass between them.
A safe meeting, unaided, for both sides; imperfect, but it can exist.
23. Lady Rose (“vampire”)
For her first century, Rose was a monster.
She justified it with her own grisly death, her dishonoured burial, her horrible freedom from it — none of which changed the horrors she caused in turn.
For her second century, Rose was a bloodstained penitent, learning control.
She walked away from hermitage with a wise dead heart and tempered hunger.
For a century, now, Lady Rose is a dire guardian.
A single drink is all she asks of her supplicants.
24. the Ghost Howler (“werewolf”)
Whether wolf or man or beast between it’s always the same.
He stalks roads and hallways, forests and farms, market squares and city blocks, a snarling, howling tangle of agony and rending fangs.
Only the silver spike thrust through his buried ribcage keeps him from hunting across the entire land.
And destroying those bones will not end him.
Only returning his pelt, flensed from him with silver and spite, will put an end to his rage.
25. Mrs. Dawn (“Frankenstein”)
This time it’ll work. This time for sure.
Every new moon, that’s what she’s said to herself, to her workrooms, to the new corpse laid out neatly on a marble table while she worked feverishly.
But this time —
Alas, no. Not this time.
The dead rise; but not with new life. And a restless soul trapped in dead flesh was not what she wanted.
Another new moon wasted.
She sighs and lifts a holy blade to end yet another experiment.
Next time.
26. the Tiny Ones (“invisible”)
Not every ghost and haunt and spectre brings great harm, or takes over one’s body, or pines from a mirror’s reflection.
Honestly, most of the dead have nowhere near such power, for good or for ill.
So they do what they can, the best way they can.
A shiver of coolness against hot skin.
A knife skitters concerningly across the table.
Candles flutter when they shouldn’t, in answer to whispers of fear or hope.
Faint nudges from unseen souls.
27. Peony (“witch”)
“Why, certainly. You’ve come all this way, after all.”
Peony’s tiny cottage at the end of the twisting paths is no prime travel destination; so if someone is at his door, he pushes grey curls from his face and gets up to greet them.
And Peony has what they come for: philtre to speak with spirits? incense with afterlife visions in its smoke? Bone-knives?
Yes, yes. All of that, for a favour or a kiss.
But if malice is afoot, he knows; and taints his gift.
28. Bloody Tears (“drop”)
The origin of these deep crimson gems is unknown — are they a spectre’s crystallized trauma, the tears of a truly grieving vampire, the congealed mourning of those who lost their most-beloved? All? None?
Impossible to say.
Three things:
They cannot be faceted nor carved.
Owners of a Tear say they bring a gentle ennui that sustains one through one’s own pain. The unliving will not harm one who carries a Tear.
Rumours of curses are unverified.
29. the Doves (“mirror”)
There’s a wandering hunter who answers to Dove. He’s been around a long time, never aging.
Dove comes to the market square at evening-time with a brace of birds or other such, trades for small sundries. He’ll help if you ask him. Quiet, not wild.
Except when his eyes burn bright and pale and he shies from the graveyard.
He’ll still help. Bloodier help, then.
And say it’s the other Dove who’s too gentle for the work, and that was the end of him.
30. Dead-Kindling (“crackle”)
The dead are tied to the living world. And that tie is a weakness —
But not as much as being forgotten.
To truly be rid of the dead?
Purge them. Tear down their monuments. Burn their works, their images, their name into ash.
Listen to the pitiless sounds of destruction; know that for every single one there’s a wail of despair on the other side.
The second death’s not pretty.
And you, you’ll be remembered by others for it.
Don’t you worry.
31. the Ebon Seraph’s Book (“magic”)
It’s the work of a dozen lives — or an exemplar created by a cold hand under duress. Or neither.
The Ebon Seraph’s Book — though that title is not found on it — is a tome of deepest black, both cover and pages, its delicate notations in bone-white and crimson and silver.
Boneservants? Vampire alchemy? Becoming a living ghost? Spells of blasphemy nestled next to purity? All here.
Just a drop of blood on the clasp, there you go …
Tags:
Time for some more ghostie dead things and folks, yep ~
11. Raven’s Charge (“turbulent”)
Without warning, on moonless nights, a sudden rising thunder of defiant shouting — and in an eyeblink the road, the meadow, the courtyard is filled with the spectres of fighting soldiers.
Another blink — Taillevent, Raven Knight, leads his dead cavalry through the living and dead in a hopeless, wheeling charge.
It doesn’t matter. The Raven still takes an arrow in the throat.
An endless cycle.
Unless one can reach the Raven Knight, and …
12. Lily & Maria (“ditch”)
Lily walks the roads, searching for her sister Maria. She’s quite alive; no fainting maiden, either, she wears a sturdy leather jack and carries a wicker pack and a stout staff bound in iron.
Maria is with her when night falls, a faint silhouette of pale shadow.
It’s Maria’s bones that Lily searches for along the roads, in gutter, canal and brook — and any aid is gratefully accepted by both sisters, favours promised in return, alive or dead.
13. Red Ochre Hill (“myth”)
Red Ochre Hill isn’t a hill at all, they say.
True, it’s covered in grass, topped with birches, and the like. But once, too long ago, it wasn’t.
Dig into the Hill and come away with blood-red sticky ochre and clinging clay, oddly pearly, unearthly and warm.
Dig in the right places and find veins of crystal pebbles in shattered chalk.
Taste the latter and hear eternal whispers, but be healed —
The last a dead god, they say, can do for mortals.
14. Pillar Of Victory (“build”)
Victory is declared by whoever lasts; never more poisonously, ironically true than the reign — brief as it was — of Roland II.
King Ironsoul, so-called, put his rivals (and there were many) to the sword; in victory having a great bone pillar, faced with their skulls, erected in his court as a reminder, a message to all.
A year and a day, and the king disappeared.
The castle collapsed; the Pillar yet stands.
Now they only wait to be freed.
15. Liam Many-Handed (“crawl”)
It’s not easy, being a mediocre mage, a piddling necromancer at best; at least, that’s what Liam believed, until his midnight cordial-fueled revelation.
Those corpses don’t need their hands anyway.
Now Liam has a legion of scuttling bony “help”, and he’s doing better with petty theft and creeping spookery than he ever did casting spells for hire.
What he doesn’t know is what his last “donor” was — or what his boneclaws do when he’s asleep.
16. Moore Castle (“Camelot”)
It fell centuries ago, if it ever stood — there are those who doubt the Castle ever was. They call the ballads fairytales, the histories fancies penned by romantic scribes.
But then who is it thronging like armoured moonlight in a phantom castle for three nights at the turn of the year?
Who are the shades offering honour and glory to any who accept their quests to bring new favour to a fallen land?
And — the Castle fades, but tokens do not —
17. The Cave Man (“prehistoric”)
He’s been waiting a very long time.
So long, his shade looks like no one who lives near this dark cold cavern; not for centuries, millennia, more.
But he’s still waiting.
Waiting for someone to climb down, down …
Past the skulls far larger than any wolf in memory.
To the place where his bones, and shell palettes, and fur brushes, rest on the clay.
Waiting for someone to finish the painting of deer, of horses, guided by old cold hands.
18. Henry (“quack”)
Henry is a duck.
Henry … was a duck?
No duck should live — could live — as long as Henry. If Henry is alive. And that part is highly dubious.
Some folks, spooked to their bones, say Henry has eight round beady eyes on one side.
Some folks say you can see straight through him.
Everyone says he quacks like a human laughs, like a madman laughs.
And you never see him arrive.
Maybe Henry wasn’t always a duck?
He likes to follow folks around …
19. Binding Mirror (“chain”)
Oh, it’s not what it sounds like; no restless dead is pinned or trapped by the Mirror.
It’s more useful and more dangerous than that.
Hold your Mirror up, see the spectre in its face; see the slender shackles of longing, silver and rose and blood and black, writhing around them?
Look, until the Mirror shows you exactly what it is that keeps the spirit from rest —
Of course, a secret is a secret. The shade may not appreciate the intrusion.
20. Spiritist’s Net (“web”)
It looks like silk gauze while it’s folded, so fine it could be drawn through a finger-ring.
In truth it’s even finer, fine as spider silk once unfurled, and nearly as difficult to see.
Spread across a doorway or any surface, it can hardly be detected. A drop of blood renders it nonexistent for all but the donor — and wandering spirits, who leave dewdrops of plasm behind as they pass.
A way to identify shades?
A way to glean their power?
Yes.
21. Bells Of The Dead (“sound”)
The chiming of bells drives away the dead, the story goes. And, it’s true enough — but what many stories don’t say is how it can’t be any old bell.
An iron bell repels the passion-bound.
A silver bell, the malicious dead; a golden one the lost and wandering; a bronze those looking to possess a living host.
A wooden bell, echoing and hollow, to drive off the haunts of animals.
A crystal bell will call the departed to you like a gentle beacon.
11. Raven’s Charge (“turbulent”)
Without warning, on moonless nights, a sudden rising thunder of defiant shouting — and in an eyeblink the road, the meadow, the courtyard is filled with the spectres of fighting soldiers.
Another blink — Taillevent, Raven Knight, leads his dead cavalry through the living and dead in a hopeless, wheeling charge.
It doesn’t matter. The Raven still takes an arrow in the throat.
An endless cycle.
Unless one can reach the Raven Knight, and …
12. Lily & Maria (“ditch”)
Lily walks the roads, searching for her sister Maria. She’s quite alive; no fainting maiden, either, she wears a sturdy leather jack and carries a wicker pack and a stout staff bound in iron.
Maria is with her when night falls, a faint silhouette of pale shadow.
It’s Maria’s bones that Lily searches for along the roads, in gutter, canal and brook — and any aid is gratefully accepted by both sisters, favours promised in return, alive or dead.
13. Red Ochre Hill (“myth”)
Red Ochre Hill isn’t a hill at all, they say.
True, it’s covered in grass, topped with birches, and the like. But once, too long ago, it wasn’t.
Dig into the Hill and come away with blood-red sticky ochre and clinging clay, oddly pearly, unearthly and warm.
Dig in the right places and find veins of crystal pebbles in shattered chalk.
Taste the latter and hear eternal whispers, but be healed —
The last a dead god, they say, can do for mortals.
14. Pillar Of Victory (“build”)
Victory is declared by whoever lasts; never more poisonously, ironically true than the reign — brief as it was — of Roland II.
King Ironsoul, so-called, put his rivals (and there were many) to the sword; in victory having a great bone pillar, faced with their skulls, erected in his court as a reminder, a message to all.
A year and a day, and the king disappeared.
The castle collapsed; the Pillar yet stands.
Now they only wait to be freed.
15. Liam Many-Handed (“crawl”)
It’s not easy, being a mediocre mage, a piddling necromancer at best; at least, that’s what Liam believed, until his midnight cordial-fueled revelation.
Those corpses don’t need their hands anyway.
Now Liam has a legion of scuttling bony “help”, and he’s doing better with petty theft and creeping spookery than he ever did casting spells for hire.
What he doesn’t know is what his last “donor” was — or what his boneclaws do when he’s asleep.
16. Moore Castle (“Camelot”)
It fell centuries ago, if it ever stood — there are those who doubt the Castle ever was. They call the ballads fairytales, the histories fancies penned by romantic scribes.
But then who is it thronging like armoured moonlight in a phantom castle for three nights at the turn of the year?
Who are the shades offering honour and glory to any who accept their quests to bring new favour to a fallen land?
And — the Castle fades, but tokens do not —
17. The Cave Man (“prehistoric”)
He’s been waiting a very long time.
So long, his shade looks like no one who lives near this dark cold cavern; not for centuries, millennia, more.
But he’s still waiting.
Waiting for someone to climb down, down …
Past the skulls far larger than any wolf in memory.
To the place where his bones, and shell palettes, and fur brushes, rest on the clay.
Waiting for someone to finish the painting of deer, of horses, guided by old cold hands.
18. Henry (“quack”)
Henry is a duck.
Henry … was a duck?
No duck should live — could live — as long as Henry. If Henry is alive. And that part is highly dubious.
Some folks, spooked to their bones, say Henry has eight round beady eyes on one side.
Some folks say you can see straight through him.
Everyone says he quacks like a human laughs, like a madman laughs.
And you never see him arrive.
Maybe Henry wasn’t always a duck?
He likes to follow folks around …
19. Binding Mirror (“chain”)
Oh, it’s not what it sounds like; no restless dead is pinned or trapped by the Mirror.
It’s more useful and more dangerous than that.
Hold your Mirror up, see the spectre in its face; see the slender shackles of longing, silver and rose and blood and black, writhing around them?
Look, until the Mirror shows you exactly what it is that keeps the spirit from rest —
Of course, a secret is a secret. The shade may not appreciate the intrusion.
20. Spiritist’s Net (“web”)
It looks like silk gauze while it’s folded, so fine it could be drawn through a finger-ring.
In truth it’s even finer, fine as spider silk once unfurled, and nearly as difficult to see.
Spread across a doorway or any surface, it can hardly be detected. A drop of blood renders it nonexistent for all but the donor — and wandering spirits, who leave dewdrops of plasm behind as they pass.
A way to identify shades?
A way to glean their power?
Yes.
21. Bells Of The Dead (“sound”)
The chiming of bells drives away the dead, the story goes. And, it’s true enough — but what many stories don’t say is how it can’t be any old bell.
An iron bell repels the passion-bound.
A silver bell, the malicious dead; a golden one the lost and wandering; a bronze those looking to possess a living host.
A wooden bell, echoing and hollow, to drive off the haunts of animals.
A crystal bell will call the departed to you like a gentle beacon.
Tags:
Towards the end of July I saw a post in the fediverse for AuGhost, for ghostie or spooky things based on a daily prompt, and I absolutely had to go for it despite not at all doing art — not least of which because, posting on fedi, I could challenge myself to stay inside the character limit including title and tags (in my case, 500 characters).
I didn’t want to spam up the blog with small individual entries, though, and I’ve learned from other prompt months that after a point any blog post being updated daily eventually becomes a hell to load and edit — but oh hay, last fall I posted Knightober entries in batches, why not do it that way again?
So here are the first ten days of AuGhost. I initially planned on more spells and the like, but it looks like it’s going more absolutely system-less places, people and things. That’s fine, though.
01. Palesliver Gates (“doorway”)
The fearful say there’s only one Palesliver Gate. The fearful are fools.
Any door, any arch, any crossroads — any verge between one place and the next — may Gate when the passage is right. The shadow of iron-briar leaves opening flickers over, and
between breaths
the next step carries you to the still lands beyond all life.
To call the Gate, they say, touch bone or mourn-cloth or true grief to the threshold and walk without turning back.
02. Sir Michel (“transfix”)
Whatever these shattered walls once were, one thing remains:
A greatsword, plunged deep into one crumbling wall.
A murmur, if touched: Do not free me. A price is paid.
Freeing the sword frees its captive — and Sir Michel does not come gently. A black-bone knight in shattered steel, keening for loss of honour, pride, the chance to repent, he is relentless in his wrath.
If Michel is put to rest, the blade gleams, now proof against the fallen.
03. Soulfire (“flicker”)
“Oh sweetie, now, don’t back out.
“This is what you wanted, remember?
“Did you think you’d make them feel your pain all on your own?”
Of course. All is unjust. But it will be worth it. You just need to do it once.
Just once.
The luminous wisps of the trapped ghost have weight as you swallow them.
It feels strange.
But that’s fine.
Until the ghost fades, that fluttering glow will wrap your spells in truly /grave/ torments when they strike.
04. The Frozen (“winter”)
There are lost ones out there.
Sometimes they scratch at the windows and tap at the door, softly, insistently, like snowfall against glass.
Sometimes they howl in fury, a storm of thwarted life and endless terror.
Sometimes they merely drift just out of sight, a moment’s wistfulness for what could have been.
No matter their form, do not respond.
Nothing you can offer can warm them now.
But they will ask it of you, oh yes.
Please
It is so cold
05. The Lady in Green (“spring”)
Through new-sown fields walks the Lady in Green. She nods in greeting if you call, but doesn’t stop for you; the living are not her concern.
The Lady walks to see the crops prepared — and the bloodgift doing their work.
Fields that pass her test grow well, life sprung from death.
A cry of neglect from the soil brings down her wrath in famine.
The Green Lady, they say, was the first.
Perhaps that’s why the leaves in her hair are red.
06. Joyeuse (“summer”)
In sunshine and warmth, who wants to think of lost ones?
Some do. With all their heart.
As do the dead.
Sometimes you just want to reach out — from either side — somehow.
That’s where the Veil works.
Joyeuse is one of them, a youth with an easy smile and a quick cold blade and a satchel sealed up close.
Letter for a loved one? Warning? A moment’s glimpse, veil parted? Joyeuse can arrange it.
And don’t try to nick his satchel. Bad idea, that.
07. Hunt-Heart (“fall”)
Do not be greedy, nor wasteful, nor cruel when the leaves turn and the hunt begins.
Take what you need, and do so as swiftly, as cleanly as you can.
A swift end, delivered without malice.
And thankfulness, in necessity, for what they render unto you.
Else you may find yourself stalked by your own prey — bone and chill wind and withering relentlessness, they have nothing to fear from you now.
And they will hunt you to the ends of the earth.
08. Wandering Stone (“gift”)
No one knows who moves the Wandering Stone. A generous spirit or two, or itinerant devotees, or even the Veil.
It doesn’t matter. It’s there; that’s important.
The Stone is towering, pitted with niches; a broad dolmen strung with ribbons, paper ornaments and cloth streamers, its niches filled with cakes, notes, old toys, flowers, carvings.
A place to leave things for those with no name, no grave-place.
Many grateful dead follow in its wake.
09. Royal Edge (“sacrifice”)
It is royal, yes; the ancient crest, with crown above, is yet visible on the dagger’s worn blade. And worn indeed, from blade to the browning ivory of its grip to the faintly greening copper rivets holding all in place.
Draw your blood with it and she appears in milky mist, half-armoured, wry smile on her colourless lips.
Royal Edge claims a year from your blood; but that is enough for the Ember Sage Prince to answer your call for one night.
10. the Bone Garden (“maze”)
Once upon a time there was a gardener whose joy was a magnificent mazy path of tenderly shaped cherries and lovingly trimmed roses. Folks came from all the land to wander the twisting paths and lose themselves in the arching boughs and dizzying blooms.
Then came conquest, and death. The garden, blood-soaked, was torched.
The next new moon it rose again, a labyrinth of bloodwood and bone.
The gardener walks its paths, wailing.
Will you enter?
I didn’t want to spam up the blog with small individual entries, though, and I’ve learned from other prompt months that after a point any blog post being updated daily eventually becomes a hell to load and edit — but oh hay, last fall I posted Knightober entries in batches, why not do it that way again?
So here are the first ten days of AuGhost. I initially planned on more spells and the like, but it looks like it’s going more absolutely system-less places, people and things. That’s fine, though.
01. Palesliver Gates (“doorway”)
The fearful say there’s only one Palesliver Gate. The fearful are fools.
Any door, any arch, any crossroads — any verge between one place and the next — may Gate when the passage is right. The shadow of iron-briar leaves opening flickers over, and
between breaths
the next step carries you to the still lands beyond all life.
To call the Gate, they say, touch bone or mourn-cloth or true grief to the threshold and walk without turning back.
02. Sir Michel (“transfix”)
Whatever these shattered walls once were, one thing remains:
A greatsword, plunged deep into one crumbling wall.
A murmur, if touched: Do not free me. A price is paid.
Freeing the sword frees its captive — and Sir Michel does not come gently. A black-bone knight in shattered steel, keening for loss of honour, pride, the chance to repent, he is relentless in his wrath.
If Michel is put to rest, the blade gleams, now proof against the fallen.
03. Soulfire (“flicker”)
“Oh sweetie, now, don’t back out.
“This is what you wanted, remember?
“Did you think you’d make them feel your pain all on your own?”
Of course. All is unjust. But it will be worth it. You just need to do it once.
Just once.
The luminous wisps of the trapped ghost have weight as you swallow them.
It feels strange.
But that’s fine.
Until the ghost fades, that fluttering glow will wrap your spells in truly /grave/ torments when they strike.
04. The Frozen (“winter”)
There are lost ones out there.
Sometimes they scratch at the windows and tap at the door, softly, insistently, like snowfall against glass.
Sometimes they howl in fury, a storm of thwarted life and endless terror.
Sometimes they merely drift just out of sight, a moment’s wistfulness for what could have been.
No matter their form, do not respond.
Nothing you can offer can warm them now.
But they will ask it of you, oh yes.
Please
It is so cold
05. The Lady in Green (“spring”)
Through new-sown fields walks the Lady in Green. She nods in greeting if you call, but doesn’t stop for you; the living are not her concern.
The Lady walks to see the crops prepared — and the bloodgift doing their work.
Fields that pass her test grow well, life sprung from death.
A cry of neglect from the soil brings down her wrath in famine.
The Green Lady, they say, was the first.
Perhaps that’s why the leaves in her hair are red.
06. Joyeuse (“summer”)
In sunshine and warmth, who wants to think of lost ones?
Some do. With all their heart.
As do the dead.
Sometimes you just want to reach out — from either side — somehow.
That’s where the Veil works.
Joyeuse is one of them, a youth with an easy smile and a quick cold blade and a satchel sealed up close.
Letter for a loved one? Warning? A moment’s glimpse, veil parted? Joyeuse can arrange it.
And don’t try to nick his satchel. Bad idea, that.
07. Hunt-Heart (“fall”)
Do not be greedy, nor wasteful, nor cruel when the leaves turn and the hunt begins.
Take what you need, and do so as swiftly, as cleanly as you can.
A swift end, delivered without malice.
And thankfulness, in necessity, for what they render unto you.
Else you may find yourself stalked by your own prey — bone and chill wind and withering relentlessness, they have nothing to fear from you now.
And they will hunt you to the ends of the earth.
08. Wandering Stone (“gift”)
No one knows who moves the Wandering Stone. A generous spirit or two, or itinerant devotees, or even the Veil.
It doesn’t matter. It’s there; that’s important.
The Stone is towering, pitted with niches; a broad dolmen strung with ribbons, paper ornaments and cloth streamers, its niches filled with cakes, notes, old toys, flowers, carvings.
A place to leave things for those with no name, no grave-place.
Many grateful dead follow in its wake.
09. Royal Edge (“sacrifice”)
It is royal, yes; the ancient crest, with crown above, is yet visible on the dagger’s worn blade. And worn indeed, from blade to the browning ivory of its grip to the faintly greening copper rivets holding all in place.
Draw your blood with it and she appears in milky mist, half-armoured, wry smile on her colourless lips.
Royal Edge claims a year from your blood; but that is enough for the Ember Sage Prince to answer your call for one night.
10. the Bone Garden (“maze”)
Once upon a time there was a gardener whose joy was a magnificent mazy path of tenderly shaped cherries and lovingly trimmed roses. Folks came from all the land to wander the twisting paths and lose themselves in the arching boughs and dizzying blooms.
Then came conquest, and death. The garden, blood-soaked, was torched.
The next new moon it rose again, a labyrinth of bloodwood and bone.
The gardener walks its paths, wailing.
Will you enter?
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Do you have a Sesh glyph?
They’re very useful, if you can acquire one — many archivists and scriveners and sages of all stripes have one, as do most arcanists and more than a few masters of merchant-caravans and curious nobles and busy churchfolk. Sometimes you can buy one, or pay (in coin or kind or stranger things) to have one designed for you, at a curio shop or a scribal hall; and many are those who apprenticed to magic, successfully or no, who received their glyph courtesy of their mentor. They all come from someone who already possesses one, of course, because designing a new glyph requires a Sesh to be present to recognize and accept it.
What’s a Sesh, you ask?
Why, the most convenient of entities. Summon a Sesh — a gnarled little figure the size of a husky housecat, all dull-jewel scales and twisted horns and stubby wings and twisting tail — by drawing your glyph, preferably at the end of some missive or other, and the eldritch little clerk will appear out of the very air, scrollcase clutched in its twisting little talons.
Now pop your letter, or letters, or whatever else you wish, into that scrollcase it offers you, seal it up smartly, and write your glyph on one end of the case and — this is quite important — the glyph of your intended recipient on the other. The Sesh will snatch up the case and its contents and quick as a breath carry it through the nothingness between to the other party.
It’s amazingly convenient, and why, the Sesh asks for nothing but the chance to carry missives, and for only its scrollcases to be used. And that nothing be too large to fit — the case absolutely must be capable of sealing.
It’s a useful, wonderful thing to have in your pocket, as it were, isn’t it?
Just be certain you write the glyphs properly, of course. Your missive will just be brought back, battered and faded and the worse for wear by a very annoyed Sesh.
And check to be certain that there’s no lingering glyphs hanging around, in the bargain. The Sesh will deliver to every glyph indicated, after all; that’s its task and it will see it done.
But you’ll be careful, right?
Oh I do hope you get yourself a glyph soon!
They’re very useful, if you can acquire one — many archivists and scriveners and sages of all stripes have one, as do most arcanists and more than a few masters of merchant-caravans and curious nobles and busy churchfolk. Sometimes you can buy one, or pay (in coin or kind or stranger things) to have one designed for you, at a curio shop or a scribal hall; and many are those who apprenticed to magic, successfully or no, who received their glyph courtesy of their mentor. They all come from someone who already possesses one, of course, because designing a new glyph requires a Sesh to be present to recognize and accept it.
What’s a Sesh, you ask?
Why, the most convenient of entities. Summon a Sesh — a gnarled little figure the size of a husky housecat, all dull-jewel scales and twisted horns and stubby wings and twisting tail — by drawing your glyph, preferably at the end of some missive or other, and the eldritch little clerk will appear out of the very air, scrollcase clutched in its twisting little talons.
Now pop your letter, or letters, or whatever else you wish, into that scrollcase it offers you, seal it up smartly, and write your glyph on one end of the case and — this is quite important — the glyph of your intended recipient on the other. The Sesh will snatch up the case and its contents and quick as a breath carry it through the nothingness between to the other party.
It’s amazingly convenient, and why, the Sesh asks for nothing but the chance to carry missives, and for only its scrollcases to be used. And that nothing be too large to fit — the case absolutely must be capable of sealing.
It’s a useful, wonderful thing to have in your pocket, as it were, isn’t it?
Just be certain you write the glyphs properly, of course. Your missive will just be brought back, battered and faded and the worse for wear by a very annoyed Sesh.
And check to be certain that there’s no lingering glyphs hanging around, in the bargain. The Sesh will deliver to every glyph indicated, after all; that’s its task and it will see it done.
But you’ll be careful, right?
Oh I do hope you get yourself a glyph soon!
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“Stay on his back! Hold on, let Swift do the rest!”
Of course — of course — the ambush came after days of quiet pleasantries and glass-arts tours and trading gentle verbal duels with Ranai notables. Of course it came when Liamath and his new charge were following yet another dizzying shell-strewn forestgarden trail, one attached to Mairah’s own manor no less.
Oh, they planned it well. But not well enough to mark Liamath’s skill —
And they, wretches all, were also learning all too quickly that no moonstag fared well against the famed flesh-eating steeds of Kauvr.
Of course Swift had the run of House Reinan’s enclosed groves; Liamath would accept no less.
The knot of assailants — sleek creatures in unmarked buff coats, save for their leader in linen and lace and silvered shell-maille — swarmed them. Liamath barked a single warning — “Fall back and be spared” — before he drew his sword, tossed back his head, and howled.
Swift thundered through the trees heartbeats later, fangs bared and hooves lashing. In one fluid motion Liamath scooped the ghost-pale Mairah bodily from the ground and heaved him onto the gelding’s broad grey back, even as Swift laid open a stag’s throat and stove its ribs in.
Then it was time for a culling, and Liamath’s blade was every bit as swift as his companion.
He paid in blood — a gash, two gashes, on his blind side from darting assailants that escaped Swift’s teeth — but two corpses lay at his feet and three others took to their heels. Two corpses, and a kneeling figure in bloodied silvered finery who clutched a shattered blade as Liamath closed, sword high.
Then he grounded it, point to earth.
“You’ve lost your bid to founder the new accord. GIve me your allies’ names and come along in peace, and I will spare your life and render you unto the Rainlord’s court.”
The fallen cavalier gulped air, spit bloodily, tossed back her head in disbelief. Behind Liamath, Swift rumbled warningly, snaking his head low and closer; Liamath clicked his tongue, but kept his attention on the swordmaster before him.
“Stand, Swift. Stand.”
The gelding drew back, snorting; Liamath tried not to chuckle, struck by the ludicrousness of it all. Still he didn’t turn.
“Lord Mairah? Are you well?”
The response was quick, and shaken —
“A — It’s a close thing, Wolf, but I’m alright …”
“Good. Stay where you are, if you please?”
— not that Liamath expected him to actually attempt to dismount at the moment —
“And so here we are, oh would-be righteous one. Will you surrender?”
He saw the nerves, the doubt, in her amber eyes. Well, perhaps understandable. Still —
“You killed –“
“The poor fools, and their beasts, that you set upon us before you dared to close in yourself, yes. I regret, but they could have made another choice — as several of them chose to do.
“Will you surrender your blade, milady?”
“And you’ll do what?”
Liamath shifted his stance slightly, his own maille chimed softly, muffled by wool.
“Remand you to Ranai justice. I have stilled your hand, as was my charge to do so.”
He shifted his hands on his sword-pommel, ready to change grip and bring the blade to bear if necessary. The cavalier watched him for several breaths, listening to the soft chime, eyeing his bloodied furs.
“… You’re some Kauvra wolflord.”
“I am.”
Her blade clattered to his boots.
He offered her his hand.
-*-
Kauvra crystal maille: Perishingly patience-devouring to carve — and not at all silent unless well muffled with wool and fur (often not even then) or enchanted — maille hauberks carved from the toughest, least brittle of Kauvr’s crystal are a signature of the wolflords from the March Of The Grey. Some grow so accustomed to the tiny glittering links and their soft chime that they meditate to the sound.
As it turned out, the fair young man in question — one Mairah by name, scion of a long line of glassweaver nobility — possessed a certain paleness of eye and angle to face that suggested ties to Cor-cael’s lord. This explained a good deal to Liamath, though he kept his observations to himself as he paced silently alongside the chattering Mairah.
Discretion, always discretion …
He was learning a good deal about the state of affairs in Ranah, to be sure, and the glances he kept receiving from pale-coated, patchwork-embroidered locals were — did the newly-gifted blade at his hip look so terribly mismatched with the rest of him, then? Did the shining thing not suit? Or was it something else ~?
“– So you see, Wolf Corvan, Lord Kaerna frankly dispatched you here ahead of expected, mm, disruptions. I’m not unskilled with a blade, but against …”
Liamath shook his head, dark mane swinging in its formal braid.
“There’s no reason for you to cross swords with dissenters and the lawless. It’s a different sort of fight, that one, all the more when it’s unavoidable.”
He cocked his head to fix Mairah with his hale eye, a thin smile creeping out for a moment. Oh, the lad looked puzzled; very well, then.
“I’m just as pleased that you recognize the difference between a duel, or a skirmish, and what we’re waiting for, young lord. But, rest assured that I have no intention to draw unnecessary blood. That’d be no better than the wretches I’m watching for.
“We protect those needing protecting, and cull when culling’s called for; nothing more, nothing less.”
-*-
Hundred-silver: A tradition still held by many older Ranai families of presenting a gift — a new knife or sword, philtre or pen-set, brooch or buckler — to one who has proven faithful, joined them in an oath, or become new kin. Whatever the object, it is at least partially surfaced in mosiac-work of tiny mirrored tesserae, as a reminder that the whole is made up of its parts.
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Of course Liamath agreed to make the trek his liege requested; it would never have occured to him to refuse. Though off-balance from his earlier exploits, he’d sworn his oath and would not break it, certainly not for so petty a thing as being out on the road once more. Lord Kaerna did not command his loyalty — and for that, she possessed it until his dying breath.
What he hadn’t expected was what he — and the grumbling Swift — rode to the Mirror Of The Mirror for.
Or, for that matter, how Lord Kaerna planned to have them present themselves.
Oh, milord, you are a clever one. But I know very well that you have more than the favour of loaning out a fancy honour-guard in mind, else you would’ve chosen most any of the youngsters.
Well, I’ll do my best, and hope that a one-eyed swordhand doesn’t put off the fair young man.
Compared to their backlands travels, the road to Ranah was an easy one of waystops and pocket-villages and Swift earning treats from cheerful travellers; when Ranah’s bleached-silver walls loomed ahead before Liamath’s eyes he almost felt that it should’ve taken at least few days longer. And on that fine evening, Liamath drew Swift towards the side of the broad road to brush away the dust and settle their unaccustomed finery of shining dark furs and falls of tiny sparkling beads cascading from caparison and trailing coattails.
Swift stamped one hoof, tossing his head, as Liamath remounted, earning a chuckle and a scratch in his thick ruffed mane.
“Yes, we both look quite fancy, I’m sure. Let us present ourselves and our pledges to the gatekeepers, eh?”
-*-
Heart’s-pledge: One of several oaths and similar promises common to the northern reaches of the Edge, similar to the wolflord’s oath, the blood-binding oath and the guardian’s sword oath (and the Alabaster Blades have a similar tradition). Frequently represented by a special series of glyphs, with or without an inscribed copy of the oath itself; the specific form of the physical pledge varies, from illuminated documents to inscribed crystal prisms, precious-metal pendants or stone tablets. Many carry the physical representation of their pledge as a ward or charm.
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“You’ve had an eventful ride, Liamath. I regret needing to cut it short.”
Liamath couldn’t tell whether Lord Kaerna was joking or not. His liege was hard to read at times, with a cool professionalism forged in the fires of political war, and he admired her steel even as it made him occasionally second-guess himself —
“But do breathe, wolflord, you’re looking a little peaked. It won’t suit to have one of my finest wilting like a snipped flower.”
— like right this moment. He winced, and she chuckled, icy eyes sparkling. The sound echoed through the hall’s cedar ceiling beams, muffling into the tapestries that lined the walls. Liamath covered his moment of discomfit with a carefully contemplative sip from the pearly cup, blossom-like, he cradled. It wasn’t like him to act so much the callow squire, truly, but his nerves felt a touch raw after the gift, and the lost stranger, and the chase afterward, and …
I never thought I’d see the time I preferred to sit in Cor-cael and sip from fancy service. But …
But the warmth of the hearthfires, the smoky cedar beams, the brilliant tapestries and the glittering pillars, the soft dark pelts strewn across benches and chairs …
Maybe I’m getting old. Maybe …
“Liamath.”
Lord Kaerna set down her own cup. Her circlet gleamed in the lantern-light, thorns in grizzled silver.
“Will you ride to Ranah?”
-*-
Fernsilk: A creeping, delicate fern, tiny in the wilds of the forest but growing to luxuriance indoors, whose trailing curlicues of feathery leaves lend a cool, minty, earthy savour to Kauvri teas, meads, and raw dishes.
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A summons back to Cor-cael was not something Liamath expected, but — he’d learned long before — fate did not give a clipped wedge for his expectations. If Lord Kaerna wished his presence, then her will would be done.
If it’s hostilities or calamity, I’m sure there would have been some hint in the code; but, nothing. So, vital enough to call me back, not vital enough to inform me.
Or, it’s secrecy that’s needed. No way of knowing who or what might be about when I received the summons …
As with the firebird, and the children.
His musings kept Liamath gnawing at possibilities — and his growing relief at returning to his liege’s lands — for nearly the entire return trip. Distractions came when hunting with Swift or, once, offering aid to a stranded forest-gleaner desperate to reach his village and too thorn-riddled to make it back without that help; but no firebird appeared to chide him along, so Liamath deemed the detour more than worthwhile. They’d make it up.
By the time he trotted through the cobbled lanes of Larell towards Cor-cael’s walls, Swift was growling and snappish and Liamath didn’t blame the gelding one bit. The last few days turned into hard riding …
“Don’t you worry, my big lad, a warm stable and proper grooming and good feed are waiting for you on the other side of the gate — just tilt me there, now.”
Swift never paused, only sidling at the last moment for Liamath to hold his hand out to the veins of crystal threading through the massive nightcedar gates that loomed above them. Beneath his palm, pale light flared, ghostly runes flickered, an echo of the light seeping through his glove; and the great Horizon Gate of Cor-Cael yawned open.
-*-
Portal Emblem: Another example of Kauvri crystalwork, usually a finger-ring, pendant, or cloak-brooch, carved from a crystal spall mounted in metal or especially dense wood. The emblem responds to the presence of of the core-crystal it was spalled from and is tuned to the life-pattern of its bearer, who can use the emblem to instruct the core to unlock or unbolt access to anything from jewelry boxes to buildings.
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May this be the last.
Fate is a capricious, fickle thing, and Liamath seldom felt that so keenly as he did this storm-clouded evening, some hours away from the pleasant hub-village and its market filled with cheer.
How fitting, truly, to have his beloved’s final token delivered on bright wings in time for such a wretched discovery.
Whoever the poor soul had been, what scraps remained of their belongings bore no resemblance to the villagers’ colourful woolens, nor to Urulayan or Ranai fashions, or the descriptions of further lands. The metal of the thin dagger — a strange violet washed with gold — also utterly foreign. None of it resembled anything Liamath recognized, or had heard of, so where had the lost hailed from? A newworld, perhaps, beyond the Edge …
The pale bones were far too real to only be some primordia fever dream.
Not that it mattered.
In the end the poor creature went down — trampled under Swift’s hooves, its skull shattered like a broken moon-melon between stout sharp fangs, while Liamath swung a prayerlight overhead like a festival lantern, free hand clamped onto the saddlehorn.
The lamp’s pale-gold light flickered fitfully now, the lacy crystal guttering in its greenivory egg, but that was alright. The work was finished. Brushing earth and moss from his breeches, Liamath rose slowly to his feet.
I didn’t know your rites, but I did what I could for you. I hope that our traditions bring some peace.
May you now find your rest, stranger.
And it was time to move on.
-*-
Prayerlight: A delicate crystal carving of interlocking, lacy curlicues, often stylized ferns, fitted into a protective shell much like a lantern frame. Once activated, such a lamp will cast soothing light out to 60′, in which mindless undead creatures are slow and sluggish, ghosts may not possess the living, and the dead will not rise. A prayerlight will last for six hours, which need not be continuous.
Children shouting excitedly alerted Liamath before he saw anything — cries of “firebird” and “sunhawk” pulled his attention like a puppet on its strings, to the great amusement of the merchant-crofter whose produce he’d been contently mulling over. The redmint and spicy-sweet black plums would have to wait —
— Or, there could be no need to wait long at all.
Before Liamath more than turned away from the lean elder’s stall the bird — a flickering sihouette of moon-pale wisps, far more solid than it looked, was swooping on him. The wychling thing dropped a leather pouch into his upstretched hands, then whirled away and dipped low to flutter over the laughing knot of children before fading from the world.
Liamath was painfully aware of the curious stares he was getting from the entire village market, and didn’t blame them one bit.
I suppose it was quite a show.
“Come on now, lad, show us what you got there, eh? So long’s it’s not anything secret, of course. A special report from your noble? New mission? Love token, mayhap ~?”
The plum-seller’s eyes danced merrily beneath his battered felt hat, and Liamath did chuckle before shaking his head slowly in denial of all three. What he drew from the pouch was something very different: a braided cord of quilted twists of silk, tri-coloured, and long enough to settle around his neck.
“No, goodsir, none of those.”
Liamath’s voice was soft, withdrawn.
“My lord has returned my lost one to me.”
The elder nodded silently. No more needed to be said.
-*-
Mourner’s Devotions: A braid of twisted cords, wool or silk or linen, carried by many in Kauvr — at least one cord is filled with a core made of plaited hair or similar mementos of the dearly departed. More ornate devotions may have strands of tiny beads threaded through the braid, or be bound at intervals with metal- or jewelwork.
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“I like to be able to move more freely, and that strikes me as adding extra weight for Swift …”
Liamath’s companion for the evening, a lean wanderer from Neshin’s great plainslands to the south who gave her name as Rekhi — gazed contemplatively at the plate of gleaming steel-lacquer she was cleaning, looked across the fire to Liamath, then shook her head with a chuckle. Her dark eyes gleamed with an amusement that Liamath found infectious —
“If I rode a toothy beast like yours through twisty trees and around glittering growths like yours, I’d no doubt think the same thing! It’s worth it, though, even with the maintenance, having a bit more between me and whatever barbs get flung my way. Tamma doesn’t seem to mind.”
Tethered a respectable distance from campfire and Swift both, the sturdy bay mare in question looked up at the mention of her name, then quieted. For his own part, Swift had settled into a comfortable loafing kneel and was dozing away.
All in all, it was a pleasant evening, with unexpected but welcome company, and Liamath welcome the chance to chat and talk shop a little with a fellow knight. In the morning they would part ways — he back on his wandering circuit, she to make her way east towards Urulaya — but for now, time enough for a brace of partridges over the flames and a bit of rose-mead to share between them.
-*-
Neshi Plating: Not actually a solid breastplate — and not solid steel, either, despite its appearance. Cunningly linked smaller, articulated plates composed of multiple layers of steelsilk lacquered together and shaped to conform to upper torso, shoulders, abdomen and back are attached by stitches and riveting to a normal steelsilk base. The plating offers more protection than plain steelsilk, but requires near-daily maintenance of its lacquer.
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Liamath — much to his chagrin — had lost the path, and it galled him to admit it. Of course, he meant ‘lost the path’ quite literally; what was missing was the literal path. Or, rather, the road he’d been riding along, thin overgrown cart-track that it was.
I suppose this is what happens when you haven’t been on an actual road in a good span of days, but I don’t have to enjoy it. There should still be a track.
— But track there was not, and as Swift picked cautiously along the growing strange pale twistings of the trees — the metallic call of creatures hidden in undergrowth now beginning to shimmer darkly — too many strangenesses told Liamath just what he and his steed were faced with:
There was a primordial cyst. And it was rupturing. This stretch of land was not safe.
Sensing his rider’s growing unease, Swift tossed his head and bared his fangs, pawing the mossy, clinging ground with a forehoof until Liamath leaned, maille chiming, to pat the gelding’s smoky neck.
“Shh. Shh, now, we’ll make our way out. Shh.”
Swift snorted, pawed once more, and stilled; Liamath took the opportunity to pull a long necklace of stoutly twined leather cord from under mantle, maille and tunic, rubbing the twisted hide between his fingers in a nervous fidget that belied his soothing words before lifting its pendant up to the wavering light of chaos-touched day.
Tiny stars drifted in the cerulean depths. Good.
Liamath clasped the rough prism in one hand, nicking flesh on its sharp edges. Watching the stars whirl with sudden purpose, he nudged Swift to turn sharply about and forge a new trail.
He’d lead them towards home.
-*-
Wayfinder: A rough, ragged oblong or prism of specially-selected crystal, which must be touched to a prominent local marker and anointed in one’s own blood under a starry sky in order to awaken its power. At any time afterwards, another touch of blood will call the lights inside the crystal to a flurry of activity as the crystal guides its owner back to that one chosen location. Some wayfinders may be attuned to a specific individual instead, or to call a specific individual to the crystal’s owner.
Yes, here we are — I did say there was a third one ;3
Knightober (which is using prompts from rayleearts @ Twitter) is working a little differently, with a prompt every three days instead of daily. I’m also using a different format, or at least posting more words (lol), so these will be independent posts.
Speaking of the posts they’re a hybrid sort of subject: each one gets a wee bit of writing about one Liamath Corvan, a roaming knight of Kauvr (and his wolfish horse, Swift) and a bit of kit or magic or what-have for rpg-land that references the writing. Let’s see how long I can do this, lol.
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“It’s not what I wished for, but we seldom get what we want, eh, Swift?”
Swift — being far too interested in his meal to bother with pointless noises from his master — barely deigned to swivel an ear before returning to his repast. Well, Liamath was just as happy to let the gelding finish off the deer, ‘rude’ as being ignored was; he’d already claimed his own portion and delivered a haunch to the crofters in the vale to the east. Let Swift have the remainder, a well-deserved reward for racing down the wretches who were so recently a plague. He’d not taken too many chunks from the damned brigands’ hides, after all.
Liamath was more interested in said brigands, alive or dead. If he hadn’t been on circuit …
I have no doubt at least half their number were Urulayan. But that means nothing; it’s as easy to take to raiding in Urulaya as here in the Grey, and what do bandits care for sovereign land?
Pah. Time enough in the morning to chew on it.
Sighing, Liamath scratched next to his empty eye. Lord Kaerna would be eager to hear about the incident, but alas her vassal’s wanderings were far from over.
May I find a messenger the next time I cross a town. Starfang’s eyes, what a mess.
— But that could also wait. For now, Liamath wanted to wash dirt and brigand blood from wolf-mantle, glittering maille and his well-tangled dark hair, get his venison cooked over his wee fire, and — most of all — deal with that glancing blow the wretched brigand leader fetched him. With a wince and another sigh, he dug through a saddlepack to find a crystal teardrop that nestled in his palm, liquid fire to tend to his own bloodied hide — a bit much, perhaps, but better used than to risk infection or chaos.
“And come the morning we move on, eh Swift –?”
-*-
Flowerflame: A distinctively deep flame-orange elixir, spicy and peppery, distilled from marigold and magic and other, more secret things, and normally contained in small crystal phials the size of one’s thumb or smaller containing 1 to 6 doses.
A single dose may have many uses, depending on how it is applied — in oil or fat or milk as a magically healing balm (1d4+1), in honey or milk as a panacea against cursed illnesses, drawn like ink on anything from beads to corpses to ward away unclean forces …