On the cob­bled gatepost, there sat a skull. A human skull, set in a div­ot midst the stones. Brown and crust­ed. A fresh wreath of dried daisy pix­ies, their heads torn off, crowned it. A lump of clay was tied in its gap­ing jaw, traced with runes.

On the road, two Ward Rangers stared at it from horse­back. One spat a gob of pep­perelle juice, non-affec­tu­al. “Well,” he said, thumb­ing anoth­er wad of chew. “What you bet this is her place?” He nod­ded past the gate, over the plant­ed lawn bud­ded with cab­bage and broc­coli. There, sur­round­ed by bloom­ing mock orange, squat­ted a stone cot­tage. A deflat­ed frog was nailed to the rune-daubed door. Flies buzzed thick­ly beside.

Near­by, a boy in grimy knicker­bock­ers passed. He pushed a wheel­bar­row cov­ered in tarp. “Hey, lad,” one Ranger called. “This old Nan’s place?” 

The boy nod­ded. He heaved hur­ried­ly for­ward with the bar­row.

“Okay, thanks lad.” 

The kid hur­ried on. A bit of dirty tarp flapped in the sum­mer wind. “Peo­ple here are weird,” mut­tered the ranger, watch­ing him.

The oth­er Ranger, a woman with a peachy blond buz­z­cut, shook her head. She dis­mount­ed. “Come on then,” she said, weary. “Let’s see what nan’s got to say about… ” she waved a hand at the vil­lage square, behind them, where a great woven twig­gy shape loomed, taller than the sur­round­ing fir trees. “That,” she said.The gate creaked. Their rid­ing boots squished through the mud­dy gar­den. They knocked, just beside the toad and the mud-drawn sym­bols. The Rangers met eyes, dubi­ous.

They wait­ed. A mock orange pix­ie, sweet­ly white and tit­ter­ing, gen­tly assault­ed the man’s ear­lobe. He swat­ted it away. In the dis­tance, a raven croaked.

“Come on. Is she there or not?” mused the woman. She knocked again, scratched her insect-bit­ten neck. “Bol­locks. There’s no end of flies.”

“Maybe she’s hard of hear­ing,” chewed the man.

She har­rumphed, raised a fist to knock again.

The door jerked open.

“Uh.” The blonde Ranger shut her mouth, polite­ly clasped her hands. “Good day.” They both smiled deter­mined­ly, but winced: a rank aura of pick­ling and ran­cid but­ter waft­ed from with­in.

“Hal­lo,” said the hunched woman in the door. She grinned, loos­ing a liv­er-y breath and a glimpse of three black teeth. “Ah, Rany­ers! Ooh, would ye look at te two of ye? So smart, in yer lit­tle ridin’ capes n’ hoods.” She drawled in a thick­ly pas­toral Awnish accent, prick­ing at the near­er ranger’s grey hem.

The Rangers, their navy sum­mer uni­forms stained with sweat and dust, smiled polite­ly. “Old Nan Dagne, I pre­sume?” said the man, chew­ing, extend­ing a hand. Old Nan gripped it soft­ly in bony fin­gers, shook. A bit of ash came off on the Ranger’s glove.

“Ja, ja,” Nan said. “Would ye care te come in? Have a bit o’ kraut n’ sour cream on a hot day?” She ges­tured into the cot­tage. It was dark and moistly hot, with­in. Some things, herbs or pheas­ants or coneys, hung sway­ing in the dim, back­lit by a greasy peat fire, lit despite the sum­mer’s heat.

“No, thank you, Nan. That won’t be nec­es­sary. We only have some quick ques­tions, if you’d oblige us,” said the blonde Ranger, hur­ried­ly.

“Oh o’ course,” said Nan. She pas­sive­ly smoothed her filthy pais­ley apron. “So good o’ ye te sheck on te old folk. Sush good lit­tle Rany­ers.”

“Uh.”

“Lis­ten, Nan,” said the chew­er. “Would ya hap­pen to know any­thing about that?” He point­ed back, towards the square and the woven form of twigs.

“Oh, ja,” smiled Nan, again reveal­ing those three teeth. The Rangers sub­tly avert­ed their gaze. “Te effi­gy! A very hap­py old tra­di­tion. Part of te majstång. ”

“The mid­somer fes­ti­val?”

“Ja!”

“Can you elab­o­rate? You burn it, right?”

Nan Dagne nod­ded. “We burn him, and burn away all te ills of yes­ter­year. And his ash­es fer­til­ize te fields.” She grinned wicked­ly, point­ed at the blonde ranger’s midriff. “And te young ladies, eh?” She nod­ded know­ing­ly.

The Ranger glared at her, stepped back once. “Okay, fine,” she said. “That’s all you burn? Just a wick­er man?”

“Ja,” said Nan, con­fus­ed­ly. “What else would we burn?”

“What about that skull?” said the man, point­ing back. “Did you burn him?”

“No?” said Nan. “He is pleased to be dere.”

The Rangers blinked awhile. Old Nan mugged at them, tooth­less­ly.

“Nan,” said the blonde. “Would you mind ter­ri­bly if some of us from the Fort attend­ed your Mid­somer fes­tiv­i­ties?”

“Not at all!”

“Uh, grand. Won­der­ful.”

They all stood. Nan mugged all the while.

“We’ll be off, then,” said the Ranger woman, as last, turn­ing faster than usu­al.

“Fair­well!”

Off down the path, swat­ting at pix­ies and the bliz­zard of flies which had detached from Nan’s open door. They stepped into their stir­rups, flicked the reins, and depart­ed the lit­tle ham­let. They left, look­ing often back at what loomed at the cen­ter of town. Over the peaked shin­gled rooftops and squat stone chim­neys: A giant. A giant woven from wil­low, with great antlers, adorned with all the flow­ers of sum­mer. 

“Bloody impos­si­ble to tell what they’re up to,” mut­tered the chew­ing man. “Even when it’s right bloody there.” He spat, inch­es from the flinch­ing knicker­bock­ered boy and the wheel­bar­row as they approached him. 

“Quite. Right. These neosor­cerors are get­ting more brazen. Every­thing’s out in the open, and you can’t even see it.”

“Exact­ly.”

They tit­tered to them­selves, capes flap­ping in the sum­mer wind. They over­took the mud­dy boy, gos­sip­ing all the while. 

The boy with the bar­row, and his cov­ered load of car­ven, human bones.

Out at sea hung a black ship. A bar­que with a glis­ten­ing tar-black hull and furled sails of lux­u­ri­ant bur­gundy. Anthracite smoke bil­lowed from triple stacks amid­ships, swathing the craft in a dark shawl upon the paler ocean mist.

At shore, behind an old hill­top ruin over­look­ing a slimy stone moor­age, there three hud­dled chil­dren in down coats. They shiv­ered in the chill driz­zle, peer­ing over mossy stones, eyes fixed on the ship.

“Help me up!” squeaked a tiny voice. Some­one hoist­ed a sweater-clad mouse pup, small and fat as a foot­ball, up onto the wall. “Wow!” he whee­dled.

The eldest child, a seri­ous red­head­ed girl, nod­ded know­ing­ly. “Aye. And you lot said it would­n’t come. I told you: a’ve seen it before. Her ship, with her red sails.”

“The Sor­cer­ess!” cried the mouse. The oth­er chil­dren held fin­gers to their lips, hush­ing him. “Qui­et, Dempsey.”

“Look, look,” said the pup, qui­eter. “There’s a lit­tle boat low­er­ing down.”

There was: A long shut­tle boat, sim­i­lar­ly black, had just put out oars. It start­ed towards the wave-licked moor­age, fast as a water-strid­er over the lap­ping sea. From its stern flut­tered a curl­ing, bur­gundy ban­de­role marked with runes of sil­ver thread.

“Who are they?” said a shiv­er­ing, pim­ply boy. He point­ed a grub­by fin­ger at the moor­age, where an entourage of folk in black suits and wind-raked fur and broad­cloth cloaks had appeared to greet the ship, bat­tered by the weath­er. One and all, they wore sil­ver, gold, and alabaster masks under their long hoods. At their lead, first on the dock, stood a man haloed by wind-whipped silken black hair. Glit­ter­ing rings encrust­ed his clasped, satin-gloved hands.

“More sor­cer­ers?”

“Aris­tos, Galder. See their masks? Only aris­tos wear them.”

“Wow,” said the boy, mouth agape.

The shut­tle neared. The oars with­drew. Atten­dants clad in rub­ber jump­suits and sack hoods leapt to the pier and hauled the craft to dock with stout ropes. They tied it off and low­ered a plank.

Across, shield­ed by umbrel­la-wield­ing atten­dants, came a mis­matched pair. First, an impos­si­bly tall woman in crisp black. A dark veil and cher­ry-red stream­ers of hair framed her onyx, sneer­ing mask. She stepped onto the dock. All bowed, save the ring-fin­gered man, who shook her red-gloved hand. At the sight of her, the chil­dren gasped. Some­one shushed.

Next among the two came a mask­less woman. A small pres­ence beside the tow­er­ing lead. She too wore for­mal black: A split-sleeved frock coat, aus­tere and unadorned. Short shiny hair and no jew­el­ry. She stood, naked hands clasped, nod­ding prim­ly to the entourage.

“Who is she?” squeaked the mouse, too loud. His thin voice cut clear­ly through the wind. The chil­dren all hushed him again, but too late: The mask-less woman flicked a glance towards their wall. The kids ducked for cov­er. Some­one yanked the mouse down and cov­ered his snout.

The girl pressed a fin­ger to her lips, for sub­dued con­ver­sa­tion was gain­ing soft over the wind. The entourage approached them via the nar­row, wind­ing stone path up the hill, abut­ting the old wal­l’s edge.

Pained, hor­ri­fied expres­sions passed over the oth­er chil­dren’s faces. Some­one mouthed, “oh no.”

Foot­steps. Hard heels on mossy stone. Shad­ows pass­ing over the wall. Flap­ping cloaks and tails of coats. The masked folk spoke soft­ly, with some amuse­ment in their tone, in a lan­guage unknown.

They paid no notice to the chil­dren, save the mask­less one. She came last, and, lip curled in amuse­ment, winked at them. One long-fin­gered, deeply scarred hand waved, pas­sive­ly, in greet­ing.

Dumb­struck, Galder waived back.

The Sor­cer­ess and her entourage depart­ed, laugh­ing and mum­bling in for­got­ten words.

“Oh, I’ve pissed meself,” whined Dempsey, the pup.

“Serves you right,” said the pim­ply boy. “Thank luck the Sor­cer­ess did­n’t see! You almost got us killed.”

“Who was that last lady?” said Galder. “She seemed nice.”

Every­one looked to the eldest. She beheld them, absolute­ly pale.

“What? Tell us, Ivy.” they demand­ed of her.

“You d-dolts,” stam­mered Ivy. “The woman with the red hair and the mask, that was the Duchess of Felance. I’ve seen her in the papers. It was­n’t the Sor­cer­ess.”

“W-what?” said Galder. “Which one was she, then?”

“It’s obvi­ous! Did­n’t you see her hands?” said Ivy.

“Oh my. She waved right at us.”

“Galder waved back!” said the pup.

“Oh no.”

“I’m sor­ry,” snif­fled Galder. “I did­n’t know it was her.”

“That’s how they get you, Sor­cer­ers, says my mum,” said Ivy, seri­ous­ly. “You nev­er know, at all.”

Neosor­cery isn’t ille­gal. It is, after all, mere­ly the study and appli­ca­tion of ancient tech­nol­o­gy; no more ille­gal than learn­ing Ancient Nôr or build­ing scale mod­els of antique aque­ducts. The study of dead lan­guages and irri­ga­tion, how­ev­er, does­n’t involve chop­ping peo­ple up, brew­ing up mon­sters, and dab­bling in arts that long ago ush­ered in a Dark Age for all mankind.

Con­se­quent­ly, neosor­cery does tend to be ille­gal. For it will, as a learn­er shifts from tan­ta­liz­ing the­o­ry into debauched prac­tice, come to demand steep costs. Costs that mount with­out fail into the most abom­inable of crimes.

Neosorcery

The Coast is a fer­tile land. One lit­tered with the molder­ing car­cass­es of a thou­sand empires cen­turies gone. King­doms, domin­ions, and hege­monies. Fat­ted once, one and all, by pow­ers long ago unveiled by the dead Nôr, who drew them from the depths of physics and biol­o­gy by meth­ods now lost. The Nôr, who with their arts brought doom to all the world, burn­ing it and its uni­verse entire down to a tat­tered scrap of coast­line: Down to our tiny Coast. A ten­ta­tive super­po­si­tion abutted by wilder, con­sum­ing worlds.

The Nôr’s mere sci­ence is what we now call high sor­cery. It is their great corpse of knowl­edge that has fed all the cor­rupt­ed minds to come. A great bloat of knowl­edge that nour­ished a two-mil­len­nia Dark Age and all the hor­rid pow­ers that rose, fell, made new dis­cov­er­ies, and died along the way, cre­at­ing, like the Nôr, fer­tile sub­strate for those yet to come.

And now, in these indus­tri­al, frag­ile, crit­i­cal days, where­in Human­i­ty has final­ly reached the brink of free­dom from both the encroach­ing Oth­er and its own sor­cer­ous past, sor­cer­ous seeds bloom ever faster in the fat­ten­ing soil.

Neosor­cer­ers. Called “new” only because they are the nou­veau gen­er­a­tion of a kind appar­ent many times before. Divid­ed from the sor­cer­er-empires of the past by their inex­pe­ri­ence, their dis­par­i­ty, and their sta­tus as a weight in the bal­ance of pre­cip­i­tous his­to­ry.

some are small

Bare­ly bet­ter than folk prac­ti­tion­ers fed on scraps of ancient lore turned cul­tur­al wis­dom. Med­i­cine men and cun­ning women whose arts are queer­ly effec­tive and utter­ly queer. Prac­ti­tion­ers who, while essen­tial­ly ben­e­fi­cial, risk the dis­cov­ery and dis­sem­i­na­tion of their potent arts to more dan­ger­ous hands.

Rud­er among these small breeds of neosor­cery are the so-called “sor­cer­ous rem­nants:” the blood-soaked witch­es and ani­mal druids that ter­ri­fy fron­tier realms. Wick­er-witch­es, their bloody arts informed by fall­en, beau­ti­ful Idra. Druids, their attempts at com­mu­nion with Oth­er­some älves for­ev­er sab­o­taged by their false reliance on the worst arts of men.

some are scav­engers

Prod­ucts of human inge­nu­ity. Like the Nôr them­selves; unwit­ting in the dan­ger they flaunt, or per­haps hubris­tic. Play­ers with toys not ful­ly under­stood. 

Some take what they can. Wilder­ness com­mu­ni­ties sprung up round the warm and mys­te­ri­ous hearts of cracked ruins, thank­ful for warmth and ener­gy and obliv­i­ous to radi­ant dan­ger. Poor ruins divers, eager to plumb the wealth laden depths, unaware that what they uncov­er was meant for a bur­ial at sea.

Some scav­engers are half-igno­rant, will­ing­ly or not. Schol­ars of occultism, squir­reled away in the depths of aca­d­e­m­ic halls piled with dan­ger­ous texts and inscribed tablets, eager­ly tran­scrib­ing ancient warn­ing mes­sages as fast as they can dis­card them in favor of real, record­ed sor­cery. Or per­haps super­hu­man Avethan knights; war­riors fed a life­time diet of faith and dis­ci­pline in hopes of con­ceal­ing the sor­cer­ous truth of their hal­lowed strength.

Greedy cut­ters are the worst scav­engers of all. They, who in their search for ever more gold unleash all manor of ancient dread in the name of the ven­tur­ing econ­o­my.

oth­ers are exalt­ed

These are the more dan­ger­ous hands. The worst of all: These pow­er­ful few, ful­ly ensconced in care­ful­ly con­struct­ed fortress­es of wealth, sta­tion, and influ­ence, who dare to call them­selves the sor­cer­ers of mod­ern times.

Mod­ern dark prac­ti­tion­ers. Mem­bers of the masked aris­tos­phere; wealthy eccentrics, mad sci­en­tists, and clois­tered schol­ars and horol­o­gists, dis­turbing­ly akin to those who formed the sor­cer­ous empires of old, who wield pow­er and funds suf­fi­cient to pros­e­cute a nev­er-end­ing search for hid­den sor­cery. They search for the same pow­er, the same legions, and the same immor­tal­i­ty as the dec­o­rat­ed hor­ror-emper­ors they seek to emu­late. And, safe in a stra­tum of soci­ety untouch­able and detached from the world’s pet­ty con­cerns, they toil away, fac­ing only the depre­da­tions of each oth­er’s ambi­tion. They face dis­cord and intrigue, the only blessed obsta­cle, save time, on their way to ulti­mate pow­er.

sor­cery abounds in the mod­ern world

Sor­cer­ers are here. And, divid­ed and dif­fer­ent as they come, they are unit­ed by one fac­tor: 

They are hid­den.

Neosor­cery nev­er sur­vives with­out some­thing to hide it, will­ing­ly or not. Some­thing to dis­tract, some­thing more evi­dent: The cun­ning woman with real pow­er lives in the shad­ow of wild folk tra­di­tion. The sor­cery-fueled knight is shel­tered by his church. The bank exec­u­tive in pur­suit of eter­nal life is invis­i­ble com­pared to min­ion cut­ters unleash­ing eter­nal evil. The vizier with the crooked hands is the hid­den, potent right hand of a more pow­er­ful, osten­ta­tious man.

Sor­cery yet lives, con­cealed.

Seeds on a bloom­ing lawn.

⁂

notes

I’m back.

While gone, I’ve gen­er­at­ed lots of ideas (and acquired a cushy new job.) This idea (bit of a warm-up) relates strong­ly to the cur­rent cam­paign I’m run­ning, which is, of course, the glo­ri­ous d12-based Incunab­u­li Playtest, which you are also wel­come to try. 

Warm thanks to every­one who reached out dur­ing my hia­tus.

More lore to come.