Just out­side the lamp­light, there sat a man in grey. An impas­sive gaze sconced neath the lip of a bowler hat. A curled lip below. “Describe them again, please,” he said.

Across, over the broad desk and a green-shad­ed lamp, there shift­ed anoth­er fel­low. His unshaven neck bobbed as he swal­lowed. He straight­ened his worn flan­nel sleeves and spoke hes­i­tant­ly. “Three jars, Inspec­tor” he rasped, held up two hands; tat­tooed, and fishy under the nails. “L-long like so, n’ a tad wider n’ me head, n’ tapered down at the bot­toms. Like those glass fin­gs they ship posh olive oil in, but wif no arms.”

“Amphorae?” Sug­gest­ed the Inspec­tor. He flicked a cig­a­rette from a dis­penser on the desk and held it in his plump white fin­gers. 

“Yes, ‘Nspec­tor.” The knot of his throat bobbed. “N’ they were warm. L-like with a fever.”

Between them, on the desk, a pen nib scratched. A blue-grey mouse sat there; ears fold­ed under an apple cap. His whiskers twitched as he scratched rapid lines of blue ink into a note­book. He under­lined three “amphorae” and kept writ­ing.

The Inspec­tor blinked. “Describe the jars’ con­struc­tion.”

“Hmm?”

“Their mate­r­i­al, Mas­ter Bol­well. What were they made of, and how?”

“Oh. Like black glass,” said Bol­well. “Wif no lid. Sealed smooth. Could­n’t open ’em at all.” He leaned for­ward. “If you held em up to the light, they was all smokey, wif some stuff inside like chit­ter­lings. Kind of shift­ing, right?”

“And you found them in the Dun­ge­ness. In the bay,” sug­gest­ed the Inspec­tor. 

“Yes. Had lost a crab pot down there, n’ swum down to get it back. Found all three in the eel­grass, jus’ sit­tin’ togeth­er ‘neaf a rock ledge.”

“Where there any oth­er items with the jars?” The Inspec­tor fin­gered his her­ring­bone cuff, rolling a nacre­ous but­ton. The cig­a­rette wob­bled, shed­ding brown shreds of pep­perelle. He blinked, expec­tant.

Again, Bol­well straight­ened his sleeves, ris­ing and set­tling back into the leather cush­ion an inch. “Mhh,” he whined non­com­mit­tal­ly, shrug­ging.

“You found coins, so says your orig­i­nal state­ment to the Con­sta­ble.” The Inspec­tor stat­ed, flick­ing his eyes up at the squirm­ing crab­ber. He tapped the cig­a­rette fil­ter-first on his left knee, fast. 

“Well, some.”

“Some coins?”

“Like coins. Bu’ big­ger.”

“Can you describe them in more detail?” Still, he tapped.

Bol­well made a cir­cle with his thumb and point­er fin­gers. “Yea big, black­ish, like soot, all cov­ered n’ non­sense writ­ing. Lines of it.”

Between, the mouse wrote approx. ten cen­time­ters, paused for more.

“Writ­ing like what?”

“Chick­en scratch t’ me, Mas­ter. Only know a bit o’ Belviriner, and it sure­ly weren’t that.”

“Fine enough. What did you do with these coins?”

“Sold ’em, too.”

The inspec­tor stopped his tap­ping, pursed his lips and pur­ple eye­lids. He nod­ded. “To the same man you sold the amphorae to?”

“Nah. Pawn­shop.” The prick­ly cor­ners of his mouth drew in a sheep­ish smile. “Was fix­in’ for a bit o’ the pink lion, you see.”

A sigh. “Which pawn­shop?”

“Mor­ley’s Gun n’ Pawn.”

The mouse under­lined Mor­ley’s.

“Thank you. And who did you sell the jars to, again?”

The crab­ber clasped his palms, wrung them. “Some cut­ters with a bar­row on Moraine Road.”

“A cer­tain Letch, a rag­man, and his com­pa­ny. Gave you a gold pound each. Is that cor­rect?”
“Oh. I sup­pose, yeah.”

“Gen­er­ous.”

The mouse kept on scratch­ing, flipped over a rustling page.

“Accord­ing to your state­ment,” the Inspec­tor lift­ed a sheet of paper. “You sold them because they were dis­turb­ing you.” In his oth­er hand, he pinched the cig­a­rette, crin­kling the paper. “Can you elab­o­rate?”

“Dis­turbin’ my sleep, they were.”

“Can you describe how?”

Bol­well shiv­ered. “Havin’ ter­ri­ble dreams, I was. All kind of night­mares.” He rubbed his elbows, hugged his arms close to his chest. “Kept wakin’, all the time, n’ thinkin’ I could hear a heart beat­in.’ ” At this, he looked the Inspec­tor in his shad­owed eyes. “Loud­er n’ loud­er, in me ears, a’till I awoke inna sweat. N’ not my own.” He trailed, looked away. “Not me own heart a’ all…”

In the dim office, the mouse’s pen scratched. Blued met­al and bright ink in green lamp­light. The word night­mares gleamed on the page, under­lined.

Dour, Bol­well lent the floor an unfixed stare, swal­low­ing ner­vous­ly. Across, the Inspec­tor licked his lips. He released the man­gled cig­a­rette to the floor, hav­ing crushed it absent­ly. He looked to the crab­ber.

“That will be suf­fi­cient, I think, Mas­ter Bol­well.” He rose. Bol­well stood hur­ried­ly, nod­ding. “You’ll be glad to know,” said the Inspec­tor, pro­duc­ing anoth­er cig­a­rette, spark­ing it with a snap­py lighter. “That our evi­dence cor­rob­o­rates your sto­ry.” He lodged the smoke between his lips, extend­ed a hand to shake over the desk. 

“Oh,” said Bol­well, as if sur­prised. He shook. “Well, s’pose that’s good.”

“The Office of Small Mat­ters thanks you,” said the Inspec­tor. He moved for the glass-pan­eled door, ges­tured for Bol­well to fol­low. “And sug­gests you do not leave the city.” Under the bowler, lit orange by the burn­ing end of herb, the eyes were pierc­ing. “In case you were con­sid­er­ing it.”

“Ah, oh. O’ course.”

“Good day, Mas­ter Bol­well.” The door clicked open. 

Halfway out, Bol­well paused. “Mas­ter,” he enquired, turn­ing. “D’y­ou know… Wha’ did those cut­ters want with them jars?

The Inspec­tor blinked, dead­panned, “Have you ever heard the phrase ‘res­ur­rec­tion cult?’ ”

“Can’t say I ‘ave.”

“Then,” he gripped the door as if to shut it. “I think it best you pay it no fur­ther mind. Good day, Mas­ter Bol­well.”

“Oh. Good day.”

The door closed sharply behind.

“Seveau, send down the sledge­ham­mer.”

From on high, down the deep and dim­let well of stone, a long-haft­ed ham­mer crashed into the tiled floor, throw­ing up chips and dust. “Much oblig­ed,” said the speak­er, a woman wrapped in red scarves under an iron cuirass. She took it up.

“Hey, Boile. Bloody Green­leaf. Watch this,” she said, point­ing at a near­by wall cov­ered in tile images of rose thorns. With a twist of the waist and a screwed-up grunt, she lev­ered the heavy mal­let into it, bring­ing the thin stone and del­i­cate tile­work crash­ing down.

“Uof, there,” she went, cough­ing at the result­ing pall of acer­bic, ancient dust. “Look. Knew there was pick­ings left in this hole. Bloody T&F cork­ers ain’t so thor­ough as they say.”

Boile, a long-nosed lad with copi­ous dust plas­tered to his sweat­ing face, looked on, lantern in hand. “Lot of… what­not.” He squint­ed. “Don’t look too valu­able to me, Posey.”

“Valu­able what­not,” said Posey, jut­ted her chin. “Go pick that up.”

“This thing?” He stooped, ducked into the dusty, secret alcove. 

“Yeah,” grinned Posey. “That there torc you’re hold­ing’s worth a fair three crowns, to the right buy­er.”

“Blimey. And what about this thing?” He plucked a small, smooth-edged cas­ket of orange met­al from a spindly met­al shelf, turned it in gloved hands.

“One of them weird toolk­its, I reck­on. Find them a lot. Lancets, and drills, and met­al spi­ders all cov­ered in hooks. Sor­cery stuff. Worth a lot, to a magi­cian.”

Boile waved away some dust, moved deep­er. “Lots of these lit­tle shelves.” He bent to exam­ine one, piled with fold­ed cloth, stiff and yel­lowed by time. “Are these clothes?” He picked up a fold­ed, intri­cate­ly scrolled blouse, watched it dis­in­te­grate in his hand.

“For the sor­cer­ers, I reck­on,” said Posey. “They lived in their tombs, the Idrans.”

“Shame it’s all rot­ted.” He kept look­ing, pulled his lantern over the floor, over the dull gleam of met­al faces strewn there. Thin-eyed and carved with of stares of ire or cold indif­fer­ence. Faces of steel, brass, and pearl. “Sor­cer­ers wear these, too?”

“Yeah,” Posey said, pick­ing her way in behind him. “Once heard a pro­fes­si­cant talk ’bout how they was always wear­ing masks.”

“No dif­fer­ent than our aris­toes, then,” scoffed Boile.

“Yeah. They buy them, too. Bag them up.”

Boile shook out a burlap sack from a satchel, shook it out. Dust spilled through his fin­gers as he lift­ed dis­dain­ful the veneers from the floor, sent them tum­bling into the sack. 

“Oof.” Boile stopped, clutched his head. He’d bumped it against the back wall.

“Watch your­self. Could be traps.”

Boile rubbed a knot. “I’m fine,” he beheld the wall. “Just some bot­tles.”

“Wine? Idran wine’s the most.” Posey neared, inter­est­ed.

The Green­leaf shook his head. He ran a hand over the smooth, curved shapes of opaque, black glass, all stacked togeth­er and inter­lock­ing in a stone alcove, point­ed ends set to the off­set pits of grouped, gour­d­like tops. “Don’t think so,” he said. “Look like big ton­ic ampoules, kind of. But with round tops. And…” he paused, lift­ed his hand. “They’re warm.”

“Oh,” said Posey, appear­ing beside. Her brow bore a knit of some con­cern. “Don’t mess with those. We leave them.”

“Why?”

“Come on. We’re done, here.” Posey tugged on his sleeve. 

“Why? What are they?” insist­ed Boile.

“Sor­cer­ers, Green­leaf. Sor­cer­ers slum­ber­ing,” said the woman as they exit­ed the secret cham­ber. She turned to Boile. A fresh, anx­ious sweat shone on her dirty brow. 

“We leave them,” she said. “Because they’re bloody cursed.”

Slumbers

The sor­cer­ers of yore are much reduced.

Most, if not dor­mant in black sar­copha­gi, sewn into books, or sim­ply rot­ted away, are abat­ed in both pow­er and body. Trans­formed by the antique cat­a­stro­phe of their great and appalling cabal-empires to lit­tle more than tox­ic waste.

They are slum­bers; lit­tle more than jarred remains.

A slum­ber is a per­son. Or was one, at least; depend­ing on your pol­i­tics on the rel­a­tive dis­en­fran­chise­ment of its dis­em­bod­ied con­tents.

It is com­posed of a ves­sel. An approx­i­mate half meter teardrop of dark, chem­i­cal glass. Rough­ly ampho­ra-shaped, though han­dle­less, neck­less, and some­times vari­ably gour­d­like. Sealed lid­less like an ampoule the width of a large human skull, at its widest.

It con­tains organs. A brain sleeved in the bare skull and trip­li­cate mater of its meninges. A fibrous cord and long bun­dle of nerves, trail­ing that. And a spare col­lec­tion of vital organs wired fur­ther to even that. All scarce­ly vis­i­ble through the smokey glass, and only if viewed, vis­i­ble as rugat­ed lumps, through very bright light. These are the remains of an ancient sor­cer­er or a sor­cer­er’s kin, resect­ed and pre­served in expec­ta­tion of even­tu­al res­ur­rec­tion. Whether any life worth con­sid­er­ing still resides in these entrail meats is debat­able.

Amidst those organs, wired by strange prox­ies and umbil­i­cals to grey flesh, there resides a warm alloy core. The slum­ber’s warm, eter­nal fuel. The organs rely on it alone, con­sum­ing and pro­duc­ing naught but a fever­ish, radi­ant heat. By what sor­cery the prac­ti­tion­ers of old man­aged this con­ver­sion, none have yet dis­cov­ered, despite thou­sands of slum­ber dis­sec­tions under­tak­en by acad­e­mia.

Thou­sands have been dis­in­terred. And many more remain.

As evinced by their numeri­ety, cer­tain empires of sorcery—the so-named Ampul­lo­ni­ans, first, fol­lowed by beau­ti­ful Idra—were fond of trans­form­ing them­selves and theirs, either on the brink of death or dis­as­ter, into eter­nal, jarred sleep­ers; liv­ing relics to be hid­den away for mil­len­nia. ** These queer beings, for beings they are, and not buri­als, have been unearthed from tomb and ancient ruin alike by the thou­sands. By cut­ters, arche­ol­o­gists, and stray dig­gers of deep cel­lars.

Slum­bers have long been sold as curios. Auc­tioned for their dark beau­ty, used for dec­o­ra­tion or amuse­ment by the mod­ern elite, and used for sim­ple warmth by the sim­ple folk and cut­ters who unearthed them. Aris­to­crats, returned from trav­els to exot­ic lands rife with hid­den slum­bers, would bring a curios­i­ty or two back, hold a par­ty in which to fas­ci­nat­ed­ly crack and exam­ine them. Muse­ums, glad at the chance at a new and inter­est­ing study to exhib­it, would dis­play halls of the things, often dark­ly ornate. Cut­ters, so fre­quent­ly close to vaults of the things, would keep a slum­ber or two in their back­packs for warmth, unaware of the jars’ haz­ardous nature. **

Quick­ly, though, this curios­i­ty fad­ed, for prox­im­i­ty to slum­bers proved dan­ger­ous. The mildest dan­gers came in the form of dis­rupt­ed dreams. In an aura of uneasy sleep and queer­ly uni­form night­mares that radi­at­ed from the things. Dreams of rapid, prox­i­mal heart­beats and strange whis­pers in for­got­ten tongues. Many have attempt­ed to dis­cern these whis­pers, but all have failed; suc­cumb­ing to the slum­ber’s sec­ond, direr effect.

In addi­tion to dreams, slum­bers emit a slow, bio­log­i­cal curse. † A gnaw­ing ague that bur­dens the body with sores, regur­gi­ta­tion, and fever. Lat­er, as it com­pounds, it begins to cor­rupt the flesh, tempt­ing it to red­den, black­en, and slough, rot­ten, from the bone. It is an effect that inten­si­fies if a slum­ber is shat­tered, spilling with its gory con­tents a mor­bid wave of invis­i­ble sor­cery.

Only very slow­ly does this curse fade, and many, name­ly those to first wel­come warm slum­bers into their homes, nev­er escaped it.

To most, slum­bers are mere­ly tox­ic waste. The last, dread­ful echoes of empires well enjoyed as dead. Mere hin­drances in the loot­ing and analy­sis of ancient realms, doomed for care­ful dis­pos­al in dump­ing sites far from notice.

But there remain a few who main­tain a com­mit­ted inter­est in the queer jar’s orig­i­nal intent: seek­ers of the sor­cer­ers’ return to awful life.

Dri­ven in equal part by recon­struct­ed texts and the slum­bers’ own dream whis­pers, there exist ambi­tious schol­ars and enclaves devot­ed to the recon­struc­tion of pre­served sor­cer­ers. Lit­tle exists to define these strange neosor­cerors, save rumors of swad­dled, curse-rid­dled work­ers and tales of folk stolen from the streets for pur­pose of dis­sec­tion.

They are no rumor, though, how­ev­er hid­den. These res­ur­rec­tion­ists labor with­out cease, fast and con­cerned­ly, before the dire curse of their own jarred mas­ters brings them to a hideous end. They labor with dire con­vic­tion, ensor­celled by the prospect of a new, ancient order.

Of the return of old sor­cery.

Notes

Nuclear jar mum­mies. That’s it.

Slum­bers pro­vide +2 against cold but bestow the car­ri­er with 1 Hex stress at inter­vals of 6-12 hours.

There’s been some delay in writ­ing this, as I’ve been work­ing on a full map of the Coast. It is large, and detailed, and quite time con­sum­ing. It will soon serve as the base of a like­ly Gazetteer sec­tion of the site.

If you like Incunab­u­li, share it! Fol­low on Red­dit and bluesky.

Con­sid­er becom­ing a sup­port­er of Incunab­u­li on Patre­on.

⁂