With Malice Towards Some
25th of August 2006 A.D.
They were old and new the arts which had forged this cauldron, drawn forth from the lore of loche and moor from the whispers of the fairy folk and taken with trembling hands from those who had dwelt for ages dwelt neath quaking aspen, paper birch, oak and hickory. They were the arts of the interloper come with holy book in one hand and burning brand in the other to distant shores and yet they were the arts of folks who worried about the turning of the seasons and the coming of the rain, about the lives of their loved ones in places far off and about warding away the winter's grip. There was
power in the forging, but it was a brittle thing, as the iron of the cauldron.
"Do you have a pair of shears and a sieve?" You ask suddenly.
Abby is intrigued, and little wonder this is her sort of magic, divination, though not of the future but of the present, the sieve atop a pair of shears was said among the cunning folk of New England to turn or fall when the answer to some burning question is positive, in this case the question is simple:
Will you sunder?
Slowly at first, then faster and faster as you speak the sieve begins to turn, drawn a raft set on in ethereal currents as words of old made new bubble from your lips:
"Expeller of evildoers,
loud is thy bark,
think not but bite,
balk not but strike!"
Verdant flame leaps from your hand into eldritch symbols that twist and devour the light all around, but lo that their shadow is not that of serpent, of dragon or wyrm, but a hound swift and sleek, with only its tail rising in alien semblance , the stinger of a scorpion.In verse that echoes younger days, still long past from memory to legend, mist shrouded tor and ghostly moor, speaks the daughter of Arawn, her soul like moonlit veil on the air, like the tears of the unquiet dead:
Let him be
speechless, ghastly, wan,
Like him of whom the story ran,
Who spoke the spectre hound in man
And by that light you six you begin to turn, all six caught in a wild reel, with grace uncanny, with swiftness now of falling night. To argent beckons the hound now rises, mist and shadow ash and soot, of sweet thistle scented with eyes as white as rolling, blind to all but evildoers, them it sees past all deception
Green lighting dances though the silver fog that pours and pours from the depths of the cauldron, more than the iron can hold, more than mortal sorcery can bind.
"Don't...?" you begin to call out but Helen Beckit shakes her head, a pin flying from her tight but to clink on the floor unseen, hair flying wilder in the casting.
"I know my reach and my grasp."
So it seems she does as she draws through fingers adorned with gold and agates threads of grey mist that bind the shadow you had conjured from deathless essence and chants of old. She does not touch it as you feared she might. This was not a beast meant for petting, it could work naught but death and ruin upon all which it touched. yet it was still a dog and heart and not a wolf, to its master faithful friend.
Still dancing, still turning Pauline takes the threads in one hand and raises the other as though to cut, her words too soft to hear but not too soft to feel, in that all encompassing sight which allows you to spot even the most cunningly hidden of enemies, you see the danger before it can manifest.
"Don't cut it loose all at once, it does not have to be one curse, but many, that which the foe fears, but the master of the hearth does not, the hound at the threshold whose meat it fear, whose drink is warning praise. Make a..."
thaunic focus point... geomantic spike, hollow heartstone socket. The words flow through your mind like water, but each one you know would cause more confusion than understanding. "A post, the length of the chain is your will and each link in the chain is a curse you want to work upon the interloper."
"But that's... you can't do...."
"Yes you can. Focus!" You shout, voice sharp with urgency. The chill around you grows until the mist of the cauldron falls down like sleet upon your creation, jet black hide turned grizzled with age and wisdom, in eyes of mist a spark of poison green now gleaming.
In the depths of your mind, among the alien gears of a power twice gifted, twice cursed, a voice, a recording, crackling with static from some far off flash whispers:
"Ig...iti...n"
Lost 4 Motes -> Now at 6/12
The sieve falls shatters as though it were made of crystal or ice as Pauline stumbles in her next step only for Lydia to catch her... and then the hound, the curse template
speaks:
"Awaiting Instruction/Purpose/Meaning"
"Guard the house from all those of ill intent to Helen, warn her of danger and work mischief and misfortune upon the guilty matching each to their intent threefold."
The spirit...
least god, something in you whispers, nods and melts into the floor.
Least God of the Threshold Created -> Constructive Convergence of Principles Charm discounted by 2 XP
Deathly silence falls in the wake of its passing, Lydia looks tired but exhilarated, Pauline shaken to her core, Abby keeps blinking owlishly as though trying to get rid of something in her eyes and Helen is still staring at the point where your collective... creation had gone. It's Anna who finally speaks:
"Did you mean to do that, whatever that is?"
Truth be told you had not, all you had been trying for was a flexible curse that would vary the amount of pain it inflicted according to the severity of the trespass, but, like someone attempting to make an alarm system and instead designing an AI, you had
somewhat exceeded specifications. You bite back what might have been a somewhat giggle as you answer:
[] Yes, what better ward than a guardian
[] No, but this is even better than what you had envisaged
OOC: I had initially forgotten about Transcendent Lord of Flies which would have given you a more modest but still respectable 15 combined successes.... then I did a reroll with the proper DC and got 29.