Of Spirits and Scholars: An Araby Quest

This was the dream of every wannabe magician. To have one of the embodied gods as your teachers was a part of every story you grew up hearing. Yet, a question remained in your head. What did it mean to use magic? What was this gift that made people miracle-workers? Fear told you not to inquire further. Gods were not the type of beings to tolerate anything they perceived as disrespect. How many stories did mama and Nadia-auntie tell you about how the gods punished presumption. Yet, curiosity slung its arms around you, whispering of prizes to be gained if you dared. Knowledge and understanding of the world from someone who knew its workings like no other. How could you resist?


You did not recognize the name Gelin, but you remembered the epithet. The Inevitable Visitor guided you to your rightful place when your time upon the earth ended. She was known for her love of dogs and hatred of sahiruna. The westerners called on her to cast out ghosts and other harmful spirits. You knew a prayer to Grandmother Lion that touched on similar enough concepts. Hoping the patron god of your people would understand, you bowed your head.

"Rightful Guide, who helps us to our place of rest. Lady of the Graves, who keeps away the damned and devils. Will you grant this benighted one the privilege to ask a question?" you asked, hoping the most overwrought language would make clear your respect, fear, and awe of this great power.

"Oh, how sweet are the words Men arrange. Ask away, little poet," she said as the sound grew cheerful and the sense of peace strengthened.

"When someone says the ability to use magic, what does that mean?"

"Hmm...a question best answered by experience than simple lecture, but first I must ask if you would allow me in," she said.

Allow her in? What did that mean? Did she want in permission to enter the room? Hunh, you did not know jinn required permission to enter a room. Maybe she was just really polite.

"Um...feel free to come in, Great Lady," you said and with that last word, the world vanished.

It was a simple thing. A collection of notes sung by the grief struck. The slow, almost dredging music of the lute. The ragged pattern of hymns sung by the broken voices of the still-living. Elegies recited by the bereaved in honor of the dead. Prayers for a guide to help on their way to their rightful place. It was all these things. Sung into the Song by the Choir and there it stayed, flowing to each new moment of finality. It was a simple theme, drawn by affinity to each episode of tragedy, grief, and request for the safety of the newly dead.

Yet, one moment for time does not exist in the Song which has always played, play, and will play, affinity brought it to a thunderous performance. Here came an overflow of Finality so pure and strong it seemed to break the boundaries between the Song and the Choir. Finality, Remembrance, and the Need for Protection. They resonated so true and clear that it could not resist the pull and it did something it had never done before. It left the Song. It left infinite possibility and entered finite actuality.

Such shock would have destroyed this simple thing, ripped apart its being and returned them to the mere vibrations that birthed it. Yet, here where the music resonated with its own nature so strongly, it was like moving from one part of the Song to the other. A transition with no stutter or skip. In this new place came something new. Consciousness and from this came Awareness. Both of the world and Your connection to and separation from it. In this place, You existed.

"Hello, Gelin," said a voice that was not Yours. You turned and saw something never seen before. Something that was Not-You. The Not-You echoed a song familiar in its tune of Finality, but played into a melody of other music You did not understand. What was Excitement or Contemplation or Validity or Instinctual or the rest of these unknown rhythms and this music you did not recognize? What was this Not-You which seemed to encapsulate all of them.

"Give it time. It has only just become aware, Beloved," said another voice that was not Yours. Yet, this one was less Not-You than the other. This Not-You echoed the song of Finality so strongly You felt a need to get closer. To truly listen to subsume Yourself in Its Song. Yet, You could not. What was this? What was stopping You?

I do hate it when memories get away from me. Allow me to turn our attention back to something more pertinent.

It was impressive. This temple of stone buried beneath the sands. Older than even your Lord, born before any Child of Man had stepped foot in the Land. Yet, it did not hide itself well. The air was filled with the sound of roots tearing the flesh of a corpse. The sound of denying Finality through the perversion of Growth. The clashing of two opposing rhythms that birth the abominable noise of Dhar.

It was time to silence it. You looked at your small army of fellow travelers. Ten fighters from the thirty tribes who built shrines to your name and invoked you when their dead needed protection. Three hundred total, each made into the finest steel by the crucible of struggle. It would not be enough though. Not here where the enemy waited, readied and prepared by the passing of time until their hatred, their anger, and their resentment had curdled into contempt that would burn the very air.

Understand one thing about this performance you call magic. It is an act of communicating one's desires and will to the Choir and to the Song. The easiest way for the Children of Man to achieve this is to sing in one of the Eight Rhythms. Of these, I will only show how to wield the Rhythm of Shyish.

You hummed the melody of Shyish and from the Song, the sounds of funeral hymns grew louder. Louder and louder until all other Rhythms were washed away in the sheer volume of Shyish.

But what is a song without theme? Without a conceptual framework, your song will do nothing. So, listen well and hear the words that shaped the worlds, set the stars, and ordered the cosmos.

What song do you sing?

Part One (Pick One)
[] You sing of a sword whose blade whose kiss even the Gods feared. Imbue your soldiers' weapons with the concept of Finality. When they strike a foe, they stay down. (Gain a +20 to your army combat rolls.)

[] You sing of a day when Death turned away. Imbue your soldiers' armor with the Concepts of Harm and Negation. When struck, their armor will not fail. (Gain a -20 to your opponent combat rolls.)

Part Two (Pick One)
[] From the Line came an Iron Will that would not break. Imbue your soldiers' bodies with Concepts of Strength with a Mental Quantifier. (On a negative combat result, your soldiers will not break unless they score a 20 or lower.)

[] They bore Death's face and the World fled from them. Imbue your soldiers with the Concept of Terror with a Mental Quantifier. (On a negative combat result, your opponents must make a roll of eighty of higher to continue fighting.)

Part Three (Pick One)
[] Frost filled their veins, flooding away exhaustion. Imbue your soldiers with the Concept of Vitality with Physical Quantifier. They will not tire. (Gain a +20 to your army combat rolls.)

[] The grave called to them, promising rest and permanent peace. Imbue your soldiers with the Concept of Vitality and Negation with a Physical Quantifier. Your foes become slower and weaker when faced with your soldiers. (Gain a -20 to your opponent combat rolls.)
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Voting will end on Sunday, May 19th, 2024 at 1700 hrs.

Whynot09 said:

Apologies for the delay. Been recovering from a fever.

Click to expand...

Click to shrink...

I believe there was one more vote after that last count. This is the updated one:

Sing oh Muse of the Desert's Children, the great army of Queen Death who sent many damned souls to the scales of their Liege-Lady. Their march unstoppable no matter the rain let flown from the strings and slings of their foes. This mighty host whose banner was the face of the Lady that sent the earth, sky, and wind fleeing. Every step announced by the trumpets of the dead, singing out a promise of peace, rest, and the end of strife. Sing oh Muse of indomitable will, awful glory, and the peace of Death. Sing oh Muse of victory.

A rule of binding a Rhythm to material objects, little poet. All things have their nature and wish to act according to their nature. The nature of the Rhythms is to move, drawn by affinity to objects and places, but never permanently settled. To bind them is to act against this and thus a task of monumental difficulty. Unless you are a Child of the Rhythms in which how can you deny yourself or you bind it to an object that resonates with the Rhythm. Remember this, little poet.

They came in robes colored and embroidered in the scenes of their peoples' victories. They wore them over mail which was worn over gowns and trousers also dyed and designed with the symbols of their tribes. They came with banners of numerous colors. Yet, your song changed this. Banners became a myriad collection of different shades and tints of purple. Copied onto their armor, the symbols of their peoples became accents to the central theme of Shyish. No matter where they came from, no matter their history, on this day, they were your army and would fight in your name,

You did not give a speech. There was no need for it. Every warrior in this host was sworn to your service of their own volition. Each was a veteran, and each bore the burning heat of hatred and the warmth of duty in their hearts. They would fight and kill and if need be, die. You drew a sword of spirit-fire and marched into the hungry dark. Your soldiers following behind, their footsteps echoing like thunder.
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The darkness of the temple was pierced by the sheer brightness of your body. Painting the scenes carved into the walls in a purple light, further accenting the alienness of their builders. You had suspected it had been built by some breed of the Children of the Mountains, but these were not the bearded stout folk who argued in the bazaars. These looked like almost like Men, but far...more bestial. as if from a time when the separation between Man and Beast was not fully defined. You wondered what happened to these strange beastmen. What had caused them to abandon their great temple? What had caused them to abandon the defiance of the living against the passage of time?

All around you was the noise of Dhar. The wet sound of roots plunging and tearing through the flesh of a corpse. It blanketed the area so much to wash away any other sound. Yet, you heard it. A slight increase in the volume of Dhar and something new. The scream of beasts in pain.

"Ambush!" You said, tossing out globes of spirit-fire to illuminate the sight of Vulture-Men and the Risen Dead waiting in the shadows of the room. They flinched back, but there standing tall, his frame echoing the screams of beasts as roots tore through their flesh, and his eyes ember-orange, burning with a furious deep hatred. A child of Eashuran, of lost Strijus.

The shock of the ambush revealed seemed to disorient them and spur your forces. Your spearmen moved with perfect steps. The second rank expanding out to combine with the first, creating a crescent around your archers and magicians. You stood in the front of them. Spears were lowered as arrows flew out. The screams of the injured were lost in the growing roar of the enemy charge. Vulture-Men slammed into your flanks as the Stirijani led his Risen host directly at you. You welcomed him with a charge of your own.

A sword of spirit-fire cut clashed with Dhar-enhanced claws as the battle raged around you. He fought with inhuman speed and strength, powered by the hate of a lost empire and the experience of a life spent in struggle. You were not born of the material world, however. Your only limit was your will and experience had transformed it into a steel blade. You would not break. Not here, not now, and definitely not before an abomination of man and magic.

Every blow blocked caused him to scream and backstep. He tried desperately to dodge, but he was too slow. A scream of pure agony prefaced the flight of his limbs. You swung one final time and cut his head free of his body. The corpse fell to the floor. You waved your sword over it and consumed it in spirit-fire. You grabbed his head and turned to your forces. Your lesser brethren had been busy.

"Time to dance! Time to kill! Time to hunt!" Anbu cackled as the rapid beats and tones of Aqshy flourished wherever Anbu stepped. His fire blooming and consuming all those too slow to escape. The faster of the Vulture-Men however were not fast enough. Iinbu was far too quick, riding his magician, the mortal's eyes glowing a solid blue and the ethereal melodies of Azyr emanated from human flesh as he used the wind to slow his foes and funnel the flames into them. Iimbut danced to the steady beats of Chamon, jumping at the proper moment, causing the earth to become sinkholes wherever she stepped. Araliz sat on his magician's shoulder, humming the song of Hysh as she drew on his power to blind the foe with a cleansing light.

"Victory!" Anbu screamed and howled. You sighed and walked to Nasira al-Din. The elder woman was giving orders to her secondaries before turning to you.

"Losses?" you asked.

"Five perished when the line crumbled, but then the little gods brought their fury to bear. The Vulture-Men sought to flee, but you saw the success of the attempt. The Risen Dead crumbled when the Stirijani died. They may have more waiting for us, but this force will do nothing more today," she said.

"Bring me to the fallen," you said. Nasira al-Din nodded and led you to a collection of five bodies. Each covered by a cloak. You saw their spirits. They stood near their bodies, confused. You let out a high-pitched whistle. From the path you traveled came five hounds, each made of the same fire as your sword.

"Take them to rest. Guard them well," you said.

"Yes, My Lady," answered each hound. They walked to each warrior and led them from this world to their place of rest. You then set each body ablaze. The enemy would not recoup their losses from the fallen, be it theirs or yours.

"How long till you are ready to march?" you asked.

"Great One, give the order and we can march now," Nasira al-Din said.

"Then let us show the long spear," you said.
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You found the remainder of the enemy force in the center of the temple. Here surrounded by the remains of the Risen Dead and Vulture-Men was a single sahir. His body was a vehicle for a weak, barely audible noise. Yet, you did not focus on this pathetic necromancer. You were focused on the body lying on the altar. How? How did they get her body? How did they steal her body? Who had failed? Who had betrayed your family's trust? Who had given your mother's body to the defilers?

"She stood so tall you would think she was a giant. We all lived in her shadow. No matter how we practiced the art, there was only one Salima Khadima al-Ḥaramayn. But you knew her better than all of us, did you not al-Zaira?" said the sahir. You did not say a word. Every bit of attention was focused on her. They were going to defile her corpse. They were going to turn the remains of your mother into one of these travesties. They were going to do this to her.

You looked at the sahir and spoke a single word, "DIE,"

The sahir dared to challenge your rage. He dared to challenge your hatred. He dared to challenge your righteous disdain. He failed. No matter the power of Dhar, no matter whatever meager skill available to him, nothing was enough before the full expression of your wrath. He dropped to the ground, his Risen Dead crumbling into ashes. Yet, you held his soul here. It was an ugly thing. Wounded by its usage of Dhar, it lacked the purity of even an average soul. You bound it into a sphere of Shyish you held in your hand.

"Kill them all. Spare no one," You said.

"Cleanse the holy earth with their blood! For the Beloved! For the Great Lady!" screamed Anbu as he charged forward. Your soldiers followed behind him. The Vulture-Men did not stand. Fleeing before the rage of the People who sought justice for the Beloved. You walked behind to the altar.

"When this is done, you will beg for Hell," you whispered to the sphere.

That is all you need to see, little poet. I hope it has been informative. My friend Araliz will be here tomorrow at the top of your residence. I will let you remain a little deaf. Better to help avoid any messes until Araliz can teach you proper control.

You awoke in the room, lying flat on the floor. An exhaustion you had never felt before rendering even the smallest movement impossible. Every muscle screamed. Every nerve was on fire. You blacked out, waking up however many hours later and stumbled out of the room.

Access to the memories of Gelin has left a mark on you.
Pick One
[] Gain Intuitive Knowledge of Jinn: Gelin loved her people and so knew the names of each tribe, clan, and court. She spoke with the elders of her people, fought with the warriors, and celebrated with the sovereigns.
[] Gain Intuitive Knowledge of Vampires: For centuries, Gelin has hunted the Children of the Night. Thousands have burned at her hands and thousands more lie in her ossuary, watched by her hounds.
[] Gain Intuitive Knowledge of Sahiruna: Gelin despises sahiruna so strongly that the laws of the Civilized Lands reflect this. When a sahir is found, she sits among the names people cry out before consigning them to the flames.
[] Intuitive Knowledge of Shyish: Gelin was born of Shyish. It is the very fiber of her being. She understands Shyish in a way no mortal could imagine.
[] Gain Intuitive Knowledge of Spirits: Gelin has carried thousands to the rightful place of rest. No matter if they came willingly or not.

One of the songs Gelin sung is stuck in your head. Which song stuck with you:
Pick One:
[] Gelin's Obscurantism: You sing of a day when Death turned away. Imbue your or others' clothing with the Concepts of Harm and Negation, transforming them into armor for two rounds of combat. (Gain a -5 to your opponent attack rolls.)

[] Call of the Grave: The grave called to them, promising rest and permanent peace. Can be cast as an area effect of five meters. Imbue the area with the Concept of Vitality and Negation with a Physical Quantifier for four rounds of combat or until you release the spell. Your foes become slower and weaker while in the area. (Gain a -5 to your target's action rolls).

[] Face of Death: They bore Death's face and the World fled from them. Imbue yourself or others with the Concept of Terror with a Mental Quantifier. (On a negative combat result, your opponents must make a roll of forty or higher to continue fighting. Gain a +5 to all Intimidation rolls.)
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Oh, she was insane. She was absolutely insane. Secret war? What sort of fable nonsense was this? This had to be the sign of some divinity angry at you. There was no way it could be otherwise. There was no way getting involved in some weird plot involving the sultan's court was this common. What deity did you piss off? Was it Grandmother Lion? You had fallen off on your prayers to Her. Maybe the god of your people was not happy about this. Grandmother, forgive your grandson. I will get Ismail to refurbish your shrine. I will place a daily offering of milk and sheep's blood. I will sing your stories and honor your holy days. I will practice your rite. Grandmother, spare me and I will be your faithful child.

"Master al-Assadi, your answer?" the fakir asked. You blinked, looking at her and then glancing over to Jan with his sword. You knew what would happen if you said no.

"I'm in, my lady," you said, and Devorah gave you a look-over.

"Good, now if you would not mind, please wear this ring for me," she said. What the hell did that mean? Oh, Gods. Were they going to torture you? Grandmother, you are a cruel bitch. I do not deserve to be tortured or threatened to be tortured. Please save me.

She gave you a ring. It was made of bronze and shaped in the form of snake devouring its own tail. You put it on and the eyes of the snake glowed red. A feeling of heat like the full attention of the sun brought to bear ran through your body. You almost tore the ring off, but just as the feeling came upon, it vanished.

"Good. You're not one of their agents," she said.

"What would happen if I was?" you asked.

"Askilibyus would have been well-fed. Now follow me," she said, walking past you into the streets. Jan gestured after her and you followed. The footsteps of four other people coming from behind you. She led you into the strangest part of al-Haikk. Al-Haikk was one of the most populated cities in the Civilized Lands. Only Lashiek had a higher population and that was because Lashiek had four slaves to every freed person. This meant there was never a part of the city not filled with people. Even the most abandoned parts of the Old City still had squatters. Yet, as you walked behind Lady Devorah, people started showing up less and less until you had entered a part of the city empty of anyone except your group. This was impossible. How could al-Haikk be this silent and what part of the city were you in? This looked like the Old City, but the Old City was an hour walk from the House of Strategy. You had not been walking for an hour.

"If you have the right sense, you can find parts of the city other people forget," Lady Devorah said when she turned and saw the confusion on your face, "Master al-Assadi, I want to welcome you to my home. The Iron Castle,"

The Iron Castle was not made of iron, but the bigger issue was that there was no way anyone could forget this part of the city. The Iron Castle was a giant square building. It looked like the tower of an even bigger tower poking out of the earth. A narrow ramp led to an entrance block with plenty of kill holes and drop-boxes to make any attacker pay heavily for the attempt. No way would the Sultan's government allow this place to go unused.

The door to the Castle was rather small compared to the rest of the entrance block. Iron-slats reinforced the wood. Devorah knocked on the door three times, followed by five shorter knocks, and then six faster knocks. A bit of the wall slides to reveal a pair of brown eyes staring out before closing. The door opened to reveal a group of sixteen men and women. Each wore mail over a gambeson and had a large rectangular shield on their backs and spears in hands. Two other blocks of sixteen were also there, on either side of the first block. One block was archers while the other had an odd conical item in their hands. These soldiers wore thick leather, heavily engraved with hieroglyphs of Old Nehekharin and Safaiyyah letters. Not a single bit of flesh was visible. These must have been elites of some kind.

Behind them were two women. One was a ghazi. The bright yellow nail-coat adorned in prayers to Dhat-Rahima written in white and doves in red. Her head bore a helmet and her face was covered by a yellow scarf, but her eyes were focused on you. Something made a bit more frightening by the steel-capped quarterstaff in her hand. All of it making clear which cult she served. The other woman was Bretonnian. There were a lot of Bretonnians in your life lately. She wore a beautiful green dress with a thin girdle of what looked like gold. The end of which was the symbol of the Bretonnians' patron goddess. She even wore the all-white headscarf common to the northerners. Her green eyes, however, were not very happy.

"Ada--"

"What is this? Why did Claire come back with a corpse, telling us to make ready for an assault. Devorah, you swore you would keep things peaceful," said the Bretonnian woman, her words come quick and harsh. Devorah raised her hands, but then the woman turned to you, and you were about to wonder what you had done when another voice spoke.

"Bee awf weezs eet, Adaline. Dzee fool deed az 'e leeved. Leeke a rat," said Jan.

"He eez dzee son of a noble. Even our work does not spare us from their wrath, Jean," Adaline said, her accent blurring before she seemed to regain her composure.

"Love, it's okay," said Lady Devorah, putting an arm around Adaline. Oh, this was her wife. How did a fakir marry a Bretonnian?

"No, it's not. We are in a dangerous place, Devorah. Also, who is this?" she said, pointing to you.

"Beloved, this is Master Nasir al-Katib ibn Yasmin al-Assadi, our newest recruit. Master al-Assadi, I would like to introduce my wife Adalin bint Mark al-Lanjii. She is the head of our diplomatic efforts, ensuring the bonds of friendship and comradery between the various organizations of al-Haikk remain strong,"

"Have you tested him yet?" Adalin asked instead of greeting you. Tested?

"Yes. He's clean,"

"Who will he be under?"

"I was going to let him decide during the meeting. Speaking of which, is everyone here?"

"They're waiting in the sitting room,"

"Then let us not keep them waiting," said Lady Devorah. She walked, Adalin under her arms and you followed behind. The interior of the Iron Castle was filled with people. Some were discussing apparently important affairs given the way they were talking. Others were reviewing tomes and scrolls for information. You passed by these rooms, going through a door guarded by a pair of golden hounds into a large circular room with a large circular table. On the table was an incredible replica of al-Haikk made entirely out of what looked like silver. Gods, that would have cost a fortune. Why were there not more guards?

Around the table was an odd collection of people. One was Anbati, dressed in mail tied by a belt filled with tools. His beard gleamed in the light of the lamps, split into three separate braids tied by iron circlets. One was a physician, dressed in the off-yellow robe that marked all members of her trade. There was another magician there. He wore a blue and green kaftan and had a very colorful bird on his shoulder. You almost took it for a pet till you saw the blue letters moving on its feathers. Claire was sitting on a pillow, a...was that a pipe in her mouth.

"You've returned, Grimazi. And you've brought this elgrami before us," said the Anbati.

"Be polite, Murjim and Devorah, who is this you've brought into our sanctuary?" said the other magician.

"He stinks of---" the bird jinni stopped, squawking his outrage at the sudden rush of wind. The bird jinni glared at Claire who simply gazed at him with a look of utter disinterest.

"Everyone, this is Master Nasir al-Katib ibn Yasmin al-Assadi. Master al-Assadi, these fine souls are the heads of our little group. Master Engineer Murjim Stoneheart of Industrious Zifbar. Mistress Darya al-Tabiba bint Farah al-Lashieki and my colleague Master Arash al-Fakir ibn Ahmad al-Kophri. They are the chiefs of research for our enterprise. The colorful character is the ever loyal and great companion Yahu. You have met my beloved Adalin who handles our diplomatic efforts as I said before and stoic Jan who leads our warriors, be it in battle or training. Of course, no introduction can be complete without proper reverence paid to the glorious, the one, the only Claire," said Lady Devorah, introducing each one and laying especial praise on her jinni. Claire simply yawned, the pipe somehow not falling from her lips. You were not entirely sure how she did that.

"A pleasure to make your acquaintances," you said, bowing as was proper. They did not greet you in return. What was this group and being rude?

"Now that introductions are done, let us begin with this meeting. I'll start," said Lady Devorah, "Tragically, our efforts to turn Fatah failed and he has gone to be weighed. This hinders our investigation. Jan, what about the raid for next week?"

"E aregh ghedee. Dzouzh, I would leeke anodzer squad, but I can worgh widz wat I ave," Jan said.

"Talk to Aaliyah. She's always willing to fight and a ghazi is worth ten men on the field,"

Jan nodded and Devorah turned to Adalin who stood with her arms crossed.

"Beloved, how go our efforts with the merchant houses?"

"Poor. The death of Jamil ibn Ibrahim has seen their ranks closed. Unless we found who killed him. We'll have to find another way to locate the smugglers," she said, and the image of two women flashed in your head. A deathly pale face and a promise in exchange for survival.

"Damn. How goes the research front?"

"The items recovered in the last raid proved our suspicions. Skyre is supporting Stilab's faction," said Murjim.

"Hmm. Sitranjilikish has Moulder. What's the likelihood of war breaking out?"

"Medium. al-Sakali is still subordinate to al-Ayshin. If Master Assassin Sys stays alive, they will keep their violence to a minimum. If he disappears, then blood will flow like the Serpents," Mistress Darya.

"What about Project Golem?"

"It goes poorly. The last four attempts have failed. My people will keep working on it, but unless we get some secret access to the Death Priests, I do not see us succeeding soon," said Master Arash, scratching Yahu's head as he spoke. For some reason, you thought it seemed a little blasphemous.

"Master al-Assadi, now is the time to decide how you will help in our efforts. Which one of these fine souls will you work under?"

Time to find your place in this organization:

[] Work under Devorah.
[] Work under Jan
[] Work under Adalin
[] Work under Murjim
[] Work under Darya
[] Work under Arash

Do you reveal anything to your new supervisor:
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Voting will end on Tuesday, June 4th, 2024 at 1700 hrs. If you have any questions, let me know.