After having concluded their business at the University of Ghoerwald the Cabal returned to Zaarbrügge where the Pius were anchored. On their way there they were caught in an ambush, and once again Galan was the first target. Shot through the chest he fell from his horse. While the magicians established a perimeter, Aegir managed to find where the shot had come from, only to narrowly escape the blast of bomb the assassin had left behind.
The rest of the jurney went without further complications, except for fact that the captain had be put in a carriage.
Back on the ship, they became certain that the assassin had more in store for them. The Prince soon found that another bomb had been placed below the water, on the keel of the Pius. Banzel, now having reached Adept in the Arcana of Matter quickly dealt with the bomb, unmaking it entirely.
While this happened the Prince led his Enæìd ashore, and with the help of Galan's scrying and Drake's command of the Spirit Arcana, the enemy, a Hellghast, was taken captive.
Aboard the ship again, the Cabal were debating what to do with the prisoner until van Zaar settled the matter by shooting him through the head.
Chapter end/start;
Banzel had been told by his god, Geminon, that to find the Dragonheart he had to find Margareta of Borg. Thus it came to pass that on the afternoon of Nightfall, the last day of the year, the Pius sailed into the harbour of Borg, north in the West Fold.
Again, Galan's scrying helped the Cabal, and shortly after having arrived a shore party consisting of Galan, Banzel, van Zaar and the eight surviving veteran marines rode inland.
The night was cold, dark and forboding, and when the party reached their destination, the mining village of Hammershaven in the foothills of the Goblinwall Mountains, a great storm was raging above them.
Above the village lay an old watchtower, and beside it twelve men were using the Dragonheart to tunnel into the mountain. Galan also discovered that one of the mines had a resonance of Mana. Without further ado they moved into the village and up the path to the mines and the tower.
In the village they briefly encountered a mad crone who babbled about something called Bolgen, and the awakening of that something. Not easily distracted, the magicians proceeded to the Mana-mine and plundered it for Tass and vìs.
Once they had taken what they could, Galan opened a gate for himself and Banzel into the pit where the Dragonheart was used to power a tunelling machine. While the captain held the crew at gunpoint, the Bombman lifted the red hot furnace off its bearings, and then they left. The return to the Pius was made quick and easy -- again the captain resorted to magic, and the entire party was teleported home.
Storyteller's note: This chapter was clearly different from the others, and the main difference was not that I only had three players, but that the players relied heavily on magic every step of the way. For the first time the Pius Cabal showed that a coordinated cabal is a truly formidable opponent, and they did so without killing a single soul (that may actually have been the greates difference, come to think of it).
Chapter end/start;
Storyteller's note: Coming to the table this evening I had absolutely no plans for the players. Rather, I was prepared to let them spend some time doing all the things they never have time for, like studying, building things, talking to random NPCs...
In stead they decided to go on an adventure. A long time ago (about three months game-time) the Cabal sent out a secondary party to look into a lead on an elven treasure. Since then one of the unfortunate adventurers turned up dead, an unfinished account of the adventure turned up in a half-penny weekly in the possession of a captured sailor, and Dr Mysterio was freed from the clutches of the Ministerium. Now the Cabal set out to find their lost NPCs.
The ship was anchored in a Shaderealm south in the West Fold, and the Cabal teleported to the last known location of the lost party, as described by Tomas Parlay.
The portal was easy enough to find, but harder to open. Drake, now an Adept of Spirit, tried twice, and failed both times, until the following dawn, when the entire Cabal worked in concert, weaving a powerful ritual. The two ancient trees that formed the portal was struck by lightning, bursting the gate open and revealing the path that lay beyond.
The path, a ley line, according to the two Prime Deciples, Galan and Banzel, took them accross primordial mountains deep within the Umbra. After a long walk they came to a small plateu overlooking a vast and forboding winterbare forest. Drake guided them all safely down the cliffside and into the trees.
Here they quickly realized that they were not at all welcome. The trees seemed to shift and move, and on the wind hateful whispers could be heard. Banzel, carrying with him both blades and firepowder was snared by roots and tangled in branches, until Drake managed to calm the trees enough that they could travel deeper. Still, they soon realized that they were being led; forward only where they were allowed, and behind them the path seemed to vanish.
Finally, while Drake was ahead trying to find the path again, the others, three magicians and seventeen Enæìd, were captured. Van Zaar looked up to find that his entire world was dominated by an arrow, its steel the colour of moonshine, pointed between his eyes. Banzel fared no better, and even the Enæìd were caught, blades and arrows wielded by pale elves were trained on each and every one of them.
Drake, scrambling up a gravelly slope, came face to face with the Prince of the elves. Here he found that the fate of them all depended on his next words, and that the Elf Prince bore a deep hatered for all humans.
After some halting negotiations the entire Cabal was allowed to talk, and they were led to a clearing in the woods. Here the Elf told them that to fight the Deep, all things touched by it had to be burned; that if the Five Forts were burned the elves would return to Pendrell; that the elves would burn the world of Man; and finally, that in this fire they (the Cabal) would find the salvation of their race.
Deaming the meeting over, the elves vanished into the forest, and the raining five of the missing party were set free.
Wednesday, 27 January 2010
The Frost Elves of Fornost
~Huron the White~
Old men in the Five Forts region sometimes tell tales of ancient paths, deep in the wild woodlands north of the River Manshield. They say that if you go deep enough into the forest, the trees will herd you onto these paths and not let you leave. They say that if you find one of these paths you will become lost, and that deep in the forest there is something old. They say that the last remnant of the Aelvinwoode lies beyond the river. They say that the forest hates humans. Some also say that deep in the Fornost Forest the unseelie still hold court, waiting for the day when they can visit upon Man the pain they have born since the Great War.
It is my belief that there are indeed such things in the woods north of the border. The realm of Fornost lies beyond the Pale, accessible only through a few dangerous paths. There are also still elves here; the last of the once illustrious House Andradhril. The Frost Elves of Fornost are the last survivors of their line, driven from their lands by humans wielding fire and steel.
Even when the world was young, an elven birth was a rare and wonderous thing, a miracle shared by the entire House. Likewise, the death of an elf is a deep tragedy, one that strikes grief into the hearts of all elves. Thus it is that when elves go to war, they accept death, both their own and that of their kin -- the elven word for war is sier'elāndal, literally meaning storm of madness.
The Frost Elves of Fornost have seen the great Aelvinwoode that once covered the Pendrellian peninsula burned, they have seen their people ravaged and killed, they have seen Man conquer their land, and they have gone mad. Led by the last Prince of the Andradhril, Huron the White, they wait, in the last elven bastion in the world of Man.
Sunday, 24 January 2010
Mastery
At this point in the chronicle all of the magicians have reached Adept in one sphere, and at least three of them have declared that they are aiming for the fifth dot, or Master. In pure mechanical terms this is no different from any other XP-purchase (next x 7 or 8). But as becoming a Master is a significant character development, I have instated a small house rule; the Masterpiece.
This rule covers both game mechanics and flavour, and as such it describes both the role-playing issues and the system.
Houserule concerning Arcane Mastery
This is not necessarily the final version. This is for review and play-testing. I am sure that within not too long we will have a final solution.
mas·ter·piece (măs'tər-pēs')
n
1 An outstanding work of art or craft.
2 The greatest work, as of an artist.
3 Something superlative of its kind.
As the magician develops his understanding of his art, from the rudimentary techniques of the Initiate to the extensive command of the Master. Before the magus can ascend to the next level of mastery (e.g. from Apprentice to Deciple) he must acchieve full proficiency of the arts and techniques of his current level. He must also demonstrate his understanding of the magical theory behind his willworking.
To become a Master in a Sphere, the highest level possible for a mortal, the mage must create a magical effect surpassing everything he has acchieved up to date. He must formulate the theory, accumulate the experience, make preparations for the casting, and finally weave the pattern/create the effect.
Theory
Magic (as in M:tA) builds on understanding of the principles. Every willworker has his own perspective on his art, his own understanding of the rules, his own magical theory. This is both an in-character experience, and a game-mechanic concern. The character must master his art, and the player must display his understanding of the rules and the concept of Storytelling magic.
The theories may, and most often will, vary from character to character, and from player to player. To become a Master, it isn't enough to merely have read the rules. An individual interpretation is also required. Note that inventing the blackpowder isn't neccessary, but explaining (based on the rules as well as the magicians theory) how you can create a similarly spectacular explosion (figuratively, of course) is.
There is no right and wrong when it comes to formulating a magical theory. The matter-of-factly approach can be just as good as the metaphysical/esoteric one. What counts is that the magus has a theory.
Magical theory is closely connected with the character's style of magic.
Preparing
A Masterpiece is not a spur of the moment feat, and it will require planning and preparation to successfully pull off. Whether this involves gathering components and magical substances, or fasting and meditation, or something else all together, depends on the style of the magician.
Experience
Before the magus can begin his Masterpiece, he must have accumulated the neccessary experience points.
Weaving/Creating
When all the above criterias have been met, when the player and the Storyteller have reached an understanding, and when all the modifiers have been calculated, the magus may attempt his Masterpiece.
The player rolls his modifed Sphere+Gnosis dice pool. If he acquires 5 successes, the Masterpiece is accomplished, the XP-cost is paid, and the magician may call himself Master.
If the roll results in a failure, the magus may attempt again no sooner than the next chapter.
Note that all the above mentioned steps should be completed in dialogue between the player and the Storyteller. Magic is one part rules, and two parts creativity.
This rule covers both game mechanics and flavour, and as such it describes both the role-playing issues and the system.
~Master Kazeem al-Askari of the Council of Awakened Viziers ~
Houserule concerning Arcane Mastery
This is not necessarily the final version. This is for review and play-testing. I am sure that within not too long we will have a final solution.
- Masterpiece
mas·ter·piece (măs'tər-pēs')
n
1 An outstanding work of art or craft.
2 The greatest work, as of an artist.
3 Something superlative of its kind.
As the magician develops his understanding of his art, from the rudimentary techniques of the Initiate to the extensive command of the Master. Before the magus can ascend to the next level of mastery (e.g. from Apprentice to Deciple) he must acchieve full proficiency of the arts and techniques of his current level. He must also demonstrate his understanding of the magical theory behind his willworking.
To become a Master in a Sphere, the highest level possible for a mortal, the mage must create a magical effect surpassing everything he has acchieved up to date. He must formulate the theory, accumulate the experience, make preparations for the casting, and finally weave the pattern/create the effect.
Theory
Magic (as in M:tA) builds on understanding of the principles. Every willworker has his own perspective on his art, his own understanding of the rules, his own magical theory. This is both an in-character experience, and a game-mechanic concern. The character must master his art, and the player must display his understanding of the rules and the concept of Storytelling magic.
The theories may, and most often will, vary from character to character, and from player to player. To become a Master, it isn't enough to merely have read the rules. An individual interpretation is also required. Note that inventing the blackpowder isn't neccessary, but explaining (based on the rules as well as the magicians theory) how you can create a similarly spectacular explosion (figuratively, of course) is.
There is no right and wrong when it comes to formulating a magical theory. The matter-of-factly approach can be just as good as the metaphysical/esoteric one. What counts is that the magus has a theory.
Magical theory is closely connected with the character's style of magic.
Preparing
A Masterpiece is not a spur of the moment feat, and it will require planning and preparation to successfully pull off. Whether this involves gathering components and magical substances, or fasting and meditation, or something else all together, depends on the style of the magician.
Experience
Before the magus can begin his Masterpiece, he must have accumulated the neccessary experience points.
Weaving/Creating
When all the above criterias have been met, when the player and the Storyteller have reached an understanding, and when all the modifiers have been calculated, the magus may attempt his Masterpiece.
The player rolls his modifed Sphere+Gnosis dice pool. If he acquires 5 successes, the Masterpiece is accomplished, the XP-cost is paid, and the magician may call himself Master.
If the roll results in a failure, the magus may attempt again no sooner than the next chapter.
Note that all the above mentioned steps should be completed in dialogue between the player and the Storyteller. Magic is one part rules, and two parts creativity.
Tuesday, 19 January 2010
Bolgen
[Entry in the Liber Divinorum]
One of the old gods, Bolgen was worshipped by the men of the lost city of Erdangard. He is portrayed as a massive, black man with six arms wrapped in chains. He was one of the many gods of war worshipped in the days of yore, and his aspects were those of destruction and plunder. His worshippers sacrificed prisoners of war to their deity to gain his favour.
The city of Erdangard is rumored to have been located somewhere in the Goblinwall mountains north of present day Livonia. Its inhabitants were fierce warriors who raided into the Old Kimgdoms of the Wild, striking swift and hard, then retreating back to their montainous stronghold. The city is rumored to have been abandoned after the death of Bolgen, and despite tales of hoards of gold hidden by its kings, no adventurers have found it and lived to tell the tale.
Legend has it that Bolgen was slain by the hero Mykandor early in the Second Age. Mykandor was a prince in one of the Old Kingdoms, and after his father had been captured in an attack by the men of Erdangard he set out on a quest to free him. Before Mykandor could liberate his father, he was sacrificed to Bolgen. The hero then set out find the god, vowing kill him.
Mykandor travelled beyond the Pale and into the Hinterlands. He searched for seven years, encountering many foes and gaining some friends along his road. Eventually he came to Bolgen's cave, Hardhagrav, and using a poison he had been given on his journeys he slew the deity.
---
Another legend mentioning Bolgen.
One of the old gods, Bolgen was worshipped by the men of the lost city of Erdangard. He is portrayed as a massive, black man with six arms wrapped in chains. He was one of the many gods of war worshipped in the days of yore, and his aspects were those of destruction and plunder. His worshippers sacrificed prisoners of war to their deity to gain his favour.
The city of Erdangard is rumored to have been located somewhere in the Goblinwall mountains north of present day Livonia. Its inhabitants were fierce warriors who raided into the Old Kimgdoms of the Wild, striking swift and hard, then retreating back to their montainous stronghold. The city is rumored to have been abandoned after the death of Bolgen, and despite tales of hoards of gold hidden by its kings, no adventurers have found it and lived to tell the tale.
Legend has it that Bolgen was slain by the hero Mykandor early in the Second Age. Mykandor was a prince in one of the Old Kingdoms, and after his father had been captured in an attack by the men of Erdangard he set out on a quest to free him. Before Mykandor could liberate his father, he was sacrificed to Bolgen. The hero then set out find the god, vowing kill him.
Mykandor travelled beyond the Pale and into the Hinterlands. He searched for seven years, encountering many foes and gaining some friends along his road. Eventually he came to Bolgen's cave, Hardhagrav, and using a poison he had been given on his journeys he slew the deity.
---
Another legend mentioning Bolgen.
Mage: the Awakening 101 by Pointyman2000
In this post I will link to several very good articles about Mage: the Awakening from the blog Life and Times of a Pilipine Gamer. I would reccomend that you give these a read, even if the POV, as far as I can tell, is that of a more kosher setting than the BoW. We use a few houserules, and our approach is somewhat closer to the old Mage: the Ascension.
As Pointyman2000 posts more Spheres I will make sure they are linked to from thisblog post.
Arcana Basics:
Fate
Forces
Death
Life
Matter [edit: 20.01.10]
Mind [edit: 21.01.10]
Prime [edit: 22.01.10]
Space [edit: 25.01.10]
Spirit [edit: 27.01.10]
Time [edit: 27.01.10]
The 13 Practices
And the ten Arcana are all finished and linked. If Pointyman2000 should publish more posts on the nature of magic I will of course make sure they are available from the Book.
I am aware that some of these links appear to be broken. I will fix this within a few hours.
Let me know if the problem reappears.
As Pointyman2000 posts more Spheres I will make sure they are linked to from this
Arcana Basics:
Fate
Forces
Death
Life
Matter [edit: 20.01.10]
Mind [edit: 21.01.10]
Prime [edit: 22.01.10]
Space [edit: 25.01.10]
Spirit [edit: 27.01.10]
Time [edit: 27.01.10]
The 13 Practices
And the ten Arcana are all finished and linked. If Pointyman2000 should publish more posts on the nature of magic I will of course make sure they are available from the Book.
Let me know if the problem reappears.
Sunday, 17 January 2010
Awakening
"Find her! Find the cursed witch!"
The angry voice of the scarred soldier seems to come from right beside her. The girl presses her small body further into the narrow crawlspace beneath the floor. A sharp rock catches her already tattered dress and she feels the jaws of panic snap at her mind. She has always been afraid of the dark, but she has no choice now. She has to hide.
The soldiers came this morning -- it seemed a lifetime ago that she crossed the virgin snow between the houses to see to the animals. It had seemed like any other day. Still, something was wrong. It had been like an unknown threat gnawing at the back of her consciousness. She had tried to push it away, but in the small of her mind a tiny, urgent voice had kept screaming at her to run. Run, before it was too late. Ignoring it, she had started milking the two cows.
And then it had been too late. She knew it the instant she heard the horses. Too many to be travellers seeking to buy milk or cheese from her father. "Run!" the voice had shouted inside her head. "Run before they see you!"
She had heard his father greet the soldiers. Her father, the infinitely strong man who was never afraid of anything. This time there had been something she had never heard in his voice: fear. That had sparked something new in her. Anger. Anger of the kind that makes the whole world seem small and pitiful. She had understood what her father was afraid of.
He had been afraid of what the soldiers would do to her, his only daughter. Too many stories had made their way across the countryside the last years. Stories of rapine and plunder, of violence and death. The Ironbellies of the Parliamental Army were a law unto their own, some had said. They took what they wanted, and soldiers, she had heard the miller say once when no one thought she was listening, wants nothing more than women and wine.
Her father had waved it off when she had asked him about it. "They're only after the Macharites," he had said. "We're safe here. Most in our village are Presbyterians, my sweet dove." He always called her that.
Outside the barn she had heard a coarse voice ask her father how many people were on the farm. "Only myself and my daughter," her father had answered. The other voice had told him to call for her. Her father had told the soldiers that they were all good people of Reason here, and that they could take what they wanted. He had been pleading. The soldiers had laughed. She never thought laughter could sound so terrifying before. Her anger had grown, bathing her world in a blinding white light. Then the voice had told her father that hindering the will of the Parliament was punishable by death.
The shot had seemed to blank out all other sounds from her world. Without seeing it, she had known her father was dying. She had known that they were mocking the man who, while his life ran red into the fresh snow, begged them to spare his daughter.
When the door to the barn was opened and two of the soldiers had come in, her rage was like a white-hot fire, bathing her vision in sharp, cold light. She saw them laugh and call out to their companions when they laid eyes on her. One of them had made a grotesque face at her, his pale tongue licking the air. She had seen them grab her, as if from outside her body, and drag her out into the snow. The other soldiers had shouted, laughed and made obscene gestures when they saw her. They had groped at her, tearing at her clothes. The soldier who had shot her father, his face disfigured by countless ugly scars, had smiled at her. He had said something to the others that made them roar in laughter.
Then she had seen herself smile. Everything had seemed to slow down, to become clearer in a way. And then she had released all her anger.
It had been like a burst of light that seemed to boil the flesh of the faces and hands of the soldiers closest to her. Their clothes had been shredded, and their breastplates had buckled and cracked. Horses had screamed, throwing their riders, their manes and tails burning. Soldiers farther off, their eyes burst by the light, slipped and fell as they tried to escape.
Then she had fallen to her knees, empty. Her anger spent. The sound had come back into her world. Men and beasts cried in terror and pain, some dying. She had crawled to her father. She had cradled his head in her lap, holding him as his soul left his flesh.
His last words had been, "run, my sweet dove."
As she fled, she had seen the scarred soldier stagger to his feet. He had shouted for someone to kill her, but as she ran across the fields towards the village no shots had been fired. No horses had been spurred in pursuit.
Now she is hiding beneath the floor of an empty house. Its inhabitants has been killed earlier in the day when more soldiers came to find the witch. The little village has been turned on its head. All the women has been gathered on the square in front of the scholae. The men have been been killed or mutilated. The only sounds except the shouting of the soldiers are screams and unanswered cries for mercy.
She is terrified, but deep inside her she feels her anger build again. In the narrow, cold, dark space she starts to smile.
The angry voice of the scarred soldier seems to come from right beside her. The girl presses her small body further into the narrow crawlspace beneath the floor. A sharp rock catches her already tattered dress and she feels the jaws of panic snap at her mind. She has always been afraid of the dark, but she has no choice now. She has to hide.
The soldiers came this morning -- it seemed a lifetime ago that she crossed the virgin snow between the houses to see to the animals. It had seemed like any other day. Still, something was wrong. It had been like an unknown threat gnawing at the back of her consciousness. She had tried to push it away, but in the small of her mind a tiny, urgent voice had kept screaming at her to run. Run, before it was too late. Ignoring it, she had started milking the two cows.
And then it had been too late. She knew it the instant she heard the horses. Too many to be travellers seeking to buy milk or cheese from her father. "Run!" the voice had shouted inside her head. "Run before they see you!"
She had heard his father greet the soldiers. Her father, the infinitely strong man who was never afraid of anything. This time there had been something she had never heard in his voice: fear. That had sparked something new in her. Anger. Anger of the kind that makes the whole world seem small and pitiful. She had understood what her father was afraid of.
He had been afraid of what the soldiers would do to her, his only daughter. Too many stories had made their way across the countryside the last years. Stories of rapine and plunder, of violence and death. The Ironbellies of the Parliamental Army were a law unto their own, some had said. They took what they wanted, and soldiers, she had heard the miller say once when no one thought she was listening, wants nothing more than women and wine.
Her father had waved it off when she had asked him about it. "They're only after the Macharites," he had said. "We're safe here. Most in our village are Presbyterians, my sweet dove." He always called her that.
Outside the barn she had heard a coarse voice ask her father how many people were on the farm. "Only myself and my daughter," her father had answered. The other voice had told him to call for her. Her father had told the soldiers that they were all good people of Reason here, and that they could take what they wanted. He had been pleading. The soldiers had laughed. She never thought laughter could sound so terrifying before. Her anger had grown, bathing her world in a blinding white light. Then the voice had told her father that hindering the will of the Parliament was punishable by death.
The shot had seemed to blank out all other sounds from her world. Without seeing it, she had known her father was dying. She had known that they were mocking the man who, while his life ran red into the fresh snow, begged them to spare his daughter.
When the door to the barn was opened and two of the soldiers had come in, her rage was like a white-hot fire, bathing her vision in sharp, cold light. She saw them laugh and call out to their companions when they laid eyes on her. One of them had made a grotesque face at her, his pale tongue licking the air. She had seen them grab her, as if from outside her body, and drag her out into the snow. The other soldiers had shouted, laughed and made obscene gestures when they saw her. They had groped at her, tearing at her clothes. The soldier who had shot her father, his face disfigured by countless ugly scars, had smiled at her. He had said something to the others that made them roar in laughter.
Then she had seen herself smile. Everything had seemed to slow down, to become clearer in a way. And then she had released all her anger.
It had been like a burst of light that seemed to boil the flesh of the faces and hands of the soldiers closest to her. Their clothes had been shredded, and their breastplates had buckled and cracked. Horses had screamed, throwing their riders, their manes and tails burning. Soldiers farther off, their eyes burst by the light, slipped and fell as they tried to escape.
Then she had fallen to her knees, empty. Her anger spent. The sound had come back into her world. Men and beasts cried in terror and pain, some dying. She had crawled to her father. She had cradled his head in her lap, holding him as his soul left his flesh.
His last words had been, "run, my sweet dove."
As she fled, she had seen the scarred soldier stagger to his feet. He had shouted for someone to kill her, but as she ran across the fields towards the village no shots had been fired. No horses had been spurred in pursuit.
Now she is hiding beneath the floor of an empty house. Its inhabitants has been killed earlier in the day when more soldiers came to find the witch. The little village has been turned on its head. All the women has been gathered on the square in front of the scholae. The men have been been killed or mutilated. The only sounds except the shouting of the soldiers are screams and unanswered cries for mercy.
She is terrified, but deep inside her she feels her anger build again. In the narrow, cold, dark space she starts to smile.
Saturday, 16 January 2010
In your wake
~The Arrival~
Artist: Peter Oedekoven
This picture so neatly depicts a scene I described in the piece 'Simultaneously, somewhere else' that I had to post it.
Despair
~Leviathan of Despair~
Artist: Patrick Schemat
Since the Prince of Nightmares, Lord Morfæus, disappeared, Lord Gilgul has continued to strengthen the Dreamshield in preparation for the Coming of the Olympos. However, without the leadership of the Dreamlord, the nightmares are changing.
When Morfæus forged the Dreamshield, he drew upon the fears of the Deep to gain strength, and while Lord Gilgul's Dream Wardens, as well as the Bearers of the Letter, will hunt and kill any nightmare that serves the Exarch, some dreams have become powers in their own right.
Lately, the Leviathans have begun to walk the Dreaming. Their Gift is Despair, and those visited by them will sink into depression and melancholy, often ending with sudden suicides.
The missing chapters
Storyteller's note: I have been dealing with a case of writer's block, and there are a couple of chapters missing. So, to get back on track, I need to fill in the blanks. Here we go.
At breakfast in the van Zaar mansion, Geminon approached Banzel and told him that to find what he was missing he had to look for Margreta af Borg. Geminon also pointed out that since he was in fact a god, Banzel wouldn't be hurt by showing some faith.
After the failed attempt on Dr. Murdoch, the Cabal set out in strength to slay the Witch Finder General. In a border-town between Wezell and Corillia they set themselves up in an inn, hoping to draw their quarry to them. Instead they were poisoned (only Galan succumbed to the toxin) and encircled by a company of dragoons supported by a three pounder cannon. In the ensuing battle the inn was demolished and set alight. Banzel and Drake managed to conjure an antidote and the Captain was able to teleport them all safely out.
In Zaarbrügge they were attacked again. Banzel left the van Zaar mansion to check up on some work he was having done. In the busy streets he was waylaid by the same assassin that had slipped the poison in their wine in the inn. Luckily, Galan was using his magics to keep tabs on him, and so they Cabal was able to react swiftly and save the Bombman from a less than desirable fate. The assassin, a young woman, escaped.
On their third attempt they first bought all the poisenous snakes and insects they could find in Räderhafen, then travelled by stealth to the outskirts of Grasse arriving in the dead of night. Here Banzel's two ravens flew eight of the poisenous critters to the fortress of the good doctor. Through mind-controll the tiny killers were guided through the corridors of the fortress towards the bed chambers of Murdoch.
Simultaneously, Drake controlled the remaining critters, hid them in his clothing, and made his way into the town of Grasse alone. Here he was apprehended by a patrol of soldiers which he then had killed by the obedient little assassins that fell out o his robes on command. However, he stirred up quite a fuzz and was overpowered by another patrol and taken to the dungeons of the Palace of Reason.
At this point one of the critters flown in by the ravens had reached the bed chambers and had managed to deliver its poison, thus killing the leading man of the Magisterium in Corillia.
Now the cabal had to stage a rescue of their captured compannion, something they managed to accomplish before the noose closed around him.
Chapter end/start.
Back in Zaarbrügge the magicians set out to decipher one of the formulae in the Saragossa Manuscript, the Elder Sign, and to make it suited for distribution amongst the Correspondents. This consumed a lot of time and resources, and took a massive concerted effort to accomplish. Van Zaar also wrote a Letter.
Once this had been done, the Cabal set out to find the Committees so that they could send out their messages to the Enlightened of Eria. Jaap van Zaar, Yolander's uncle, and also one of the Onkels, sent them to the University of Ghoerwald. Before they departed, the Onkel told them that this day, the 19th Dodecium of the year 1021, the Wezelliche Syndikaat no longer forbade the practice of magic by law.
In Ghoerwald the Elder Sign, van Zaar's Third Letter, and the announcement of Wezell's acceptance of magic was put to print and sent out to the Committees for further distribution.
Once this had been done, the Cabal set up court at the brothel 'the Firbidden Book' in Ghoerwald and declared a Party. By weaving heavy magics into the patterns they explored several paths and constants. They also spread the word of magic.
Banzel given a Livonian book by one of the students he talke to. In this book, an edition of the Deus Machina, he found a print of the Dragon Machina and the Dragonheart (the forge he built to power the dragon).
The Cabal also contacted Octavian, and found him East in the Fallen Star Mountains on the Dark Continent. He had taken his War Cabal to find and anihilate a group of Outsiders searching for something in the mountains.
Friday, 15 January 2010
Yolander's Third Letter
Storyteller's note: The following was published in the Committee of Correspondents' printsheet, 'The Correspondent' in Dodecium YE1021.
This is written by Yolander van Zaar's player and submitted to the Book of Worlds.
Third letter – personal chronology:
Esteemed Correspondents, Enlightened and Practitioners of Gifts most Arcane
The Host of Man are victorious on the fronts of the colonies. The Old Enemy has risen from the deep – the gargantuan Kraken ended Cora. The red eye of the night skies is evident. The fomori are legion, and walk amongst us. Corrupted ships of old reign the seas. The great plague Naglfar was hindered with great sacrifice.
And STILL the Unity of man is wanting.
The pogrom of the enlightened has gone on for too long. We must ally ourselves with those of man that understand the wonder of the exalted.
Rulers of nations Pendrell, Aragon and Corinth; Powers of ideologies Cabal of Pure Thought and Temple of Man Supreme have been corrupted and are ENEMIES of ASCENSION!
Join us in our most desperate hour, or ALL will perish.
I, Yolander van Zaar, adeptus temporis, having seen the future, call for radical measures – I summon a grand convocation of the awakened!
Truth until Paradox!
YvZ
This is written by Yolander van Zaar's player and submitted to the Book of Worlds.
Third letter – personal chronology:
Esteemed Correspondents, Enlightened and Practitioners of Gifts most Arcane
The Host of Man are victorious on the fronts of the colonies. The Old Enemy has risen from the deep – the gargantuan Kraken ended Cora. The red eye of the night skies is evident. The fomori are legion, and walk amongst us. Corrupted ships of old reign the seas. The great plague Naglfar was hindered with great sacrifice.
And STILL the Unity of man is wanting.
The pogrom of the enlightened has gone on for too long. We must ally ourselves with those of man that understand the wonder of the exalted.
Rulers of nations Pendrell, Aragon and Corinth; Powers of ideologies Cabal of Pure Thought and Temple of Man Supreme have been corrupted and are ENEMIES of ASCENSION!
Join us in our most desperate hour, or ALL will perish.
I, Yolander van Zaar, adeptus temporis, having seen the future, call for radical measures – I summon a grand convocation of the awakened!
Truth until Paradox!
YvZ
Monday, 11 January 2010
Spillkalender
Storyteller's note: This is an internal announcement.
Da har kalenderen blitt lagt ut. Pr. nu har jeg ikke lagt inn datoer lengre fram enn neste uke. Så snart Helse vest får orden på internettet sitt (sånn at jeg får tilgang til turnusplanen min) kommer resten. Du kan finne kalenderen til venstre for hovedteksten, mellom karakterarkene og linkene.
Gi beskjed hvis det skulle være noen problemer.
Da har kalenderen blitt lagt ut. Pr. nu har jeg ikke lagt inn datoer lengre fram enn neste uke. Så snart Helse vest får orden på internettet sitt (sånn at jeg får tilgang til turnusplanen min) kommer resten. Du kan finne kalenderen til venstre for hovedteksten, mellom karakterarkene og linkene.
Gi beskjed hvis det skulle være noen problemer.
A quote
"I haven't used three Humanity points for nothing!"
-Rune, aka. Percival O'Connor, aka. Arcrash M'narchel, aka. Tradesmaster Drake
Storyteller's note: This is the most cynical approach to Humanity I've ever come across. However, the statement does explain a few things about the spookiest member of the Pius Cabal, doesn't it?
-Rune, aka. Percival O'Connor, aka. Arcrash M'narchel, aka. Tradesmaster Drake
Storyteller's note: This is the most cynical approach to Humanity I've ever come across. However, the statement does explain a few things about the spookiest member of the Pius Cabal, doesn't it?
Wednesday, 6 January 2010
Paradox
Storyteller's note: This is a draft. A final version will be edited into this post as soon as the council has reached an agreement.
The nature of Paradox is widely debated amongst scholars of the Arcane. Some claim it is Reality's reaction to magic, some that it is the caster's magic run amok, others that it is a separte force, and yet others that it was created by the ancient gods to punish the prideful willworker. There are also those who claim that Paradox was brought into Reality by the coming of the Exarch.
House Rules concerning Paradox (draft)
The following factors determine whether a rote or effect causes a backlash:
3 successes......Physical
The nature of Paradox is widely debated amongst scholars of the Arcane. Some claim it is Reality's reaction to magic, some that it is the caster's magic run amok, others that it is a separte force, and yet others that it was created by the ancient gods to punish the prideful willworker. There are also those who claim that Paradox was brought into Reality by the coming of the Exarch.
Whatever the true nature of Paradox, it's unpredictable, often violent, and always destructive effects are linked with the local Paradigm. While some feats of magic is always Vulgar (and thus Paradox inducing), other effects may cause a backlash in one area and not in another.
The following factors determine whether a rote or effect causes a backlash:
- Any raw magical effect (fireball, teleportation, conjuring something from nothing, etc).
- Any effect that would cause Disbelief in a witness.
- Any Vulgar feat of magic (according to the local Paradigm).
- Magical healing of Aggravated damage.
To determine whether a backlash occures, roll Gnosis/2 (round up). Using a foci (see M:tA, p. 89) gives a -1 modifier to the roll. Each Paradox-roll made by the same caster during the same scene incites a +1 modifier (this is the Domino-effect).
The number of successes determines which type of backlash occures.
1 success..........Mental
2 successes......Metaphysical3 successes......Physical
An Exceptional Success will cause a more permanent manifestation (Quietus or Branding).
There are three types of backlash: physical, mental and metaphysical. Which type occures is at the Storyteller's discretion.
Mental Backlash (Bedlam)
The magician's mind is attacked by the forces of Paradox. Roll Humanity, a failed roll results in permanent loss of Humanity.Metaphysical Backlash (Anomaly)
The effect is warped in one way or another, always unpredictable, and often inconvenient. The effect of the backlash will be sentered on the willworker. A Matter spell may turn the magician's boots into lead, a Mind spell might leave him disoriented, a Space spell might send the caster to some unintended location, etc.Physical Backlash (Havoc)
The magician loses control of his spell. The raw, destructive power of magic tears at Reality, causing harm to himself and his surroundings. The radius is 10 yards pr. dot of Arcana involved in the casting. The damage is Aggravated, and the amount of damage is equal to the highest sphere involved.All backlash-effects are immediate and are ultimately at the Storyteller's discretion. Any attempt to reverse, dispell or in any way affect the result of a backlash is considered Vulgar.
Branding and Quietus
Several backlashes during the same scene, or an Exceptional Success, will cause a more permanent Paradox-manifestation. Repeated casting of Vulgar magic over time may also cause this type of backlash.Branding (Which's Mark) is a physical affliction visited upon the caster by the forces of magic. This mark will be clearly visible, and may be reckognized by onlookers (Wits+Occult).
Quietus is a state of mind, akin to the common madness, aflicting magicians, often as a result of prolonged exposure to magic. This has given birth to the stereotype of mad wizards. It is assumed that Quietus is a result of repeated mental backlashes, but as with most things Paradox-related, empirical evidence is hard to pin down.
Arcane Connection
The Theory of Space dictate that all points in space are connected, and thus a willworker with the command of Space can bridge the distance between them. However, without some familiarity or an Arcane Connection to the target location, item, or person, this becomes difficult. Traditionally, locks of hair, nail clippings, blood, knowledge of the target's Truename, or a handful of dirt from the target location have been coveted (or jealously guarded) by magicians for their metaphysical qualities.
Corpus
Descriptio
House Rules concerning Arcane Connection
The default modifier to any Space effect bridging the distance between caster and target (scrying, teleporting, etc.) is -6. This is modified by Arcane Connections.Arcane Connections
There are three types of Arcane Connections, Nomen (a name carries power), Corpus (anything that has once been part of something is connected to its origin), and Descriptio (knowing what to look for). The modifiers stack, but only the highest modifier in each category applies.Nomen
- Name of target is known: +1
- Truename of target is known: +3
Corpus
- Item belonging to target (glove, cutlery, etc.): +1
- Personal effect of sentimental value (ring, locket, etc.): +2
- Part of target's corpus (lock of hair, splinter from floorboard, etc.): +3
Descriptio
- Detailed description of target (portrait, map, etc.): +1
- Personal aquaintance with target: +2
- Indepth personal knowledge of target: +3
Friday, 1 January 2010
On new years and storyteller's block
~Bjørge, aka. Mandan Banzel~
First off, Happy New Year! I am truly optimistic. We are leaving the Decade of Terror that was kicked off for real by 911. Since then, we've had Dubya, the War on Terror, a bona fide depression, a couple of pandemics, and we've seen the true face of global warming. The new year, nay, the decade, starts off quite epic. We are entering the second year (and everyone knows that the first is mostly cleaning up) of President Obama, a World Leader elected on HOPE. It's not much, but hey! I'll take what I can get. World leaders are finally agreeing that unless we do something, the climate is going to shit. They're not doing much quick, but honestly, how fast do you stop a supertanker on full speed? We're at least in agreement (after a fashion) on the colour of shit.
Now, my good friends, we've left the primitive (though formative) years of the 20th Century and truly entered the 21st Century, and I'm optimistic. The dragon is awakening, the USians are getting a civilized health care plan, we have Jonas and Jens...
For my part, I avoid airtravel when I can and use reusable shopping bags, I don't own a car and walk to work -- carbon footprint FTW! Seriously, the last decade went to hell, but I believe we, Man, will do better in the new one.
Secondly, storyteller's block, it happens. Usually when the chronicle is well established. When the plot is laid out, when the characters are established, when you see where you're going, that's when the fucker sits down at the gaming table.
I've been struggling with this beast for the last month. Look at the post-count for December 2009 if you want hard numbers.
Now, once every blue moon a story survives storyteller's block, and it so happens that the last year ended in one (blue moon, stupid), and we had a partial lunar eclipse to boot. So, what I'm saying is that I am optimistic about the new year, and that I will do my very best to keep the Book of Reckoning alive as long as I can. I am truly blessed with a good group of good people and good friends, and there are still so many stories to tell, so it shouldn't be too much of a chore [insert appropriate smiley].
Happy New Year, good people. See you back on Argos.
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