Chapter 7
The Bardic Dirge and The Witch’s Row
The scraping of grass roots and tearing of dirt could be heard against the light blue sheen, of the full moons that rose above the cliff-faced hill, just a mile outside of the Faerie Wood. The group had collectively, though wordlessly, decided that the dying Glade of a dead Faerie was not the proper burial place for their fallen friend.
They had trekked, maybe a mile or so out of the Glade, which was positioned just outside the Dancers. After reaching the cliff-faced hill, which gave somewhat of a view of the landscape. With this view as well as some assistance from Star's compass, they ascertained they were just slightly west of the Faerie Wood, maybe a half a day from Twilight Run.
For now, in the dark of the night, they sat at the mouth of a cave, which itself sat atop a cliff-faced hill, looking over the moving mountains over the edge of the floating archipelago.
"Should we help him?" Maggie asked, turning toward Star, who leaned against the cave wall, the wisps of the smoke of his cigarillo curling in the air.
"I offered," Star sighed, "He said he wanted to do this alone."
Maggie watched as the large man, quietly using all four of his bare hands, dug into dirt, with a long body, wrapped in a blue kimono lay beside him.
"I still can't believe it." Maggie said, blankly. "I tried, I tried to heal him Star, I gave it my all." Maggie said, distantly. “I prayed as hard as I could, but… but that damned place… it was like Merne couldn’t even hear me…”
"I know, I watched." Star said, distantly.
"Now, we're having a funeral in the middle of nowhere…" Maggie closed her eyes and a single tear dripped down her cheek. "I mean, what do I even say? I've known the guy for, like five days! 'Oh, there was this one time, earlier this morning, where he gave me a pain killing potion and I said, 'Cool! Thanks, dude!''"
"Nothing to say, Mags." Star said, flicking his cigarillo.
"Maybe start with the kind of person he was?" It was Roddick, who emerged from the cave.
"Didn't I tell you va te faire enculer?" Maggie snapped her head toward Roddick, "Don't speak Merilais? I can give you a translation."
"No, I got it." Roddick turned back toward the cave.
"You have a lot of nerve, sticking around." Maggie bit, "Kunjao died because of your cowardice." Roddick walked wordlessly back into the cave.
"Go easy on him." Star cautioned.
"Why?" Maggie rubbed her broken leg, "He could have released that fireball at any time and burned the beast down." Maggie turned back to Lodak, watching him.
"Or it would have missed, and he hit Kunjao, setting him on fire, or struck the canopy and lite the entire grove up, or it could have backfired, or a million other different things." Star knelt down to Maggie, whose angry emerald eyes focused on him, "Look, I know you're mad. It's natural, it's human." Star touched her shoulder, kindly, "You don't have to like Roddick, but imagining scenarios where Kunjao didn't die doesn't bring him to life."
Maggie's face sunk, "How are you so calm?" she whispered.
"Not my first funeral." He said, solemnly.
Lodak had stopped digging. He took his powerful hands, and scooted them under the wrapped body, and wordlessly and gingerly laid it into the shallow grave. He stood, his gargantuan shadow dropping across the blue grass of the hill. Maggie called Da'La over, who was sitting just within the lip of the cave and ordered Da'La to help her to her feet. Using Da'La and Star as a crutch, they moved over next to Lodak.
The wind picked up for a moment, flattening the grass, kicking up dirt. Aside from its whistle no sound was made. Everyone bowed their head, quietly.
Then, in a sweet, supple baritone, Lodak began to sing a dirge.
And craggy cliffs, and pillar's tall,
The sea crash'd on the shore…
The heroes stood, on mountain top
And spoke the words of lore.
The maddened monk, the magic man
The slave, the girl who died
The warrior, and the king did stand
And the dragon burned the sky…
Six words were spoken loud
An ancient pact fulfilled.
And the dragon fell to ground
Where his black blood was spilled
Six words of wisdom
Six ancient words
Were spake between them,
And sang the dragon's dirge
And sang the dragon's dirge.
His voice calmed. After a moment, Lodak spoke again, "That was 'is favorite song."
"It vas beautiful." Came Da'La, softly.
"'e was me best mate." Lodak said, his softest voice still thundering, "If'n you needed a mate to catch a pint, or ya needed backup to talk to a wench, 'e was always there." tears streamed from Lodak’s eyes. He sobbed, "I'm gonna miss ya, buddy."
Maggie gave a small prayer over the grave, as Lodak pulled the dirt and loaded stones on top. Star turned toward the cave to see Roddick, standing at its lip, looking solemn.
The Odachi, was unsheathed, the sheath given to Lodak, and stuck into the ground: a warrior’s burial.
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The next morning started with a drizzle. Rain pelted on the ground of the long road toward Twilight Run, that the group walked. The dirt at their feet had been turned by rain to sloshing mud. The glen and dales rolled around them, a lively green dampened somewhat by the overcast sky. Maggie rode on the back of Lodak, who hadn't spoken a word all morning. Her hood pulled up, and her green cloak dangling, as rain made a pit pit pit sound against it. Her legs were cold, as her now short dress exposed her legs to the cold spring rain.
Roddick walked behind them, by a slight margin. There had been a small argument. Roddick had told them he was going to Twilight Run as well, so it made sense for him to travel along with them. Maggie had told him he could stick his head up his ass. This was the compromise that was met. The group was wordless, still not knowing exactly what to say, they made their long journey bending southward toward Twilight Run.
Maggie had a book open in her lap, in the space between her body and Lodak’s head. It was an old leather-bound tome; the spine was cracked and had lost its color over years of use. Maggie shielded the pages of the book, though rain still hit the pages, which she diligently wiped off.
Star slowed his walk, to walk beside her and Lodak, his hands in his pocket, his wide brimmed hat was wet and pooling from the rain.
“What are you reading?” Star asked, it was the first words to break the silence since they left the cave outside of the Faerie Wood.
“The fifth chant of the Ypfha’dorian.” Maggie said softly, not taking her eyes off the page. “I read it when I need guidance.”
"Don't remember any of the chants." Star said.
"This one is my favorite. It recalls the Har'gof of Reverendè Mère Amelia du Sekim. First Grandmother of Moughnif." Maggie said with a smile. She noticed the puzzled look of Star's face. "Har'gof is the ritual Ypfhars go through to… become ranked Ypfhars." Maggie explained, "It means Speaking Trance in an old language." Star nodded and Maggie continued, "The chant reads of a conversation had between Amelia and Merne. Amelia, who beforehand had been a poor Heret Betarian farmer's girl, was worried that she wasn't smart enough or able enough to lead the Order into its new age and establish the church at Meril Cove. Merne’s response is one that sticks with me: 'Doubt is the rivers that cut the land of promise. Just as the flooding river can ruin or strengthen the crops, so too can doubt erode greatness or grant it providence. It is your strength of faith that makes the difference between the famine and the harvest.'"
"Sounds like a bunch of nonsense." Star returned.
"It's inspiring." Maggie clutched the book, defensively. "It means that doubting doesn't bring you further from your goal, but your belief in yourself, the righteousness of your task, and the grace of the gods are wanting, so will the result of your works."
"What if the doubt is applied to belief, righteousness, and gods?" Star asked.
"You're beginning to sound like Roddick." Maggie bit.
"I don't know, Mags, I've just seen a lot of things in my life." Star said, pulling out his cigarillo stem. "What makes you think that your faith, is the right one?"
"I don't know if that matters, but the fact that I perform miracles is a good hint that I'm on to something." Maggie said, evenly.
"It does matter." Star fired back, "When I was in Nobyn Tau, the providence of Heret Betar I was a Sheriff in, there was a Priest of the Jenton Ching. He could do all sorts of things, create water, produce food out of nowhere, he even made Mer'kelian pudding for me once out of thin air. Oh I missed that…" Star trailed off, then caught himself, "What I mean to say is: he did what you did, while insisting he gained his power from millions of little spirit gods he called 'Jen.' How do I know you're right instead of him?"
"No, it really doesn't matter." Maggie insisted, "It's not about whether another believer of another faith can perform miracles. What matters is that I believe, not the arguments I have to believe it."
"And if you're wrong?" Star quizzed.
"'Right and wrong in faith is only what you do with it.'" Maggie quoted the fifth chant.
"Ma Soeur?" Da'La interjected.
"Yes, Da'La?" Maggie turned to her Dek'Har, relieved to be interrupted.
"Ve're here." Da'La gestured down the road.
The clouds had broken ahead, shining a beam of sunlight on the wooden pike walls, that lay passed an old wooden bridge, and into Twilight Run.
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Twilight Run was a humble community. Its roads built from the wear of traffic instead of paved, were now a slosh of reddish mud that divided the spaces between the blocks. The houses of Twilight Run were quite different from Sunset Harbor, far more rustic, with less concerns of the spacing of the street, and more of the materials at hand. They were also notably more spaced apart, granting at least a little space between the houses. In front and back of the houses sat actual green lawns. The roads were not orderly things, but weaving, living things, made less out of planning, and more out of necessity, developed over time until the ground itself seemed to retain the memory of it. Notably the streetlamps were old oil style lamps, that dotted sparsely throughout the streets.
The entire township was flanked on the east and west side by a large picketed wall, made of tall logs, and reinforced gates that now lay open. To the south side was the edge of the island, a small stone brick wall spanned from fence to fence on the southern perimeter, likely in order to keep wayward pedestrians, or drunks, from accidentally falling over the edge. To the north was a lake, fed by a river that cut from the north down in front of the west gate of the city, which sprayed and misted off the island. On the other side of the lake was a rolling cliffside, on which sat a black glass wall, that walled off a large stately manor whose terracotta roofs peaked over the walls and stood vigil over the humble township. The other highest point, a large crooked tower made of stone brick, with blue roofs spired in the center of the town.
The streets weren't bare, as the group had been expecting, though they were not bustling. A cart and horses moved down the road ahead of them, and some sparse foot traffic dotted the muddy streets. They even saw a few policemen, though, oddly they were more well-armed than standard policemen. Wearing reinforced leather vests, and each carrying weapons. They passed the gates entering the city, and spotted a few more of the well-armed policemen, though they were drunk and sleeping, their backs leaned up against the wall at their station.
"This wasn't what I was expecting…" Maggie said, taking in the relatively peaceful streets.
"Maybe the whole thing was overblown." Came Star, calmly.
"Hey!" Came a voice from one of the buildings, "I… Have wares you should… see!" The voice was slightly nervous, and his cadence was a received pronunciation uniquely produced by academia. The source, a young, medium man with auburn hair, dressed in a tweed jacket, with a white button up shirt and suspenders, and a small chain that led from his waistband into his pants pockets. He wore thin copper rimmed glasses, which sat at the bottom of his nose, and he peered over them.
The man was standing on the front of the hooded porch of what looked like a log cabin with stripped wood trimming. Its front window was yellowed with age and had the words “Howard’s Hobby Hole.” In white letters decoratively written on the panes.
“Oh, no, we don’t need anything, we’re just--” Maggie started.
“You should come in, take a look around.” He looked down the road toward the leather clad police officers, “I’m sure I have something of interest.”
The group gave each other a look and shuffled into the small shop. The shop was perfectly ordinary, a few tables for wares, a wooden countertop, while old, looked perfectly well taken care of, sat at the back of the store in front of a wall of shelves. The only problem is that the shop was practically empty. The tables were bare save for a block and tackle and a pouch.
After they entered, the man locked the door behind them, "You can't just enter the city looking like you just got here." The man warned. Now that he wasn't calling across the street, Maggie noticed the peculiarities of his speech. It was his diction. It was perfect, every letter in every word pronounced, it gave his voice a sense of severity.
"Who are you?" Asked Roddick, Maggie nearly forgot he was there.
"Howard Rivers Mason, Jr." The man said, "Most just call me Mason."
"I'm Sister Margaret," Maggie began, "Maggie if you will, this is my Dek'Har Da'La, and my friends Lodak and Star." She gestured to the rest of them.
"What about Roddick?" Star asked.
"What about Roddick?" Maggie returned.
"Maester Roddick-Tem," Roddick took the initiative and introduced himself. "What's going on here?"
"Too long of a story to explain," Mason said, "Quick pitch: we've been taken over by a group that calls themselves the New Clade, run by a man named Xinor." Mason explained. "If you want more, I can give you directions to the Witch's Rack. It's a small speak easy that cropped up, it's run by Mema Hadwick. Just be polite when you're in there." Mason warned.
"Wait, why can't you explain it me?" Star asked.
"See those people out there?" Mason pointed out the window, "They're not officers, they're New Clade. And they aren't friendly." Mason explained. "If you stay in a barren shop for more than a minute and even those drunks outside will begin suss out something is amiss. Meet me at the Witch's Rack, it's down the road, left, passed two streets, and left again at the end of that road. Just keep your distance from the guards, they're drunk most of the time and don't know the citizenry, just blend in."
Maggie began to speak, but Mason touched his nose, signaling now was not the time, he reached over the counter and grabbed a small bag, handed it to Roddick, and opened the door, "That should sort you, for now. Apologies! When I have my stock back in order you shall be the first to know." He said loudly, as he ushered them back out to the muddy streets. Across the way were two leather clad men, sitting on a barrel sharing a bottle.
The group quickly made their way past them and headed down the road to the Witches Rack.
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The house was an old log cabin, with moss growing from the bottom. It had a thatch roof, that a family of a crows had made a nest in. Leading from the muddy streets was a small path, with neatly placed stones that led through its yard. The yard itself, small with a humble sitting area, and filled with tasteless accoutrement. A fountain featuring an anatomically correct statue relieving itself into a basin, small statues of gnomes, that truth be told looked far more kind and twee than the actual article, and of course tall wooden carving of birds, stood in a ballet pose, painted pink and dotting the yard. The oddest thing that sat in the yard was what appeared to be a giant white stone mortar and pestle.
As they approached the old plank door, which on it was a wood carving of two moons, which Maggie only noticed after a moment were positioned to look like woman's breasts, the group could hear music, a row being chanted among what must have been a half a dozen voices from inside:
A Wizard's staff has a knob on the end;
A Wizard's staff has a knob on the end;
The great Wizard has a powerful big staff;
With a great big knob on the end.
Star opened the door leading into the house. Inside it led to a living room, like one would find at their elderly relatives, with cushioned chairs, couches, and chaise' positioned around a roaring hearth. People were packed in the place; workers, farmers, young women, all sitting on older, slightly tacky furniture, drinking out of old wooden cups, which they sloshed around as they sung. Near the door was a long table, which had empty plates, cleared from whatever feast had been presented to the group of wayward drunks, and a copper distillery, in which glass tubes led into a large pitcher, and smelled, mostly, of peaches. Next to the still were a set of wooden mugs and a sign which read "Paye fore yer drinkes, ya bass turds."
As the row came to a conclusion, and slowed down as a beaded curtain across the room from the door parted, and out came a small portly woman, nearly as wide as she was tall, wearing a black dress, and a cape that draped over her shoulder and down her back, a small hemp rope at her waist, and thick workers shoes. She was a woman whom time had not been kind to, with a short portly face that somewhat resembled a frog, with one chestnut eye, and the other glazed over near white from a cataract, and a pointed hat with a long brim sat on her curly bluish hair.
As she exited the back, carrying a large plate, that was filled with plump sausage, she sung:
“A Wizard of high repute
Carries many accoutrements.
Tucked Back in his suit
Is a tiny little wand.
A set two great big crystal balls
In his little wizards pouch
That he holds as he sprawls
Or they dangle as he crouch.
But when he’s ready he grabs the first half
Of his tiny wand and strokes from end to end
Then it grows and grows to a Wizards Staaaaaaaaff!
With a great big knob on the end!”
Her voice was shrill, and unpleasant, sounding somewhat like a sparrow caught by a cat, who itself was caught in a quick rolling gear; as she sung with enthusiasm to the excited audience, and placed the plate of sausages on the table between her guests, taking one for herself and biting into it, revealing all three of her teeth as she did.
The group stood at the doorway, looking around curiously at the makeshift speakeasy.
The woman began to walk by them, but before looking at them spoke, "Ya sure did trawl a long way ta me cabin, didnae ya noo?" She spoke with the thickest Reyilian Burr any of them had ever heard, as she turned and smiled at them, something about the smile was unsettling. Maggie found herself staring directly at what was left of the woman's teeth. "O'er a ben an' through a glade?" The woman smiled as if she was telling a joke. "Y’know? To Mema’s hoose ya go?" She waited in anticipation for a laugh that wouldn’t come.
Star made a noise like clearing his throat, "Um, I'm--"
"A knu whit dey do cry ye, Lord Star." The old woman leaned in lowering her voice. "Ma name's Mema Hadwick; come noo to me kitchen, put yer legs up, an' we can have a natter."
__________________________________________________
Mema's kitchen was quite larger than expected, with a long wooden prep island taking up most of the floor space, surrounded by wooden chairs, precisely six in total. Along the back wall was an array of cabinets, counterspace, and pantries, with an impossible number of bowls and utensils organized on top of them, and a small black metal woodburning stove and range in the corner, that piped into the ceiling.
Mema Hadwick sat on one of the chairs, grabbing a mug that had been placed on the counter with a steaming liquid, which she gingerly sat.
"Would ye be needin' a bit of tea?" She asked sweetly.
As Maggie was sat gingerly on one of the seats near her, "I would love tea, actually."
"Well?" Mema looked at Lodak, who sprang to attention, the most lively he had been all day, "Dun jus' stand there gaumless, kettle's ont 'top, pump's in back, middle left cabinet 'as the leaves. Gie it laldy." Mema ordered.
"'es mum." Lodak moved across the kitchen, grabbing the black kettle from the countertop, and moving toward the side door that led outside.
"Reit then, lessee yer damage." Mema scooted toward Maggie and lifted her torn skirt, and gently began to untie the tourniquet over her wound.
"No, it-it's quite--" Maggie began.
"Haud yer weesht." Meme gave her a stern look and untied the tourniquet. She then took from under her cape a pair of half-moon glasses and donned them to look at the damage. The wound, in which the bone had finally receded through judicious applications of healing miracles, was still quite open, bruised and red, with a little grey around where the bone had been protruding. "Hoo! Tha's pure nick. Gun' need more 'n Mema's salve to get this un riet." Mema ran her hand along Maggie's leg, "Hold on ta somin, this un gun' skaith." Mema made a gesture like she was pulling a rag from the ground, and there was a loud snap. Maggie gripped the table and let out a cry, Da'La leaped to her feet, grabbing her blades, but Maggie held her hand up.
"'Wee Flesh Stitchin'," Mema explained, "it skaith like a devil, an' yer need to use yer own miracles to heal it completely, but it'll get ya on yer feet."
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After some time, Mema had used her flesh stitching, and restored the bodies of the party to a somewhat working order. Lodak had poured tea, and Mema had wrestled in old long wooden pipe, to which she was stuffing an herby tobacco in.
"How did you know who we were?" Maggie asked, receiving her Tea from Lodak.
"This oiy's not good fer seein', the here and nae’n noo," Mema pointed to her cataract eye, "But it certainlai sees far more than wus ‘round ma."
"So why are we here?" Star interjected.
"Noo that's up ta yu, innit Lord Star?" Mema took a drag out of her pipe, it seemingly lighting on its own. "Mister Mason will be headin' to here in a bit." Mema stood up, "In the meanwhile, A will be tendin' ta me guests."
"Look, I'm just here to settle things." Star said, as Mema headed to the door.
Mema paused, and turned to the four, "Whit's fur ye'll no go by ye. But just a suggestion. You four will want ta pay attention ta what Mr. Mason has to say." Mema pulled her pipe and gestured to Maggie, Da'La, Star, and Roddick. Then left behind the bead curtain.
"That woman's burr makes my head hurt." Maggie said.
Star pulled a cigarillo from his tin, and loaded it into his stem, "Yeah, you'll get used to it."
"Oh, will I, Lord Star?" Maggie shot to Star. "Why does she keep calling you that?"
"No reason that matters," Star lit his cigarillo.
Maggie opened her mouth to return fire, but Mason made his way through the beaded curtains.
"Ah, so glad you could all make it." Mason smiled, sitting down at the chair where Mema had sat. "You've just walked into grave danger."
"What happened?" Roddick asked.
"Lady Moon, the purveyor of the town disappeared 6 months ago." Mason explained, "If the sudden lack of leadership weren't bad enough, it opened the door for another to come in. Xinor."
"You mentioned him bevore." Da'La said.
"Yes, we only know him by name. He came into town three months ago, and his men disabled the gate." Mason explained.
"How?" Roddick asked, "Nobody even knows how they work."
"I don't know, but nobody had been able to travel out since." Mason said. "Since then he rounded up the men of South Watch and installed his own police force. They call themselves the New Clade."
"We've heard the name." Star said.
"Inspector Renjin mentioned it." Maggie confirmed.
"The outside knows what's going on?" Mason looked astonished. "Why haven't they sent anyone?"
A moment passed, and Maggie spoke, "They did, they sent us."
Mason gave a sigh of relief. "Oh! I'm so glad you're here then. It's gotten desperate."
"Well it seems like a simple task, we go to Autumnburn, find Xinor, and excise him." Star said, crossing his arms.
"It's not going to be that simple--" Mason began, but soon as he did, a small Nyrian man with red quill-like hair, wearing a thick cloth button up shirt, that on the shoulder was stained with blood, ran through the bead gilded curtains.
"Where's Mema?" His voice was a panicked burr.
Mason shot from his chair, "Rizzik!" he ran to the bloodied Nyrian.
"It's Jonathan. There's something at the Blacksmiths."
GM's Notes: One of my policies for running games is to try to run relatively low stress, heavy RP sessions after a high stress encounters. I've found over the years, that high stress and powerful action, needs to be balanced by low stress RP. After you tighten the reigns for a bit and run through at breakneck speed, it's time to loosen it up and the let the players absorb what just happened. If the players are constantly going from one high intensity session after another, things begin to blur together. Giving them time to breath and react is what makes stories come alive.
The Faerie Wood, and the session before that adventure, were pretty crushing on my players, so taking the time to bury Kunjao and discuss among themselves, while still moving the plot forward, was important. As GMs you need to be able to do this. I've had people comment on how the custom system I use seems to facilitate good RP, and that's half true. In actuality, while the system I built to accompany this world does fulfill some framework for RP, it's my experience as a storyteller and the talent of my players that are the workhorse for this.
If you want a game that facilitates RP, then you must treat the game like a story. That character sheet? It isn't a set of numbers that tick up and down, it's an abstraction of a person. That plot? It isn't a means to give loot and XP to your players, it's an opportunity for shared storytelling. And shared storytelling is key. The GM provides the framework, but it's the players that provide character and dictate where the story goes, while you can usher them along to some extent, bowing to your players and letting them have space is key for making a good story, even if it's not the story you had planned as a GM, is what makes this hobby and this form of storytelling unique. Trust your players and your game will flourish.
I may talk more about pacing and the nature of collective story telling in future notes, as I think a lot of GMs don't actually know how to run a collective story, and many players don't really know how to take the reins of a story. But today I will discuss my method for creating a framework for the players to make the story.
You'll notice in this story, I spend a lot of time establishing things, foreshadowing events that will happen, or establishing future events in smaller ways so the reader can make sense of something when it happens, so things don't come out of nowhere. That is largely retcon. While I do design and prepare certain parts of my campaigns to be introductions to ideas and concepts for my players, I don't know enough while running the game what will happen to do this consistently. So how do I maintain a cohesive story anyway? Well, I make a thesis.
To put it simply, I ask a question at the beginning of every adventure I write, and that question is asked in different forms throughout the adventure. A good example of this is an old campaign called the Magic Rebellion, in which the question I asked was: "Freedom or Safety?" Which was the more important? And every time I sat down to write a new part of that campaign; I referenced that central thesis in how I constructed that encounter. In that, it doesn't matter what my players do, or where the story goes, because they by the nature of the campaign are answering the questions that I am positing. I've done this for years, and it is my sure-fire way to make campaigns feel concise and cohesive. So that's my advice: Make a thesis.
Note, you don’t ever have to, nor should you ever directly ask your question, but rather your goal is to construct scenarios in which the question must be in some form considered to solve. This gives a story a feeling of continuity.
I also wanted to discuss religion in my world, because I can only hint at it through the story. There are various faiths throughout Schancier. The first of course are the Ypfharian Order, a group of mostly female priestesses called Ypfhars (Literally: God Speakers.) Who built a religion out of a special ritual they undergo so they can speak to the gods. This religion is probably the most well established, and at one time, spanned all of Schancier, to the point that it was said that no court was in want of Ypfharian Truthseer.
But some time 350-400 years ago, the power of the Order waned, and since there has been a relative Renaissance of various faiths. Some, like the Jenton Ching and the Dragon Priests of the Tordak Vor took up old faiths, like the 12 Million Jen and the Great Sky Dragon. Others, like the Drua and the Cult of Survivalism adopted what they claim were old faiths but were actually shown to be quite recent. Still others, like the Way of Jen and the Thaumists took up life philosophies instead of religious faith.
Regardless, miracles workers have cropped up in all these spaces from time to time, and nobody really knows why the are able to perform their feats. The thing is: miracle workers are rare, though this doesn’t stop many religions from learning Wizardry and trying to pass it off as miracle work. This has led to many wizards assuming all miracle work is increasingly elaborate flimflam. This is untrue
The key difference between miracle work and Wizardry is the rules. Wizardry, while already mentioned is an untamable force, it has rules. Material cannot be added or destroyed, but only change places and forms. Magic may stitch wounds and heal them, but not restore them. Magical entities are subject to the same rules as their non magical counterparts, such as a flame conjured by magic will extinguish without air, or while underwater. These are not true for miracles. Miracle workers can create something from nothing, if powerful enough they can restore bodies, and their works are not necessarily subject to rules. Though the fact that both forms can create aberrations to the castor may hint at some shared origins.
There is no actual known explanation for the power of Miracle workers. Charitable wizards merely consider them powerful sorcerers, tapping into a deeper well of magic than known before. But perhaps they are gifted powers by gods, or maybe they are merely specially tuned in to the very fabric of the universe, granting them access to the powers of creation. Nobody really knows.
Written by: Jack Shawhan
Proofread and Edited by: Alhana Escher
Original Characters played by:
Maggie - Donovan Hill
Star - Stephen Kirk
Roddick-Tem - Joshua Horton
Schancier, Whispers of Ja Reyil, and all associated copyright Jack Shawhan, 2020
