Podcast: Play in new window | Download (Duration: 3:47 — 5.5MB) | Embed

Subscribe: Apple Podcasts | Email | RSS

Hello everyone, this is Asclepius, with another great story from Elgarion De’Kahli. It is entitled

The Cataclysm, The Birth of Daedalus
Background music by Smartsound

The Cataclysm…
On Sunandai, the 1st of Janus, the Month of Daedalus, the Chilling Season of Wentru, in the Midnight Hour, the Two Moons collided

At the turn of the millennia, two moons collided in the skies high above New Britannia. The horrors that followed were cataclysmic. Cities crumbled under a shower of moon fragments, the seas rose and washed away shoreline villages, the earth trembled and reshaped itself, rivers diverted washing away all within their destructive paths. Those that survived took shelter in desperation to weather the coming years of hardship. Some took to caves, others to the ruins. Some took to ship and sailed to faraway lands hoping to find solace in places untouched by devastation.

The Lamentation of the Fall by Sariah the Blind hinted at what transpired, but still so much is left to question. Other libraries, journals or ancient letters reveal theories regarding this calamity. Blame has been thrust in many directions. Most commonly the Avatars or “Outlanders” were accused; could they have reached too far? Sorcerers and Wizards… Witches and Warlocks… also it is not uncommon to read of or hear the scorn bent upon the evils of magic users; suggestions that fallen ancestors lie at the feet of the depraved spell singers. There are many who blamed the old gods; their names no longer uttered strongly by the multitudes. Only a few speak the names of the divine with passion, but usually as whispers in backrooms, for even the faithful oft ask the painful question, “Why did we suffer so? Were we not worthy of your love?” The Titans… The Oracle… The Virtues… Chaos… Order… The Kings or Queens of the Old World… This list is as long as there are mouths to speak opinion. But Sariah the Blind writes of one elusive truth. The bright truth. The reasons may elude us as to why our fate was twisted under falling moon shards, but the one bright truth shines with certainty. A time of redemption is upon us.

Podcast: Play in new window | Download (Duration: 6:47 — 9.8MB) | Embed

Subscribe: Apple Podcasts | Email | RSS

Hello everyone, this is Asclepius, with another wonderful story by Elgarion De’Kahli. It is the first in a series, and is entitled

The Founding of Kahli
Background music is by Smartsound.

4201 Years Before The Cataclysm…
On Moonandai, the 2nd of Apru, the Month of the Farmer, the Life-Giving Season of Strength, in the Waking Dawn, a location was Founded

Kahli, the Wanderer. The White Nomad. The Devout One. The White Acolyte of Artenius. Kahli, the White Mage of the Vale. The Robed Wanderer. So many names… so many untold tales… Kahli, in plain terms, was a sorcerer. He was a devout follower of Artenius, the Seventh Son of the Original Touch, of the now so-called Seventh Son of The Weeping Seven. Little is known of why Kahli the White Mage roamed for so long through the lands of the Vale. Some believed the White Nomad’s travels from village to village which brought the tender touch of Healing, were purely motivated by his devotions to his patron deity. Others believed Kahli was in flight from the forces of Chaos and the acolytes of Larmenius the Sixth Son; oft were they nipping at The Devout One’s heels with presumably evil intent.

Most commonly though, Kahli’s wanderings were accredited to a quest. Kahli, the White Mage of the Vale possessed a fate which was intertwined into a fabric woven from the lifelines of many. With each passing village, it was not uncommon for peasants and lords alike to leave behind their self-serving lives and to assist with the White Mage’s endeavors. Through the passing years, the Robed Wanderer had accumulated quite the following. Oft these devoted ones accompanied the ancient mage, but these devout also took their own paths; oddly, they also seemed to seek an elusive truth.

But upon a year ancient and nearly forgotten, four thousand and some centuries before the Great Cataclysm, the faithful and the Wanderer himself amassed at the northern feet of the Bone Spires. Presumably, there lay what they sought. Why there? To this day it is still a mystery. There is accounting for it being a bountiful land, a simple and practical reason, no doubt. Others account for the powerful lay lines which adjoin in this mystical valley. Another theory being merely the resting place of Kahli himself, having finally passed away here during the final days of wander lust. But a query common to the inquisitive peoples of the Vale, why such long-lived effort was taken to meet in such a place if not for a greater purpose?

The most fabled and documented of accountings was this: As the followers of Kahli made a circle around the aged wizard, beneath the cooling shadow of the Bone Spires and invigorating breeze skirting the surface of the Shimmering Lake, they began to chant. None amongst them were spell singers… these enchanted enunciations were unfamiliar to even themselves. The divine song of Artenius, perhaps? A grand spell they did weave, earth shaking and glorifying to those within its tendrils. A bright fog of magic swirled about the White Acolyte of Artenius, surely fed from the words laced in netherlike energies that danced from the lips of the devout. The ethereal mist became dense… and as it parted, a tiny sapling had sprouted in the place of Kahli, the man. And Kahli, the man, was no more. The White Mage of the Vale left a gift for those seeking a life in pursuit of a perfect Order. Kahli, the Wanderer’s destiny had come and passed. His final purpose fulfilled. From the moment his essence transformed, the Devout of Kahli began a new quest–to build a city of beauty and elegance and perfection. Within its walls, Order reigned. Love… Truth… Courage were the cornerstones whilst Order was the keystone to this society of true believers. As hovels became keeps… paths became cobbled streets… the City of Kahli flourished around this once tiny yet immortal sapling. Kahli, the Wanderer had come home, never to leave… roots now binding his soul to this magical land. The sapling would grow eternal as it fed from the love of its peoples. The city of Kahli would flourish under The Devout One’s nurturing shade. As each twig became branch, the loving roots stretched beneath every home and touched gently beneath the foot of every citizen.

Podcast: Play in new window | Download (Duration: 5:44 — 7.4MB) | Embed

Subscribe: Apple Podcasts | Email | RSS

Hello everyone, this is Asclepius with another great story from Spoon. It is entitled

Obsidian era notes – the lesson of Andrasia of the craftmasters

Background music is by Smartsound.
– – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – –
…allegedly the record of a clay tablet found under some of the Desolis ruins and claimed to be a transcription of an Obsidian Order lecture note where the lecturer is unknown. Probably forged since the name has never been found nor corroborated in other obsidian sources…
– – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – –

Every now and then we get the question from the acolytes why there are so few women among you. While I have heard a lot of silly theories for this over time, it all comes down to simple deduction. So everyone take out your stylus and take your answer to wax. Take your time, imprint what you think is applicable here.

Everyone done? Good, you are most likely wrong.

The simple answer is that most won’t go through with the hysterectomy, and of those that do some doesn’t survive.

But that answer is too simple, isn’t it? It brings too many other questions along with it. Take to wax the questions that you can think of.

Everyone done? Good. Then put your styluses away and listen carefully.

This is the lesson of Andrasia of the craftmasters. She was of outstanding talent and dedication to the Obsidian Cause. Most of our discoveries are either built upon the work of the Eye or of Andrasia. But you will see no mentions of her or her work and that is because she died young and left all those discoveries to others to finish into theories and practices.

The smarter of you have already deduced the ending of this story by now, so I’m filling in the blanks for you who need to work harder on your deductive capabilities.

Andrasia died being eaten from the inside.

By the gasps, I hear that most of you need to work on your deductive reasoning, so let me state some of the facts that you had to deduce it from:

One – Andrasia studied and became a craftmaster.

Two – To do that she of course spent time in the vicinity of the Grunvald shardfall and brought home artifacts from it.

Three – As you know, children are more susceptible to fomorian transformation.

Ah, I can see that most of you have reached a conclusion by now, but most of you are still wrong. Although that might be due to a piece of data not yet presented.

Yes, something transformed and grew inside Andrasia’s uterus eating its way into her intestines and killing her slowly over several days while we were trying to help her and kill the creature within her.

But! The answers to your questions aren’t as simple as you think.

You see, we are quite certain that Andrasia was a virgin at the time.

We are also quite certain that whatever it was inside her wasn’t anything that we have seen before or since.
This again gives rise to a lot of questions. Some of which I hope that new acolytes like yourselves will answer for us one of these days.

But for now it suffices to say that this is why we require hysterectomies from all females before they become acolytes. It is also why we recommend complete sack castration as a precaution in males even though we do not require it.

And a final note before you all leave. Whatever it was that grew inside Andrasia, it got away from the four sorcerers present and escaped into the Epitaph.
It has not yet been found.

For the adventurous among you there is still a reward for its capture, set by the Cabal itself.

Podcast: Play in new window | Download (Duration: 3:56 — 5.8MB) | Embed

Subscribe: Apple Podcasts | Email | RSS

Hello everyone, this is Asclepius, with a great story from Elgarion De’Kahli, entitled
Catching one’s Breath
Background music is by Smartsound

As the old sorcerer Elgarion hobbled his way down the moss speckled cobblestone road of the now familiar PaxLair, a pause in his progress always seemed to occur alongside the path leading from the road to the fabled Church of the Dark Star. Elgarion’s hesitation was oft interpreted as a respite by those passing, as then he usually leaned heavily upon his cane or a nearby fence post. His aged eyes peered through wrinkled lids and took in the Church’s visage. The venerable and weary traveler’s mind would always spin with curiosity about what lay within the seemingly unforboding structure and what promising resources of knowledge must exist inside.

In Elgarion’s time before his imprisonment hundreds of years before this day, in his homeland of Kahli of the Hidden Vale, those daring enough to worship Chaos or entities of that sort never did so openly fearing persecution or condemnation. Forced into the shadows they were, to worship in secret. Yet no matter how pious or filled with light the peoples of Kahli might have been, no matter how faithful their devotions proved towards Artenius the Seventh Son of the Original Touch, their dedication to this deity of Order did not save them from their sufferings to come.

Now, however, his world had changed. What was once feared or scorned now brought little worry to commoners nor did there seem to be open hatred of such activities. He would never have guessed that beings of Chaos could coexist alongside disciples of Order, but alas, there were a great many things which surprised him upon his travels each and every day in this familiar yet foreign world of New Britannia.

Still not taking the courage to enter and once again deciding against extending his vulnerabilities and pleas for aid to a servant of Chaos, Elgarion continued upon his way. As the months passed, the path would often guide the old man to the Church of the Dark Star, and the considerations for seeking council with the High Priestess grew with each respite. Perhaps one day, the old sorcerer would knock upon the heavy oaken door. Surely Artenius, even then would guide him to the Truth and protect him from the evil which his peoples so feared and perhaps misunderstood.

Podcast: Play in new window | Download (Duration: 6:16 — 9.2MB) | Embed

Subscribe: Apple Podcasts | Email | RSS

Hello everyone, this is Asclepius, with a wonderful story from Themo Lock. It is entitled

Curiosity kills Nothing

and was also a winning entry in the “Valorbook of the Vale” competition.
Background music is by Smartsound.

Valorbook of the Vale: The Courage of the Outlanders
by Commander Fortezzo

Volume XXII: Curiosity Kills Nothing

The enemy can take many forms — from a howling throng of brutes charging savagely over the hill to a well-trained and well-armored host, clanking and clattering, thunderous and dread. Sometimes she is solitary, weaving her dark and deadly magic from her frightful tower striking terror into the hearts of those who would oppose her. But often the greatest enemy is simply the unknown. Failing to face what may or may not be can stop the mightiest of men in their tracks. But steeling oneself against the darkness can be the first step in what can become the greatest of heroic journeys. From the crypts of Ravensmoor comes the tale of Themo Lock, the Outlander who was brave enough to make that first step.

* * *

Deep within the crypts of Ravensmoor, Themo crouched before a wall sconce and fumbled with a tinderbox by the dim light that radiated from the cloak about his shoulders. A shudder ran down his spine and he failed to shake off the feeling that he was not alone in the almost unnatural darkness that seemed more like a solid wall than a mere alliance of shadows.

He had been lured into the depths of this neglected tomb by a sense of adventure and an unrelenting curiosity that would shame any cat. His pack brimmed with the rancid ectoplasmic muck that he had harvested from the frail animated skeletons that had challenged his entry in the upper rooms and the smell of it now assailed his nostrils and tested his stomach’s fortitude.

The damp torch sputtered to life with exaggerated brightness, forcing back the darkness to a more comfortable distance and causing the adventurer’s eyes to water. A faint echo caused his breath to catch in his throat, and he spun on his heel, torch outstretched, probing the corridor ahead of him for signs of life.

Was that movement he saw? Or was it perhaps just smoke from the torch being drawn along by a draft? Fatigue began to come over him and made him call his otherwise keen senses into question. Suddenly his back ached from the weight of his pack. He stumbled slightly as he felt his legs tremble and weaken. His torch slipped from his hand, and still lit clattered noisily to the stone floor.

Something was not right — he had felt fully rested and hearty just moments before but now struggled to remain upright and alert. A noise he could only describe as an otherworldly gust of wind alerted him to a threat he now recognized: somewhere in the darkness ahead, a ghost was draining him of his very life-force. He knew he had to act and he had to act fast.

Feebly he juggled with his pouches, plucking out reagents as he mouthed arcane syllables that merged and brought his spell into being. A fleeing rat squealed into lifelessness at his feet and dying insects rained from the ceiling as ahead of him in the darkness the ghost let out a piercing shriek. Themo would not succumb. He was no stranger to death magic. This creature had robbed him of his vitality, but, by all he was, he would have it back!

The spectre came into view, drifting towards him as he chanted a second incantation. The air crackled with raw energy as a bolt of brilliant blue light leapt from his fingers, piercing the ghost’s insubstantial form and splitting the stone bricks beyond. His foe hesitated and he took full advantage with a combination of life draining magic that revitalized his limbs whilst crippling his would-be assassin. The ghost’s form faded and dissipated as the tortured soul once more found rest.

The Outlander hesitated for a moment. Sure he could go back, but that is something his bold heart would not allow. Gathering his will, Themo kicked the torch further down the corridor to scout the shadows for more signs of movement, illuminating the section of wall where the brickwork had crumbled and fallen away, revealing a passageway that had lain hidden beyond.

“Now I wonder what is in there,” he voiced aloud, grinning from ear to ear and shouldering his pack. The Outlander adventured on.