Out of all his cards, the next was the one that proved the most pivotal for his future. He’d not read their gnosis until today—the day after having consulted with the cartomancer—knowing he could not resist playing them after knowing their power.
////
Card Earned: [Fingernail-of-Sekharot] ★★
Draw: [Ten-of-a-Kind]
Drawback: [Baptism-by-Fire]
Arcana: [The-Crucible], [Mercury], [Flesh]
Number: [XVI//XVIII]
Suit: [Face]
Gnosis Φ: [‘Once Sekharot understood the weakness of his flesh, he craved the strength and certainty of steel; the first body part he cast within the molten fathoms of the Crucible to become an avatar of Daedolon was that of his fingers’. This {Card} grants the {Player} {Major-Dominion} over the {Arcana-of-Transmutation}, allowing them to {Metamorphose} the {Flesh} of their {Arm-Below-the-Elbow} into a {Living-Font-of-Sword-Steel} through {Expenditure} of a {Font-of-Steel} and an {Act-of-Sacrfice} in the {Form} of {Baptism-by-Fire} of said {Flesh} within a {Crucible-of-Molten-Steel}. {Transmutated-Flesh} may be {Reverted} through {Expenditure} of a {Font-of-Blood} and an {Act-of-Absolution} in the {Form} of {Baptism-by-Water}; should this {Card} through an {Act-of-Absolution} be {Exempt}, it is {Discarded} from the {Player}’s {Hand} and {Archive}, thus {Banished} to {Babylon}.]
////
This card was not a common, of-a-kind dross that might be bought by a smith in the many foundries of Reordranhall’s ironworks.
It was the remnant body of a fallen demigod, that of Sekharot the Wretch-of-Six-Harrowings.
A patron saint to cripples and smiths alike, He was the first to invent articulatable prothesthetics so that, even without the miracle of a healing-card or token, a man without use of his legs could walk again after a fashion. He’d done so not even as a god but rather a simple mortal, frustrated by the vulnerabilites of the flesh He’d been born to. Before Him, the best a cripple could hope for was a hook and a peg leg; today, His genius formed the basis for the clockwork soldiers of the Nezarri, the spirits of men given second life to do battle in the Alabaster Desert.
Sekharot had died many, many turns ago, in the latter half of the Third Game, upon attempting his Sixth Harrowing within the Crucible-of-Hel, inside the furthest reachest of blackest Gehenna. The Folly-of-Sekharot, it was called.
[Fingernail-of-Sekharot] might have seemed like the perfect card but it wasn’t, not nearly so. The drawback would require him to bathe the remnants of his ruined limb into a molten crucible of steel—this had been what put it in the two-star range rather than a parity of three. The card would also not solve Baethen’s cripplehood instantly seeing as he barely had any flesh left below the elbow but it would put him on the path to recover his limb should he pay its toll of excruciation.
Being burnt alive deliberately would surely leave scars not only on his body but also soul. Proscribing an arcanum would most likely come with the harrowing experience. Traumatic or otherwise life-changing events could brand a person’s being with arcana; murderers awakened to the arcana of bloodshed and slaughter, the craven to the arcana of treachery and cowardice and only the blinded by circumstance could truly comprehend the arcana of darkness to such a point that the Gods deigned to make it apparent within the letters of their soul. It wasn’t even just a factor of never being able to see but of losing the very light of hope within their spirit.
Baethen could just leave and return to Reordranhall with his spoils and set himself up for a good life, even without a limb. He didn’t need the pain or the phantom scars. He could be content with what he had rather than let one of the many pangs of greed prod him into risking life and limb once again.
Unfortunantly, he was a fool not unlike a certain Wretch. One who would, even after having a path to fullness, wanted for more and reached for greater.
Baethen set his foot on the bellows and began to pump.
////
It was by the afternoon that Baethen had heated up the forge to the degree he needed and set the crucible atop the designated section, molten iron bubbling within it. It’d cost him a good half of his earnings to kit his smithy to how he liked—specialty clay and stone that could withstand the higher temperatures of arcane metals was no easy find in a new-fangled township like Towerfell.
He’d decided on a titansteel-and-bloodsteel alloy. He’d added drops of mercury throughout the folding process, controlling it with his arcanums and cards so that it wouldn’t fully amalgamate and turn the steel brittle and weak. It had taken him a goodly amount of stunds just to get the stuff to the right consistency and temper; the rejects he put in a pile to melt back into raw materials later on.
His schema was as follows: a lead-core for the arm’s bones, malleable and heavy enough so that it would be easy to manipulate it but not too light. He’d need to latch the remant flesh of his stump onto the armature of lead after the baptism and then slowly grow the living font and stretch it across.
The bones were not anatomical reflections of his own, instead just a rod of an iron-lead alliage bent into two equal halves and then wound around itself. He wanted the armature to act as a coiled spring of sorts and had struck furrows into it as anchor points; when he contracted his would-be muscles of sword-steel, they would store tension within the coil that could then be released to empower a blow. Though lead was far too soft a metal to hold any signifcant power within itself, it would be marked with his blood to function as a bound tool of Dehadolon. [Hammer-and-Tongs] could then be used to affix the edges of the armature to a locus in space, holding its shape further.
At least, that was his thoughts, as of yet. If it did not work out, Baethen could just use another armature or even comission something out of his own bones from the sanctioned necromancer that had set up shop in the Numbers Quarter. Unlike an unsanctioned necromancer—a wicked draug?r—an adherent to the impartial Merchant did not toy with the blasphemous the powers of undeath or bind souls unwillingly to rotting vessels but rather brought solace to the dead and the dying so as to usher them into their next life unburdened.
Their miracles included the use of sanctified bones cleansed of flesh that could be invested with the willing spirits of their cloistersiblings, the conjuration of pyschopomps the maggot-headed archangels of Death that flew upon the wings of vultures, ghostfire sorcery which did not touch the living but did burn ghouls and other undead, and the creation of hallow-laterns with the ashes of the pious that sought cremation rather than burial by land, sea or sky.
Perhaps it was the nerves talking but Baethen sure-as-the-Hels felt like a portentous sense of doom.
////
The steady tap of a crook upon the flagstones signalled Lazarra’s arrival. Though foolhardy, Baethen would not undergo the process without supervision of a healer.
“Let’s get this over with, lad. I can’t stand to suffer this nervous bundle in between these old lungs of mine.”
The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.
The woman would never admit but she’d grown a liking to him; her chidings were the only manner in which she could demonstrate affection without surrending too much of her obstiante ego.
Miro was also there, had been for most of the time after the noonday sun began to cast shadows once again, ready to move about the various contraptions of the smithy while Baethen was in the insensate throes of pain. It was one thing to take a wound in battle when the bloodsong was loud within his veins, numbing all else; it was another to willingly take upon himself an affliction with his blood cold, especially that of self-immolation.
He’d heard of the monks of Rhephatamon—the whirling dervishes—that underwent baptisms by flame to become closer to their aspect of the Seventh Arcana, that which they worshipped as Ezekddon the Conflagration. Those that did not turn to ash were said to be able to become fire at will; though he doubted he’d die through his own baptism or gain the ability to metamorphose into flame, the pain might very well be a fate worse than death.
“Alright, let’s do this. My own nerves are not any better than yours—teeth are itching something fierce. Like there’s hairy lightning crawling inside them.”
Miro shuddered at the words and Lazarra simply narrowed her eyes and gave a swift nod, solemnly observing what was to come.
Baethen brought out the ashes of the various godspawn he’d felled, held within a reliquary of glass he’d wrought himself. He’d taken no more than a half palmful of each of his foes, be they harpy or feyry. The various arcane aspects contained within would increase his chances of spellscarring—Old Coriska had told him as much though not directly.
With the ashes in hand, he boiled them within water blessed by Lazarra until they became tar. This he lathered upon his stump and then imbibed a concoction—sublimate of purple sage, accursed wormwood ground into a fine powder, and hattersroot suspended within a solution of vitriol and vinegar—to settle his mind and open it to the mysteries of the arcana.
No sooner had he drank the foul thing that he began to see shapes and shadows and colours dancing at the edges of vision. Even if he closed his eyes, he knew he would still see them, those strange and ineffable forms for which he had no name.
And then he plunged his ruined arm into the crucible.
Baethen played [Finger-of-Sekharot]. Were it that the card did not function at the speed of the soul, faster even than thought, the pain would’ve rendered its play impossible for such was its sheer magnitude.
He’d only understood, truly, the meaning of the word ‘burning’ after it had crawled into the marrow of his bones. The fire burned so hot it was cold, frigid as the waters of Stygia; first of the Twelve-Hels of Gehenna’s inverted spire. Like an infection, molten iron burrowed into his flesh.
The tar transformed simple iron into unbreaking steel, tempering it within the bath of his own blood and the tears of the Weeping-God. He lost hold of his senses then, the excruciation beyond his ability to handle. Miro would later tell him that he’d added the lumps of titansteel and bloodsteel like he’d been told to, administering drops of mercury between each mass of arcane metal.
Getting the alchemical dropper—a contraption of glass and wormbladder—had not been cheap; the apothecary had him set twelve-card shards as collateral. That was one shard than half a card’s worth.
////
Hearken, the {Player}’s {Arcanum} rouses with {Unbound-Arcana}!
Scouring [Akashic-Archive] for compatible {Dominion} […]
Compatible {Dominions} found; shuffling probabilities set to {[Base]: [Two]} over {Mean} […]
Shuffle complete, {[Utter-Dominion] over the [Arcana-of-Fire]} {Proscribed} {Thrice} upon {Player}’s {Arcanum}.
////
Delirium and fever took him for three days and three nights.
By the second day but before the second night, his body had healed. His soul took longer to mend, utterly scarred that it had been and so his spirit fled his body and dragged his waking mind into the waters of Hypnagogia with it, returning only when it had balanced the tally with what there lay at the bottom of the Tower.
Baethen awoke inside his cot, Miro asleep by the lowered fire, his head abreast of the pillow but not actually atop it any longer. He was caught by a fancy then, a passing curiousity, about how names could change a person.
Perhaps it was a figment born from the fever that still festered in the bones of his left arm; he was afraid of lifting the bandages something fierce for there, just beyond them lay seeing the mangled remains of his limb and acknowledging so much he wished to simply forget.
Ahedmir Tavesh Tyrsson was the name of a young pyrate, an outlaw sentenced to death not by gallows but by disembowelment then quartering; one thought already claimed by the Merchant. Ahedmir ‘Whisper-blade’ Jazeeram was the name of an old sword-for-hire, a beast-hunter that did his rounds by the Lowside of the Isle; one whose first life and its accompanying sins only two people in this world knew.
Most just knew him as ‘Scarred’ Miro; a gruff veteran that turned his aching war-wounds into power and a generally companionable-if-silent bloke that could handle his drink but not his draught.
Once Miro roused, Baethen would bet with him for how long it took until someone started calling him ‘One-Eyed’ Baethen.
Having delayed for long enough, Baethen read the words carved into his soul. From this life to the next, they would follow him, an indelible mark on the totality of Baethen ‘Sore-Loser’ Locke.
////
[Arcana-of-Fire]
[Utter] III - [Resonant] V
Origin Φ: [{Thrice} per {Hand} the {Player} may, through {Will-of-Mind}, {Combust} the {Phlogiston} within a {Confluence-of-Fonts} so long as they {Hold} the {Confluence} in {Thrall-of-Gaze} and {Utter} its {True-Name}.]
? [As the first contra, the {Player} may, through the {Blink-of-an-Eye}, {Turn} {Fire} that is {Commensurate} with its {Cast-Shadows} into {Ash} {Thrice} per {Hand}.]
? [As the second contra, the {Player} may, through {Breath-of-Lung}, {Coax} a {Flame} {Thrice} per {Hand}.]
? [As the third and final contra, the {Player} may, through {Word-of-Mouth}, {Command} the {Tongues} of a {Flame} {Thrice} per {Hand}.]
////
Generally, first-order dominions of utter magnitude only contained clauses according to their principal arcana—that is, if there was no resonance with other aspects such as phlogiston in the case of fire or mire in the case of water. First-order arcana like that of fire tended to interface readily with their second-order conceptions though phlogiston just barely counted in that regard. Had Baethen cultivated a set of cards without horizontally integrating his arcana, his arcanum’s contras would’ve been vastly different.
Baethen teased an incense stick out from its vessel of glass and held it pinched between his right thumb and index fingers. With nary more than a flexing of his will and a whisper of its name, the thing {Combust}’d into a small flame at its tip. All physical matter was wrought of a confluence of elemental fonts; within everything that could be brought to flame, therein lay phlogiston, waiting to bring fire to life.
Names—once again, he was reminded—had power. The {Word-of-Mouth} clause granted a player the ability to speak in Omniglot and, in so doing, Speak the True-Names of things. For an object as simple and mundane as a stick of Abazr?dani incense from just across the Dreadsea, its Name was easy to Speak. Baethen’s partial ownership of the thing helped stake his claim to Speak, not dissimilar to the rules of the Wyrd, the Weave-o’-Fate.
Were the object composed of a sublime substance such as Yggrdrazil-leaf or wood, Baethen would’ve had a harder time either Uttering its Name or Commanding a tongue of flame born from it.
The closer an arcana to its Number, the lower its order. After the third-order, the cosmogeny bent back into itself, once again being considered a pure manifestation of the arcane—perfection through fullness in comparison to perfection from emptiness. Water became the arcana of Lunacy and earth became the arcana of Apathy; these sorts of rariefied arcana were called prime dominions, direct emanations of divinity. Baethen had once possessed such a dominion, that of Akasha which was borne from the first-order arcana of lightning.
The First-Word-of-Creation; fitting then that the Word that tumbled from his lips then was the one which would end it.
“[Ekpyr?sis.]”
Stolen from the spynx Ruination, the Word bent the fire’s tail into its mouth and made it eat itself into oblivion like the faminous serpent. No ash was left behind but the end of the incense stick had been turned into salt—the dead flesh of the stars in Rōnarian cosmogeny. Woedenites saw salt not as a celestial element but rather the simple briny tears of Eot; or, more accurately, the Firstborn Ymir within whose Eye all living beings resided.
The salted end of the stick crumbled into fine granules, sparkling down Baethen’s hand.
He’d not risked using the powerful Word within Phantasmagoria but now that the Wyrd’s web did not hang so perniciously upon him, Baethen would make full use of it. A moment later, the cold numbness of his frigid breath disabused him of the notion.
It was as if a ghost had walked right through him, robbing the warmth from his flesh.
“More the fool I am—that Word stopped fire wrought by a god.”
At least it hadn’t killed him wholesale. As a mere mortal, the power that the Word could draw upon was a limited well in comparison to the fathoms that divinity had acess to or so he reckoned.
As Baethen had only whispered the Word, Miro shuddered before he shuffled into a better position and returned to sleep. Scared of unwinding the bandages and seeing what lay beneath, Baethen laid back down on his cot and attempted to do the same.
////
Ta-ta.
