Tomb of the Serpent King 5e, sessions 9 & 10

Everybody was dead, but then it got worse.

Dramatis personae:

• Brent, a halfling rogue. Upstanding and competent.
• Gour-Gash, a goliath barbarian. Lost, confused, horny.
  
• Licmorn, an eladrin sorcerer. Depetrified after a thousand years and kind of insane for it.
• Rotti, a tiefling cleric. Likes to bad-mouth people to their face.
• Yanzar, a dark elf druid. Very sneaky, except he loves loud, thunderous spells.

 

From K6BD.

 

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From the diary of Yanzar, nowhere and never
Pushing the button on the magic egg might have been a mistake.

We all woke up on a beach, fog everywhere around us and the surface of the water absolutely motionless. In the distance, huge skeletons were wading through the fog and water, but no waves reached our shore. We all had two copper coins with us, except Licmorn.

For who knows how long we stood on that beach, until we heard the ringing of a bell from somewhere inland and went to investigate. After kicking open the door to a belltower, we climbed it and saw the many islands jutting up from the fog. There was a pier on our island and a strange tower on another nearby island, so we went to the pier. On our way, we met Hans, a labourer from the Balalán cathedral, who was trying to find his way back to the construction site. We took him with us to the pier where there was a small bell. When we rang it, a ferryman dressed in long black robes emerged from the fog, riding a long boat. For the way across, he demanded two coppers. So Licmorn sent Hans away, claiming that the distant bell was the belltower of his cathedral, and Brent robbed him of his two coppers in the meantime. Thus all of us could pay the ferryman and he took us to the other island with a seemingly sky-high tower.

We landed on a beach covered in and made of bones. Rotti and Licmorn immediately set off towards a long line of people waiting in front of a swirling pool hanging in mid-air atop a low hill, some portal for sure. The rest of us stopped by Klaus, an armor-wearing and axe-wielding guy who was sitting near the line of people, but didn't seem interested in joining it. Nobody here had weapons and armor, just him. Reluctantly, he told us he got it from a "friend" as an early reward for killing Médard Malévol, who is the leader in construction of that impossibly tall tower. He then suggested that he could introduce us to his friend if we killed Médard for him, because he failed and couldn't try again without drawing murderous attention of all Médard's henchmen.

In the meantime, Rotti advanced to the front of the line and found an angel standing by the portal, carrying out the Last Judgement. They talked and Rotti smiled and she went through the Pearly Gate. Licmorn decided that he doesn't fancy being judged and sneaked away before he could be noticed. With a party one member smaller, we went to find out if Médard's life was worth our meeting with Klaus' friend.

Halfway to the tower, we came upon a wide crevasse, with a bridge blocked by a knight in shining armor. For passage, he requested answers to riddles three, which we eventually provided to the loud disappointment of the many talking crows on the trees all around us, who were haggling for a piece of our soul in exchange for helping us. Approaching the tower, we found a line of people dragging stones up endlessly upwards and an older man sitting in the midst of all the hustle and bustle. He had a rather fancy sword and a bandaged leg. We stopped one of the stone-carrying people - Cornelia, a half-orc in a kilt - and asked to be introduced. Médard was quite happy to talk and told us how he died soon after the Golden Day, fighting some of the last Dark Ones, and how he had been wounded by a demonic weapon - probably Klaus' doing. He also told us about the tower - the goal was to build it so high that one could get to Heaven without being judged by an angel.

"Who gave them the right to judge us?" he asked. "Are we not beings of free will, capable of rational thought and decision-making? The souls of the people can only be judged by a jury of their peers, established by the will of the people."

Cornelia had nothing better to do, so she joined us. We returned to Klaus and pretended that we killed Médard, and he agreed to take us to his friend. He showed us a narrow path just below the surface of the water leading to the next island, imperceptible to the naked eye. On the island stood a ruined church and as we set a foot inside, a dagger flew out of the shadows and took Klaus in the neck. A crow came out of his mouth as he collapsed, while his body quickly turned into dust, leaving behind a bare skeleton.

We were still debating running away when a red-haired halfling in a huntsman's suit came to greet us. He apparently killed Klaus for failing to uphold his end of the bargain they made - and then he offered us a bargain. If we kill the angel who guards the portal, Zirael, he would revive us. We thanked him and told him we need to confer in privacy and then legged it.

Returning to the main island, we asked Zirael for a counter offer, but she wasn't willing to grant us resurrection, only a better chance of ending up in the Heaven. Unsure what to do, we went to explore the rest of the island and found Wilhelmina - Hans' mother. She wished to find her son, but she had no way to get to him. She told us about a treasure of souls, where she could lead us if we got her to Hans. Thankfully, we managed to snatch Klaus' axe and thus could fell some trees in those strange crow-infested woods and build a raft.

Wilhelmina navigated us to a tiny island, where we collected a locked chest from an eye socket-shaped cave. We dumped Wilhelmina on the island where Hans was and returned to the Friend to negotiate. He was drooling over that treasure, but he wasn't willing to resurrect us all for it. But he was willing to teach one of us how to steal more souls for him, something he was contractually forbidden to do himself. I took the initiative and agreed, making the Friend quite giddy. He took my hand and with one smooth motion skinned it, leaving me bleeding and screaming in pain. Yet a dark feeling spread through my hand and the pain stopped, replaced with a strange hunger I have never known before.

And thus a new plan was born. We went to Zirael to offer an ultimatum: If she doesn't revive us, we will go and slaughter every soul on the island, keeping everyone away from Paradise. In hindsight, this might not have been the best idea. With a sad smile, she unsheathed a flaming sword. Licmorn was the first to be struck and he instantly fell to the ground, a crow flying out of his mouth. The rest of us had just enough head start that we reached the crow-infested forest before she could destroy us too. We stayed in hiding until she had to go back to her duties.

Unwilling to become more indebted to the Friend and unable to go anywhere near Zirael, we sent now-flying Licmorn to scout the surrounding islands. We lost track of how long he was gone, but once returned, he announced the discovery of several giant sarcophagi to the north, a flooded forest to the east, black stone cliffs to the southwest and a tiny island with a church to the west. The church looked the most auspicious, so we boarded our raft and set sail. Well, set to pushing with a pole.

Anyway, with no Sun nor Moon nor biological needs, time blended together. Maybe after a few hours, maybe after a few years, we came upon shallower waters. The distant sounds of galloping hooves echoed out of the mists ahead of us and we immediately changed course and hightailed it out of there. After another undeterminable period of time, we actually found the island with a well-maintained church. It stood upon a small hill and bore the symbols of the goddess Samal. We left our raft on a beach and went up there, only to be greeted by the uneasy feeling of standing on holy ground.

The doors were unlocked and the inside neatly clean. Our attention was drawn to a locked door right next to the entrance gate, which hid a staircase going underground. There, after passing three doors suspiciously chained closed, we found a small warehouse. Yet we also found another room behind burnt door, from where three chubby children with beautiful white wings soared towards us, apparently upset with our presence. We were marched out of the church, but noticed one more interesting door in the room the little angels came from; a silver gate covered in arcane runes. The angels might have not wanted us in their church, but we decided to have a peek at the silver door anyway. They locked the front gate of the church, but we sent Brent to climb the belltower and distract the angels with ringing while we circle around to the back entrance and kick it in.

Still, two angels burst out of the broken door and sprinkled us with holy flames, but one was skewered by Cornelia's spear and the other grappled by Gour-Gash, who wrestled with it for a while and eventually beat it to death on the altar inside of the church. The altar cracked and the whole church shuddered. The third angel came at us from the rafters, catching Cornelia and me with a gout of flame that left me suddenly transformed into a crow. It's rather strange, I must say, watching your body dissolve into dust. Thankfully when the last little cherub was slain, I managed to tear out a chunk of its soul out swallow it. Quite a tasty thing.. The flood of life energy saw me exploding back to my humanoid form.

Later, Gour-Gash discovered a bottle of ambrosia in the angels' room and took a deep swig, which sent him into even deeper sleep. Cornelia immediately joined him, so Brent and I waited for the two of them to wake up, then drank some ambrosia too, as it apparently is as delicious as refreshing. I dreamt...

A ship makes its way through thick fog between jutting blades of sharp black rocks. Its passage leaves little to no ripples on the water's surface, which within moments becomes as motionless as a mirror once again. A small island emerges from the fog, with a majestic white tree of silvery leaves. On its the trunk, veins of amber can be seen, from which bountiful sap flows. Naked people are milling around the tree, dancing and giggling and licking the sap. The ship docks at the island and a squad of pallid-faced soldiers in jet-black armour disembarks. Harshly, they disperse the revellers and collect the sap into a large amphora. After a while, they are satisfied and return to their ship, leaving silently with next to no waves. The throng of naked people crawl back to the white tree and slowly, the island disappears into fog.

 
...and woke up feeling just amazing.

However, Gour-Gash has drawn our attention to some sinister chanting that was coming from the outside. From the shore of this little island, a crowd of cowl-wearing figures was slowly approaching the church. Brent's ringing must have summoned them. We found similar cowls in the basement, so we disguised ourselves and let the people into the church. Just as they sat in the pews, a bright light appeared in the sky and streaked towards us. A huge serpent with three pairs of wings entered the church and wrapped himself around the altar. His voice echoed in our heads, asking what had happened here. We cowered in the pews and no one other had an answer, so he started going person by person, apparently looking into their soul. That didn't seem like something we want ourselves be subjected to, so we waited for an opportunity to slip back underground. Sadly, we were noticed and pursued.

We barricaded the burnt door to the late little angels' room and with a key found on their corpses, opened the only other exit - the heavily reinforced silver gate. Behind it was a vast room with three concentric circles of runic silver. In the center lay a coffin, silver once again, fastened with three chains and locked with three locks. We hesitated for a moment, but as the burnt door started to buckle under the assault of the angelic serpent and his monks, Brent and Gour-Gash went to remove the locks. Cornelia and I tried to prop up the burnt door, but soon we were overpowered. A mass of monks spilled into the room and we barely escaped their grip, having to retreat into the coffin room. As I crossed the first of the silver circles, I suddenly heard a voice in the back of my mind, asking to be released and promising any wish fulfilled in return. Brent opened the last lock and Gour-Gash lifted the lid and inside was an endless light-absorbing void.

Darkness spilled out.

I was lying in darkness and I felt hungry. I haven't felt hungry in a long time. I think? Someone lit a torch and we found ourselves in the corner where the shimmering wall of death trapped us. We were all alive, Licmorn back in his elvish body, and Cornelia was here with us, too. Only Rotti remained on the floor as a desiccated corpse. On my left hand, where the tattoo Xiximanter left me with had been, a different one appeared. A wide-open eye. Everyone had been marked in the same way. Gour-Gash was also still gripping a bottle of ambrosia and I had a bottle with a fragment of an angel's soul on me. My hand that the Friend had flayed was also now skinless and bleeding slightly, yet it didn't hurt. We found the strange mechanical egg-bomb where we left it and Mirek was not far away - he fell victim to a gravity-reversing trap and lay pierced by spikes on the ceiling.

We died in the first days of Autumn in the year 198 after the Golden Day. How long have we been wandering the Underworld?

GM Commentary:
Just in case you were wondering, they were exploring these islands at first, but them left them and sailed beyond.

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The Sun Father

 

He is old, so old.

His toil is endless, and every step becomes harder and harder. Just one more, he says to himself, just one more step, just one more day, just one more millennium. But he grows weak and tired.

The Sun rises and there is a brand new day.

How he would have laughed at the idea of himself growing old and frail, once. He remembers those days when he ran with his brothers and sisters under the primordial sky, naked golden skin glistening, pure joy of life and hunt in their hearts. They tore bears apart with bare hands. But those days are long gone now.

The Sun sets and another day is over.

He is doing it for his family. They need him, he says to himself, but he no longer believes they remember. They live for the moment, for passion and action and sensation. Most likely they just forgot about him and moved on, unburdened by the grim thoughts of his eternal labour.

The Sun rises, burning bright for all.

The orb is searing his hands. Once he would cavort in a blizzard and swim in a volcano, but now his skin is blistered from the heat and yet he shivers from the freezing air. But he presses on.

The Sun sets as it did for times untold.

He remembers the day when the old father died. His family was solemn and sombre, a rare sight indeed. The old father toiled for them all, and someone would have to continue the work. He was young and foolish and proud. He volunteered.

The Sun rises and it will do so again tomorrow.

For how long is he going in circles? First, days flew past and he didn't break a sweat, then years and he was bored but determined. Then centuries and millennia and even more and ever more...

The Sun sets, for it never stops.

His chest hurts and he can hardly breathe. His left arm went numb and he more staggers than walks. Yet the work is there and then there is more work, always.

Just one more step.

Just one more step, just one more step.

Just one more...









He is so exhausted.

 

There is a mountain at the end of the world, and a plateau at its top. There is a massive circle scorched into the rock of the plateau. There is a lone golden figure pushing a burning boulder of gold along that trail. And there is the Sun in the sky, forever circling the world, blazing just as the boulder of gold does.

Except the Sun has stopped.

Where did the Sun stop?

1. Just below horizon, the world is in unending twilight.
2. Just after sunrise and the Sun is sitting on the horizon now.
3. The Sun is hanging low in the sky, a morning forever more.
4. High in the sky, maybe even at the zenith. It burns with unrelenting heat.
5. Red sky at night, shepherd's delight. Dusk came but the Sun never fully set.
6. It was night, and now the night will not go away.

Can the PCs find another god willing to take on the burden of the Sun? Or is there another way?

QHW, Day 14: Alignment

When an apprentice mage gains the second sight, one of the first things they notice is that auras are not of uniform colour. They shift and change, like splotches of new paint dripped into an already colourful water. Some colours are prevalent - the underlying core of one's personality - while others may flare and then disappear again - fleeting thoughts and emotions.

These are the base colours every aura-reader should know:

• Red: Determination, inner strength, anger. People with prevalent red in their aura tend to be passionate, impulsive and fickle.
• Orange: Desire, whether material, physical, social or mental. Such people tend to be covetous, but also very charitable if they feel they have enough to share.
• Yellow: Fear, excitement, energy. Such people tend to be creative, restless, cheerful, but sometimes cowardly.
• Green: Trust, sincerity, kindness, compassion. Such people tend to be warm and friendly to the point of naivety.
• Blue: Peace of mind, idleness, boredom. Such people tend to be calm, loyal, indecisive and passive.
• Violet: Confidence, wisdom, sense of accomplishment. Such people tend to be ambitious, driven and prideful.
• Octarine: The colour of magic, signifying one's supernatural talents or a recent use of magic. The more octarine one has in their aura, the more magic they possess. Fear the sorceress with a pure octarine aura. On the other hand, creatures under the influence of curses or other enchantments will also have their aura octarine-coloured.
• White: A rare colour found only in newborns, saints and some madmen. Very powerful when used as sacrifice for ritual magic.
• Grey: The colour of forthcoming death; maybe old age, disease, curse or injury. Infirmity, though it may be hidden. The body is already dying, even if the person doesn't know it yet.
• Black: An unnatural colour, brought about by defying the natural order. Black splotches on one's aura, called smut, mark one as a dark magic user and heretic. A completely black aura is worn only by demons and the undead.

QHW, Day 11: Graves

Grave-touched peppers can be found where the soil has soaked through with death; on battlefields and in graveyards, around abattoirs and gallows. The plant is sickly greyish green, but the peppers themselves ripen into a bold blood-red colour. To grow properly spicy, the peppers must be watered with fresh blood.

• Ghost-touched peppers grow through the Veil, being just as present in Reality as on the Other Side.
• Eating a grave-touched pepper will let you physically affect ghosts - but not see them.
• An oil prepared from the peppers is used to treat weapons and armour when expecting a spectral foe.
• A ghost who eats a ghost-touched pepper can similarly affect the real world.
• Some ghosts keep a garden of the peppers for this very reason. If you find an abandoned place full of well-tended ghost-touched peppers, a spectral gardener is likely watching you.
• Ghost-touched chilli is ground from the peppers and used to keep hostile ghosts at bay. A handful thrown in the air will likely blind and stagger them.
• Or it can be used to cook a delicious meal that brings about restful languor and thoughts about the ephemerality of life. Such a meal also helps ghosts to manifest in Reality.

Sex on the Pyre:

• 2 thin slices of fresh ghost-touched pepper
• 1 ounce of elfin sunshine
• 1/2 ounce of freshly squeezed goodberry juice
• 1/2 ounce of treant syrup
• 1/2 ounce of unholy water, frozen
• 1 spoonfull of black xarthan sugar
• 1 lime wedge

 

All Wizards Are Warlocks

No human can just learn to manipulate magic.

The so-called wizards who brag and drone on about their long years of careful study that granted them supernatural powers simply don't want to acknowledge the obvious: You cannot build a tower without the foundations. You cannot make a cow fly without some serious help. Indeed, humans can use magic - but only with help, if they are given the Gift by a spirit of some sort.

A patron, if you will.

Thus every magic user must follow a certain pact that grants them access to their preternatural powers, though the exact nature of such pact and the price they pay differs wildly between practitioners. While there are no hard and fast rules for sorting magicians into neat and clear-cut categories, at least some of the most common kinds of magic users and their approaches to magic and the spirit world are discussed below.
 

"Wait! I can go up to ten babies, but not a single one more."

 
Sorcerers would be the exception that proves the rule, as they do have an inherent gift of magic that they can train and hone on their own - except they are not human, not fully. Their pact is one of blood and bloodline, their patron the non-human ancestor who set their whole family apart from the rest of the human race.

Sorcery tends to have a very narrow focus - a dragon may sire a lineage of pyromancers, a fairy a line of illusionists - and departing from one's hereditary, traditional craft is basically impossible. Indeed, sorcerous families oftentimes gravitate towards a strong sense of tradition, elitism and purity of blood, stoked by the fear of loosing that which makes them special. As their bloodline gets diluted over generations, the sorcerous spark grows ever weaker and their gift of magic eventually fades away. This unfortunately drives many sorcerers to search for ways of preserving the power of their family. Affairs with non-humans and incestuous relationships are regrettably common among sorcerers. And while this does keep the magic in the family, it also sets the sorcerers ever further apart from true humanity, with each new inbred generation being more powerful, more mutated and more insane, until at one point, it's no longer possible to consider them human magicians any more, but rather magic beings in their own right.

Such creatures are then quite likely to find a human spouse for themselves, and the cycle starts anew.

Mediums pay for magic with their bodies. In exchange for power, they offer agency to any spirit who desires a more physical presence in Reality. In short, they willingly let themselves be possessed.

This form of the Craft is probably the easiest to start with - a spirit who would enjoy a ride in a living body can be found pretty much everywhere and all a prospective medium has to do is keep an open mind as say "Yes" - but doing it in a safe and useful manner is very hard. After all, you are opening your Self to a magical being and the only way to gain more power is to let more powerful spirits in. As the saying goes, there are no bad mediums, only dead mediums.

The good ones, though, eventually end up either bonding with a single spirit and gaining a great, focused power through the breadth and depth of their connection; or amassing a host of multiple spirits for short-term possessions, each a different tool in their toolbox. The former run a high risk of eventually merging with their possessing spirit and shedding their humanity as a newborn magical beast. The latter should take care to play all of their spirits off against each other, lest the spirits grow discontent with their limited access to the medium's body and unite their forces, resulting in an involuntary possession by the whole host of spirits, banishment of the medium's soul and the birth of a creature known as the wisp-lord.

Priests are quite obviously serving a higher power, a distant deity that deigns to answer some of their pleas for help in exchange for regular prayers and rites. Never forget, though, that there's really not that much of a difference between a cleric of the Lord of Light and a cultist of He-Who-Lurks-In-Corners - both are trying to catch the attention of a being that could squash a city without even meaning to, and that doesn't really listen to, care about or understand its worshippers. Priestly magic is very powerful, but unreliable and prone to missing the point or being helpful only in mysterious, alien ways.

Evangelists are often seen as priests with another name, but that's plain wrong. Evangelists don't work with the gods, they work with angels. And where priests might be fine with going through the motions of reverence with no true faith or zeal behind it - they are so deep beneath the notice of their patrons that all but the most egregious sins and mistakes are overlooked - evangelists have to always stay true in their ardour.

Indeed, angels tend to take a great interest in evangelists, keeping them an unseen company at all times, helping and guarding them, but never forgiving. Angels are spirits of holy war and vengeance. Angels are razor focused on battling evil in all forms and shapes, enabling a lone evangelist to repel an army of the dead or go toe to toe with a greater demon, until they misstep and get smote on the spot.

Diabolists are the archetypal warlocks. They made a pact for power or knowledge, pledging their services or selling some bits and bobs of themselves to a patron who has need of what the warlock offers and can provide magic in exchange. The name "diabolist" is misleading, as they didn't necessarily have to make a deal with the devil - they could have made a deal with any number of other otherworldly entities - yet the principal difference from other magicians is that a diabolist's power is strictly contractual, its limits and conditions clearly stipulated. The magic of diabolists is the most reliable of all the forms of practice, as long as they are able and willing to keep their side of the bargain.

Druids cater either to the many small nature spirits that infuse every tree and spring and herd of animals, or to the great spirits of nature who oversee whole forests, mountains or islands. They build up favour with a location until the very wind and ground and undergrowth likes them and tries to help them and fulfil their every wish. They hold great sway while in their place of power, but they are also greatly limited should they leave. While the spiritual word of mouth may allow them to draw upon some of the favour they amassed even elsewhere, the spirits of nature are jealous, fickle and territorial - if the druid is gone for too long from their demesne, they may return to find that the place has forgotten them, or even worse, faults them for leaving.

Shamans work with lesser spirits too, but where druids build their relationship with all spirits in a location, shamans try to win the affections of specific spirits - ancestral and heroic ghosts, petty gods, minor demons or Folk, anything goes. All their magic is very much quid pro quo, and the nature of favours they may draw upon depends on the kind of spirits they commune with. They are the socialites of magic users, they have connections, they know a guy who knows a guy. They also have to juggle their spirit friendships very carefully, as trying to woo two feuding spirits could result in some bad blood very easily and getting bad-mouthed by an angry spirit might seriously threaten their Craft.

Elementalists, necromancers and demonologists are all proud to differentiate themselves from one another, but they are all in fact just specialized summoners. They are not even that different from shamans, except that a shaman has a long-standing relationship with their spirits, whereas a (whichever) summoner calls upon any random spirit of their chosen type, offering it a payment for one specific task. Take it or leave it, we don't need to see each other again once the job is done.

An elementalist doesn't throw a fireball, she feeds some delicious bat guano to a fire elemental and it makes an explosion for her. A necromancer doesn't animate the dead, he offers to return corporeality back to the dead in exchange for servitude. And a demonologist exchanges souls for services.

Magi are sometimes disparagingly called the dabblers or wandslingers, or with less prejudice the collectors. They didn't make a pact or build up favour - they found a stick and learned how to activate it.

Of course, that is an exaggeration. A magus is often a determined individual who sacrificed a lot to win their wand or spell-blade or another artifact. Their magic is simple and strong and stable, but also set in stone - there is no flexibility, no growth. Once they learn to use their artifact, that's all they will ever be able to do unless they hunt down another artifact. Plus they are the only type of magician whose magic can easily be stolen. Easy come, easy go, as they say.

Alchemists are the strangest bunch - they force magic to happen. Other magicians occasionally fabricate magic items, but alchemists specialize in it. They create spirit-lures in the form of tasty potions, interesting scribblings on scrolls, or strange alloys of metals forged into rings; then they bind the spirits they entice, with the only way out of the binding being to perform as requested. They can trap nearly any magical being and when they negotiate, it's always from the position of power. They are masters of magic runes and circles and sigils. They build golems, craft enchanted arms and armour, even transmogrify living creatures with biomantic surgery-seals. With the right formula, they can make nearly any magic happen. The greatest of them take years to reshape the landscape into geomantic bindings that enslave gods.

They are also universally hated by the spirits. They have to be very meticulous and methodical, because if they make the tiniest mistake, all hell breaks loose.

Goblin kings, or filthomancers, are the living proof that even awful things can be useful. It is a common knowledge that goblinism is contagious. It is not a normal disease, though, but rather a spiritual one. A wild disease-spirit that can nonetheless be tamed with gifts and drawn on for magic.

Everything a goblin can do, a goblin king can do better - creating a variety of noxious and toxic odours, slipping anywhere unnoticed, smelling out everything from what you had for lunch to hidden treasure or emotions, surviving nearly anything by becoming more disfigured and disgusting, getting bigger and stronger and tougher by eating a lot, making others suffer. And with the favour of the goblin-spirit, the "friendship" of goblins comes hand in hand. A prospective goblin queen will soon find herself with a cohort of goblins that follow her everywhere (especially where she doesn't want them to follow) and kind-of help with everything (but mainly make a big mess) - thus also the title of a queen or king.

Importantly though, goblin kings are prime carriers of goblinism. Everything they touch and anyone they interact with will be at least a little bit tainted - a little bit under their control. They don't need to build a trapped mansion for themselves - any building they live in will eventually become an ugly, filthy goblin-shack, full of nasty and dangerous surprises for trespassers. They have no need for magic weapons - any knife they use for a while will become a serrated, rusty, poisonous, deadly goblin-shank. If you're willing to debase yourself enough, goblin magic can be disgustingly useful and treacherously versatile.
 

For the low price of your sanity...
From Magic the Gathering

 
And what about the wizards? Those who would be bloody insulted if you called them a warlock, insulted enough to singe your eyebrows off with a lightning bolt, even? Those who are always accompanied by their familiar, a spiritual guide and helper and friend? A familiar that they made a pact with, a pact for power or knowledge?

Yeah...

Worth of Soul

There was some talk about this on Discord a while back.

What to do with a soul?

Some would say that apart form the one that keeps you going, you have no need for further souls. Yet many supernatural creatures seems to have taken a fancy to souls, often demanding them in payment or hoarding them for some reason. Let's investigate these reasons.

Side note: Unless otherwise noted, we will be assuming heroic or magical souls, as souls of animals and dirt-farming peasants are too weak and faint for most uses. Except soulsteel. Throw every soul you don't want or need into a soulsteel furnace.

I rather like this depiction of a soul, or at least the core spark of life.

 
There is a reason that souls are usually depicted as glowing motes of light. Deep within the sevenfold soul is a spark that constantly pumps out raw power, converted by the outer layers of the soul into life energy, psionic energy, mana, the already mentioned ethereal glow, and more. This tiny spark is the core of the soul, a shard of primordial life. This constant flow of power is also the fundamental use of any soul, the basis upon which all other uses build.

Sustenance: At the most simple, soul energy can refresh your body similarly to a ration. Animal souls might taste like gruel, while the soul of a saint would equal to an opulent feast. Of course, most material creatures are not adapted to subsisting on souls, so it is not recommended to skip tangible food for too long. While you wouldn't starve to death, avitaminosis and massive weight loss would soon set in, followed by slow transformation into a wraith or lesser demon.

Power: A soul can also be drained to refresh a spent MD or psionic ability, though faint souls are too weak for this use. Souls of creatures that possessed magical or psionic abilities in life are already accustomed to this draining of energy, so they are not immediately used up, but rather can be drained repeatedly (once per day unless they were very powerful).

Healing: Souls are made of life energy, so of course they are good for your health. A soul can be distilled for the same effect as a healing potion, except potions don't tend to scream in terror all the way down your throat, don't leave fragmented echoes of memories in your mind after use, and don't see you branded as a diabolist and burnt at the stake.

Oh, I haven't mentioned this yet? Abusing and destroying souls is Evil; even using animal souls is heavily frowned upon and may get you in trouble with the Inquisition.

But I digress. Drinking souls is great! Not only can they mend your body, they can heal your mind, too. A soul elixir removes [HD of the original creature] Trauma when drunk, and a soul salve can be used to rub sins right off your metaphysical self. In both cases, the afflictions are transferred to the soul in the medicine, which can be then safely disposed of, or recycled for soulsteel production.

Knowledge: At times you need to know a thing, be it some lore or skill. You don't have the time to learn, but you do have a useful soul. Many people would pay a fortune for a soul that remembers something rare or forgotten, that has valuable abilities, or even one that knows languages they couldn't be bothered to learn on their own.

Entertainment: Many a noble has their secret stash of bottled souls with interesting stories. Wealthy women weep with memories of great romance they never had, cowardly rakes can live the life of danger and adventure through a purchased soul. There's also the "fun stuff" for those of dark desires, but who don't want to risk their own skin and sanity. From memories of humiliation, depraved sex, torture, or murder to souls that literally went through Hell, including such exclusive articles as souls tortured by famous demon lords. Some people willingly sell their interesting memories, as everything has a price.

Protection: There are many detrimental magics that target the soul; life drain, curses, mind reading or memory altering, death spells, soul trapping, etc. Strapping some extra souls on your own makes it much safer to confront such threats, as your ablative soul armour will take the hits first. Even better, so many souls concentrated in a single spot can also muddle up many divination and scrying techniques, making you even harder to pin down for a magical attack.

Traps: Every ghost hunter knows what a haunt is - an area imprinted with death, inflicting the cause of death upon anyone who ventures inside. Any grisly departed soul can be repurposed into a haunt, serving as a supernatural trap. The best haunts are obviously made from souls you specifically prepare for this task - burn a few people alive and bind their souls into a fire trap, torture someone to death for a symbol of pain. The possibilities are as endless as various causes of death. Some ectomancers even compress haunts into ghost-grenades, portable and very dangerous.

Metallurgy: Soulsteel is in high demand due to its high strength and innate ghost touch effect. It can be rather easily created by smelting souls with iron ore, making it the only magical metal available in significant amounts, and thus often employed in larger projects and big magical constructions. Even low-quality souls can make good soulsteel if you use enough of them, and their constant agonized wailing as they are forever trapped in the metal is more faint than with heroic souls.

Enchantments: More advanced and specialized magical weapons and armour utilize souls too, though quality and magical resonance matters here quite a bit. The souls are bound into the finished item rather than smelted into the raw material, and serve as the source of both power and basic magical traits. You'll need several simple soldier souls just to make a boring +1 dagger, while a cannibal chieftain's soul could make a nice human-slaying battle-axe, and a pyromancer's soul would be great for a flaming sword.

Intelligent magical items are the result of enchanting with too powerful and wilful souls, and there are of course stories of weapons with souls so strong they overwhelmed their wielder.

Animation: While intelligent items are normally not the desired outcome of binding a soul, you can use the same process to grant a mind to anything that needs one. Where the first ventures onto the field of golemancy attempted to create a guiding intelligence from scratch, it was soon discovered that such artificial intelligences are too expensive, limited, and inflexible. A soul, on the other hand, already comes with a plethora of innate abilities, instincts and learned behaviour, making it much faster and cheaper to animate a golem.

The trick, then, is to find a suitable soul given the required function of each golem, and find the right balance of geasa and cognitive restrictions that would allow it to perform at peak efficiency without compromising its absolute obedience with residual free will. The infamous golem rages are the result of imperfect application of these restrictions.

Magic: Souls can power your magic, but souls also are magic. Spirits are spells are souls. Think about the main characteristics of the person whose soul you would cast. Were they greedy? Then you can use the soul to cast detect treasure. Cowardly? Expeditious retreat. Pious? Bless, or maybe protection from evil. Some wizards even groom slaves to prepare their souls for specialized magical effects, or cross-breed souls with their favourite spells to get new, exciting magics.

Replacement: It's not uncommon in many magical professions to loose pieces of your soul. While definitely not healthy, it's not life-threatening is promptly treated. Souls that are neither good enough for better uses, nor weak enough to go directly to the soulsteel furnace are often sold for spare parts. Bring your old soul for an exchange and get 20% off your new one!

There is also the much less common practice of soul enhancement, where undesirable pieces of your soul are replaced with better ones. Think plastic surgery for the soul. You could get rid of boredom, switch your laziness for workaholism, implant a bit of faith, or cut down your anger and hatred.

Obviously the good bits have to comes from somewhere, and people with desirable mental traits can make good money by selling them, unless they get soul-mugged and wake up with their love or patience stolen.
 

A vodník with some souls stored in teapots.

 
But I didn't answer the question, did I? What is a soul worth?

Exactly [2d100 * HD * HD + 1d20] gp. Happy?

Ecology of Spells

The spirit world is a living ecosystem and spells are living creatures, the spiritual equivalent of animals. While in Reality only their manifested effects can normally be seen, their true forms are similar to Folk or elementals within the spirit realm. They may be odd, strange and sometimes downright bizarre, but they have the same needs and desires as other creatures - to live, to feed, to procreate. Some spells are lone predators, some gather in herds. Some fly, some burrow or swim, some teleport. Many are hunted and eaten by other spirits, and Folk often wear boots of spell-leather, or decorate their homes with dead, stuffed spells.

Spells can also be captured, tamed and trained, which is exactly what wizards do. Spellbooks are like cages and a wizard's brain both a zoo and a training ground. The spells are fed life-force and idle thoughts, with succulent memories kept as treats for well performed trick. Sometimes there are accidents, too, when the cages are not secured and spells go on a rampage, gorging on memories, shattering thoughts and fleeing the mind. Even worse, sometimes a clever little spell can possess its wizard and pull their strings, to get itself be cast more often, or maybe to free its kin.

 

Of course, wizard vision is where it gets really weird. You will see spirits in their true form, so a fireball will no longer appear as its manifestation, the ball of flames, but rather like a flaming tiger charging at you from the wizard's sleeve. Wizard battle seen from the spirit realm would look a lot like a battlefield full of strange creatures, more and more of them springing from their wizard's brain-gates.

Hm, what does this remind me of...

Spells mate and breed in the wild, but they can also be pure- or crossbred in captivity. Spell husbandry is a skill with long tradition and recognition in the spellcasting community, as it supplies the market with many variant spells and rare breeds. There are even species of spells that never lived in the wild, created by experimental mutations, extensive crossbreeding and thaumic surgery. However, vanity breeding is the most common discipline of spell breeding (though considered of low prestige among the professionals) and many spells are sold for their unique appearance - green fireballs, different melodies of ghost sound, various magic missiles. There are even exhibitions and competitions.

Spells can also mutate, change and learn. While many spells start as animals, they can grow in both power and intelligence, especially if they can feed on the thoughts of an intelligent being. The older the spell, the longer it had to grow and develop its faculties. A wish who escapes from the mind of an archmage might be as powerful and smart as a godling.
 

This is how the inside of your spellbook looks like.

This whole post was inspired by the spell of magic mouth as described here.

General Spell Stats

Wild spell
HD 2d4
Def 8 + [HD]
Atk varies
Save 3 + [HD]
Morale 6
Motivation as animal

Tame spell
HD [dice] ([sum] hp)
Def 9 + [dice]
Atk varies
Save 5 + [dice]
Morale 8
Motivation as animal

Chorus of Voices
There is a rarely seen sexual dimorphism among the male spells speak with [something] and female tongues. Arcanologists hypothesise that male choirs evolved their differences to better lure the attention of females, while there was no such evolutionary pressure on the less numerous females. All choirs appear as invisible chattering of many different voices, thus the name, the only common denominator between the voices being that their gender is based on the spell's.

Choirs subsist on a diet of voices. They hunt and feed by engulfing their prey, who starts to talk in a voice appropriate to the chorus as the chorus feeds, until suddenly the victim cannot talk anymore. Treat choirs as invisible* swarms. Once engulfed, the victim has to make a Save each turn or go permanently mute. The chorus then lets them go. Choirs prefer to hunt in noisy locations, as they cannot stop constantly talking or producing other noises, giving their presence away. Casting the spell is akin to sticking your head into the lion's mouth - the caster talks in the voice of the chorus and the chorus slowly feeds, but the wizard never allows it to completely devour her voice.

Twice per year, choirs have a week-long mating season when the males sing to the females. Unlike their normal chattering, the mating songs are haunting and beautiful. Many wealthy Folk keep caged choirs specifically for the week of music, and there is a festival known as the Week-long Song in the dream-city of Anor Lyle held during the spring mating season. Narcomancers of Lyle (the sister city to Anor Lyle located at the same place in Reality) sell potions that will allow you to attend the festival in your dreams.

Atk engulf + silence
Motivation to eat the most beautiful voice

*) Choirs are truly invisible and no magic can help you see them. Normal invisibility is achieved by partially "de-manifesting" a creature, getting them halfway between the real and spirit world. They cannot be seen in the real world, but become visible in the spirit world. Spirits can see farther between the worlds than humans and thus invisibility is impossible in the spirit world, as disappearing from sight would require a spirit to fully materialize in the real world. But choirs are invisible not through magic, but because there is nothing to see. They are living sound (well, spiritual representation of sound... it's complicated), which explains both why they never go silent and why they can only be heard. It's not hard to pinpoint their general location from the noise, though.
 

Corpsefiend
The spell control undead is one of the reasons everyone should be scared of necromancers, because necromancers voluntarily take these monstrosities into their heads. Corpsefiends are huge. They look like a skinless horse fused with their rider, constantly screaming in agony with bouts of insane laughter. They ride in herds, mostly keeping near the sea. They can even run on the surface of water. Other corpsefiends are the only creatures they will not hunt, maim, or kill for fun. In a never-proven theory, arcanologist Talindra Dorleth proposed that corpsefiends actually subsist on the impotent hopelessness of their victims. This would also explain their powers.

Any soul* not protected by living flesh and touched by a corpsefiend must Save or be dominated. The controlled undead gets a new Save every day, but it might not even last that long. Corpsefiends like to play with their toys**. When a necromancer casts control undead, the corpsefiend rushes out and touches the target. Thus casters are controlling the undead only indirectly, through their bound spell. Should the bound corpsefiend break free, they retain the control over the undead they dominated, and corpsefiends loathe to be enslaved to wizards.

On dark nights when storm rages above the sea, corpsefiends sometimes manage to ride out of the spirit world into the real world. Here they hunt along seashores, looking for a solitary rider. They capture him and then torture both him and his horse to death, slowly over the whole night. As the rider and his horse die, the corpsefiends return to the spirit world and capture their souls, too. They skin their souls alive and chop them apart and then stitch them together again in the form of a corpsefiend. Then they take the new corpsefiend, by now insane from fright and pain, bleeding ectoplasm everywhere, and throw it into the sea. A spirit cannot be drowned, but the new corpsefiend does not know that yet. It will spend hours or even days in absolute terror, deep in the dark waters, trying to swim with a body it does not understand, drowning because it believes it should be drowning, even if it cannot die from it. Only once it claws its way out of the waters will the new corpsefiend be truly born.

The corpsefiends call this the "breeding hunt" and the "birthing pains".

Atk 1d6/1d6/1d6 (bite, tear, kick and shred)
Motivation to kill and torture, to ease the pain

*) Be it a ghost, other spectral undead, or a soul trapped in a corporeal undead.

**) Other spirit fare even worse, as corpsefiends cannot dominate them and will thus capture and torture them to death without a chance to let them live as slaves.
 

 

Moribundus
Another necromantic spell related to corpsefiends, finger of death takes the form of a massive horse with clawed feet and lashing, leech-like tongue. They can stand on their hind legs and fight or grasp with their claws, but they very much loath to do so. Hands are the tools of work, and work is for the weak. Even fighting by hand or claw is degrading, as it makes combat into work rather than art. Work should be done by lowly humanoids that deserve nothing better than to become the serfs under moribundine thrall. Art is the true calling of noble moribundi.

Moribundi are warriors, and the greatest weapon they are the most proud of are their tongues. Nearly as long as their whole body when fully extended, the tongue of a moribundus is blood-red, barbed and ends in a sucker capable of leeching life-force out of the enemy. Moribundine fighters lash with their tongues as with a whip or a combat tentacle, cutting and ripping at their foe until they can attach the leech-mouth, draining the poor victim dry of life in seconds. That's also how material creatures hit by finger of death die.

Moribundi like to adorn their tongues, either by colourful ribbons or piercings and jewellery, but nearly all adult moribundi will have tongue tattoos, drawn with the blood of their notable kills and depicting their famous triumphs and victories. Of note are also moribundine blood paintings, the only form of art other than combat that moribundi hold in high regard. They dip their tongues into fresh blood and paint lovely still lifes, beautiful landscapes or stunning portraits onto the flayed skin of their foes. These paintings are customarily used to decorate their yurts, but each would fetch a hefty price at any market in the spirit realm, should some thief be skillful and suicidal enough to steal them.

The hair of a moribundus is mottled in distinct patterns and colours, which proclaims an affiliation to a certain herd-tribe. Moribundine tribes are matriarchal, usually comprised of hundred or so moribundi with double or triple as many slaves, plus livestock. Moribundi are nomadic, travelling over vast territories according to the commands of the tribal council of most prestigious females, while their slaves fold and rebuild their yurts, drive the cattle and generally ensure the quality and luxury of their lives. Moribundi are fiercely territorial, and battles between tribes over the claim to an area are common. Offers of new territories and hunting grounds, or assistance with the defeat of an enemy herd are also usually the only way to persuade a tribe of moribundi to assist you. Of course, individual moribundi can be swayed by offers of jewellery, slaves, or glory.

Male moribundi are surprisingly rare, so rare in fact that breeding stallions are treasured and guarded, often forming harems for influential females. Trading or kidnapping of males is also common, though because male moribundi are as belligerent as females, it is often quite hard to secure their cooperation with different herd. Any tribe that looses all its males is in a danger of stagnation and protracted extinction, and such tribes are often the most dangerous, daring and desperate - and even willing to work for other creatures if it grants them access to some stallions.

Atk 1d8 + Save or die (tongue), or 1d6/1d6 (claws)
Motivation to gain prestige through combat prowess, to obtain a mate

Murderbird
All magic missiles are beautiful. Imagine a glowing, neon hummingbird, zooming around at breakneck speeds and leaving a trail of glitter behind. Murderbirds come in all the colours of the rainbow, some even being muti-hued. They have a rich and complex social life full of ritualistic "dancing" in flight. Their synchronised flying is incredibly precise - two (or more) translucent, glowing birds moving faster than a bullet, their intertwined trails drawing intricate mandalas in the air. Experts can easily tell apart mating dances, duels between rivals, or threats to invaders, but suffice to say that experiencing any of those dances is breath-taking.

Murderbirds are predators, capable of using the combination of their sharp beak, tiny size and high speed to fly through the body of their prey*. Larger spirits are often attacked by a whole flight of murderbirds, and end up full of holes where the birds pierced them, again and again. And unlike most birds of prey, murderbirds often attack prey much larger than themselves, using the corpus of the fallen spirit as a nest for the whole flock, and slowly eating it from within.

Murderbirds are highly communal and their corpus-nests often have larger cavities hollowed out for the whole flock to gather their eggs within. The eggs and later the hatchlings are protected by the whole flock, no matter their actual parents. Young murderbirds only leave their nest once old enough to fly and hunt with their flock, and should the corpus they nest within discorporate too soon, they will likely be left behind by their flock to die, as the older murderbirds are unable to carry them while they look for a new nest.

Murderbird eggs look like glass, with a spark of coloured light inside that slowly grows into the hatchling. They are highly priced on markets throughout the spirit realm and Reality, serving as jewels, extravagant lighting, or for a spicy omelette. The eggs require the presence of a dead spirit to draw sustenance from, so it is very rare for the embryonic murderbird to survive when the egg is removed from the corpus-nest. Abandoned hatchlings though, as hard as they are to find after the flock leaves them and before they die, are often sold to wizards who train them for combat. Such murderbirds, unlike those caught and enslaved in adulthood, can learn various special tricks. Various accounts tell about magic missiles capable of navigating through tiny spaces and finding targets unseen by their master, guarding their master and orbiting their head until they are needed, or striking all enemies in a room on a zig-zagging path.

Atk 1d6 + [HD] (fly-by attack)
Motivation to hunt plenty of prey, to protect their flock

*) They attack by moving through the square of an opponent, getting a free attack for 1d6 + [HD] damage.
 

Plague Eater
Related to murderbirds, the remove disease spell appears as a spectral woodpecker, its feathers shifting colours constantly except for the top of its head, which glows a steady octarine. It feeds on disease spirits, seeking out diseased creatures and then excavating a hole in their soul until they can pull out and devour the disease. Unlike the brutal fly-by attacks of muderbirds, this does not harm the cured creature, just like it does not harm a tree to have the wood-destroying worms and insects removed. Wizard casting remove disease would look like a falconer sending their bird pecking at the target.

Plague eaters are capable of human speech and intelligent enough to hold a conversation, but they do not pursue the creation of advanced civilization. They like their simple lives and generally refuse to bother themselves with needless musings, worries, or knowledge*. Most plague eaters live in nests built in holes excavated through the corpus of some of the behemoth ghosts of species long extinct. Unlike murderbirds, they live inside still living ghosts and in symbiosis with them, tending to their behemoth's well-being, fighting off parasites (especially cantrips and disease spirits) and even lesser predators. In exchange, their host carries them around the world in a safe nest, and they can devour disease spirits where-ever their travels take them.

Plague eaters lay clutches of colourful eggs, except that from every seven eggs, one is dull gray and will hatch into a plague bird instead (see below). Young plague eaters live with their parents until two behemoth-nests meet, whereupon a great many of youngsters will swarm from both behemoths, starting the mating rituals of plague eaters. The courting plague eaters will shine with greatly amplified strength, releasing bursts of octarine instead of mating calls. This is both beautiful and extremely dangerous, and only an thaumornithologist or a madman would watch this mating swarm from closer than the next hill over.

Eventually, couples of plague eaters will form, each glowing in a synchronized pattern of colours, and they will leave the swarm to find a place for their new nest - either on one of the old behemoths, or on some other gargantuan ghost elsewhere. Plague eaters mate for life, and if a plague eater doesn't find a mate or later looses one, it will quickly grow dim and apathetic, often dying of loneliness. Some plague eaters born in captivity were reported to have developed similarly devoted relationship with their wizard, given their lack of opportunity for finding a proper mate. While this will result in an extremely loyal and dependable spell, it also means that leaving your cure disease spell in a spellbook for longer stretches of time, or even worse trying to sell it will most likely leave the spell dying or dead from sorrow. Thaumornithologists thus recommend to only purchase mated pairs of plague eaters, which seem to endure even extended confinement to a spellbook remarkably well.

Atk 1d4 + cure disease (peck)
Motivation to find a mate and live happily ever after

*) The only exception are their storytellers. Found in most behemoth-nests, these are the carriers of the oral history and traditions of plague eaters, and the only plague eaters likely to humour your questioning. Others will gladly exchange small talk and civilities with you, but otherwise they will just fly away once bored by your chatter.

Plague Bird
The spell of contagion looks like a half-dead woodpecker; feathers tousled, filthy or missing, covered in gore and pus, with open sores and painfully bent limbs. Their eyes are blind and they constantly cough, moan and cry in voices of human children. They seem to fly more by the virtue of being a spirit than with their wings. Their corpus is either deathly cold, or feverishly hot and covered in sweat.

All plague birds are sterile and short-lived. They are a plague eater hatchling gone wrong, overwhelmed by the disease spirits it should feed on, and instead helping them spread their disease. Plague birds are drawn to attack healthy creatures as a moth assails a flame, but they will try to avoid harming anyone ill. They are an abomination of the spirit world, and should be put out of their misery.

Plague birds are born because of a genetic disorder of plague eaters, and they are thrown out of the nest by their parents, often long before hatching. Unfortunately for plague birds, the disease spirits who overtook their body will not let them die in their cracked, discarded eggs. Plague birds are forced to hatch, forced to live.

Touch of a plague bird requires a Save to avoid catching a random disease. They attack with suicidal abandon, though sometimes their disease spirits will steer them away from enemies too powerful to infect. Anyone within short range of a plague bird when it is killed must Save or be infected with 1d6+1 random diseases as the disease spirits flee their dying host and search for new bodies to inhabit. Plague birds are terrified of anyone capable of exorcism or curing diseases - or rather the disease spirits within them are.

Should you succeed on removing all disease spirits that possess the plague bird, they can Save to return to health and become a plague eater. Its gratitude will be without bounds, as you were compassionate to it while it never knew anything but agony and abandonment. Should you wish to take it, the newly reborn plague eater will take nest in your brain as one of your spells, utterly devoted to you as it owes you its life. On a failed Save, the plague bird was too damaged to live, but at least it can die in peace. In will still thank you in a weak whisper before perishing.

Atk 1d4 + cause disease (peck)
Special disease burst on death
Motivation to spread diseases, to die

Grease Ooze
While certainly useful when cast, the true form of grease is an ooze and it's one of the most boring spells to study. It looks like a greasy ooze and slowly slithers along the ground like a greasy ooze, leaving a trial of grease behind. It feeds on dead ghost-plant matter and does pretty much nothing beyond that. Once it grows large and fat, it divides and continues to feed. It is on the very bottom of the food chain of the spirit world.

Atk engulf + suffocate
Special grease trail
Motivation gurgle-gurgle-blurp

Watcher
While the appearance of scry, the dribbling, floating eyeball, is well known to many spellcasters, its modus operandi is missing from most books. For a good reason. Watchers are unassuming, silent and seemingly harmless. They flock on high perches above lively city streets or large households, they swarm the sites of tragedies. They stare at people from afar. It might be unnerving, but there are stranger and more dangerous things in the spirit world.

Watchers feed on acts of great passion, on emotions and virtues and vices. They observe and absorb. They grow in size and hunger. Eventually, just watching from afar is not enough as their appetite is too vast and tasty emotions too scarce and faint. And so the watchers start to help and inspire their would-be sources of nourishment, groom them for greatness so that they might feast. They grow fat and cunning, resourceful and ruthless. They grow additional eyes* and gorge through them all.

Eventually, their eyes become hungry enough to devour people whole, and not just their emotions. They become beholders.

Atk none
Motivation to observe interesting deeds and powerful emotions

*) This is also how they propagate. Their eyes will detach themselves from time to time and drift away.

Vanisher
If anything, the spell of teleport is extremely elusive. No wizard alive can claim to have come even close to capturing a vanisher, and even those historical magi who managed that feat have held it more like a trophy than a tool, given the extreme risks involved in casting the spell. Vanishers are tiny wasps, their bodies inscribed with extradimensional geometric shapes. They can instantly teleport vast distances, and coupled with their diminutive size and fast speed, they are always gone before a wizard can act to bind it.

Terrifyingly, the sting of a vanisher teleports the victim. This teleport is completely uncontrolled, and it has none of the safeguards indoctrinated to the few vanishers caught and trained. It is said that vanishers can teleport as far as a ray of light can travel in one heartbeat. And it's a teleportation in all three dimensions, with a good chance of being telefragged inside of the planet, or ending in the outer space. There is aether in the outer space of the spirit world, but unlike a vanisher you probably have no way to return home. You will remain trapped, the aether preventing you from dying from hunger or thirst, nothing but void around you. Some void monks might love it.

Vanishers are very, very rare. Before the War in Heavens (or Age of Fire and Madness, or anything else suitably apocalyptic), they were hunted to near extinction, as every wizard craved to be everywhere they wished with nothing but a thought. Today, no vanisher hive has been heard of in millennia. No matter how far they can teleport, the remaining vanishers seem incapable of gathering enough of their kind to establish a new hive. They may be elusive and long-lived, but sooner or later the last spell of teleport will die and this species will be no more.

Atk 1 + random teleport (sting)
Motivation to be left alone, to rebuild a hive

Cantrips
Cantrips are the least spells, tiny parasites that live off the sanity of wizards. Cantrips are as diverse and numerous as insects in Reality, devoured or squashed by all other spells, yet plentiful and omnipresent. They are like ticks, lice or bedbugs, attracted to the smell of wizardly thoughts and returning to their host immediately when cast. While cantrips parasitize on other spirits normally, wizards are simply more appetising. Every school of magic has different set of meditations and conditioning that allow the wizards to host their spells, and the specific mental smell attracts different cantrips.

Other spirits
Other spirits can serve as "spells" as well, residing within the wizard's mind and manifesting when cast. Elementalists strike bargains with elementals to serve them. Some priests and paladins claim that their powers come from angels in their heads. Warlocks have brains full of demons. Some monks even claim to have reached high enough enlightenment to cast one of their seven souls as a "spell", though the healthiness of such endeavour could be disputed.

On the other hand, elves had their animal soul removed and replaced with a heartspell, which can be cast normally, but also works as a substitute soul. Sorcerers are another special case, as their souls basically are spells, thus they can alter the world by their will alone without endangering themselves as much as the monks mentioned earlier. Scholars claim that is because a sorcerer is born when prenatal development goes wrong and the unborn child is incarnated with seven spells instead of seven souls - just like the soul is sometimes replaced with a Folk, resulting in changelings, or with a demon, the child born as a cambion.

Generally speaking, all spirits are made of the same stuff, and a wizard can theoretically bind, memorize and cast any spirit they wish.

Gateways to the Spirit Realm

There are two worlds overlaying each other, just an eye blink apart. Reality and the spirit world. Your mind wanders the spirit realm when you sleep and dream, but you can also cross the border between worlds corporeally, if you find the right place. Such a place is called a Gateway, and every Gateway has its Key - a password, a ritual, a price to pay.

Gateways are rather few and far between, but not rare enough to pose a problem for determined party. Note however that many movable Gateways will be in private collections of wizards or eccentric nobles, while some immovable Gateways might be guarded. There should be no widely known Gateways, as that robs them of their mystery.

Overusing a Gateway might be noticed on both sides: Maybe a king will want to prevent a Wild Hunt incursion, or will demand the Gateway for himself to scour the spirit world for valuables. Maybe some Folk will come to destroy the Gateway and prevent the influx of nuisances from the real world, of they will bring an army to start a Wild Hunt. It's just better to remain unseen.
 

by Bo Sibbern-Larsen

d20 Gateways and their Keys

1. A full-length mirror. Stare at your reflection until it blinks and extends its hand towards you, then take its hand and walk through. You must give your reflection a single item of personal significance in payment.
2. A fairy ring of mushrooms in the deep woods. Eat a mushroom and wait for the fairies. They will show you way through the ring to the other side, for a small price. A tooth or a finger segment should be enough.
3. A circle of ancient stones. Cut your hand and smear each of the standing stones with 1 hp worth of your blood. Once you have completed the full circle, you will be in the spirit world.
4. A dolmen creating a crude stone door. Meditate there in the night until you hear the voice of the ancient shaman buried there as a guide. He will lead you through once you pay the toll of [your HD] gp.
5. A ley line crossing, the flow of magic raising your hair. Any creature with wizard vision will see the way and can pass through by burning a MD. Other creatures will need a caster to lead them and pay the price.
6. A forgotten place in a large city. Get drunk with a specific, expensive liquor and wander the back alleys until you pass out. You will wake up in the spirit realm.
7. A broken door in a ruined building. Give up a happy memory and they will open for you.
8. Deep in a cave, put out the light and scream until the darkness responds. It wants fresh meat and blood for the passage of a whole group - a hireling or an animal will be enough.
9. A beautiful wardrobe. Draw apart the clothes inside and step in with eyes closed. You will step out into the spirit world, but aged 1d6 years.
10. An ancient tree, its branches festooned with poppets and fetishes. Create a fetish from twigs and hang it on the tree, then walk three times counterclockwise around the tree and you will find yourself in the spirit realm. However, sooner or later someone will present you with your fetish and ask you for a favour you cannot refuse.
11. A rabbit hole. You will first have to catch the magical rabbit who can take you down this hole, and he hates people. Persuade, intimidate, or bribe him.
12. An dry well lost in the middle of nowhere. Climb down and haggle with the monster that lives there. It likes stories, so either bring it a book, or tell it a tale interesting enough that it will show you the way. Boring stories will make it eat you.
13. Follow a barely noticeable forest trail until you find an old crone sitting on a tree stump. She can guide you to the spirit world, but she'll want to guard your soul while you are on the other side. If you agree, you will gain no XP until you return to the crone and let her take you back to the real world. She actually keeps her word and will return your soul.
14. Bake a pie from white flour, butter, apples and your semen or menstrual blood. Once you sit down to eat it, a stranger will ask you to share a piece. Eat the pie with them (it can be both a man and a woman, roll randomly), then have sex with them, and you will wake up in the spirit world.
15. Smoke dreamweed. While this is one of the easiest Gateways to get through, you will instantly return back to the real world once the intoxication runs out. A dosage will give you only 1d6 hours in the spirit world and if you take another in less than a day, Save or fall into a coma from an overdose, permanently lost in the spirit realm.
16. A quiet corner of a library. Take a look at the books, there will be one specifically for you. Put any magic scroll between its pages, then read. Once you get completely absorbed in the story, the scroll will disappear and you will be in the spirit realm.
17. Whisper a short incantation into a rainstorm, then wait. A large, black coach will soon arrive, pulled by four headless horses and accompanied by thunder. If you have recently broken an oath or a promise, you can enter the coach and be taken to the spirit realm. Otherwise, it will just speed past you.
18. A decrepit statue in a silent garden or a small graveyard. Stare at it until your eyes start to tear up, then blink. By the time your eyes open again, you will be in the spirit world, and the statue will have taken its toll - 1d4 points of a random attribute (those will return as any attribute damage).
19. A key without door, a minor artifact you can find. Unlocks any door but doesn't lead to the other side of the door, but the other side of reality. Don't forget to take it with you before you close the door, or you will be stuck in the spirit realm without an easy way to return.
20. Astral projection, just get a wizard to cast it for you. Easy as that.

Finally, you can always go deep underground, deeper than any normal cave. Once you have reached the Veins of the Earth, the veil between Reality and the spirit world will be frayed enough that ghosts will walk among men.

by Eytan Zana