He had been in the citadel for so long that he could not remember being anywhere else. Surely, he thought, there was a world beyond the city’s borders, past where the streets faded into fog and the marble walls turned blank and white, but no matter how far he walked, he always found himself back at the center square. Here, there was a temple he could not enter, with crystal archways that shone fiery red in the perpetual twilight and windows of many-colored glass. The stone door was far too heavy for him to move on his own, and he had been alone here for an eternity. Or, perhaps, it had only been an hour—the sun had never moved, after all, and the city stones did not change with the seasons as a forest would, or a field.
Berend was once a Son of Galaser, a member of the most prestigious mercenary company on the continent. Now, the Sons are no more, and only a handful of his former companions remain–one of whom was dismembered last night in what appears to be a demon-summoning ritual out of an old legend.
Isabel is a Sentinel of Ondir, the god of death. Armed with bell, book, and candle, her duty is to send restless spirits to the afterlife. Asking the ghost of an ex-mercenary if he saw his killer before he died is a routine task, but she soon finds that things will not be so easy: though everything Isabel knows says it must be impossible, it appears the soul has been damaged, torn asunder with magic that should not, cannot exist.
Together, they must hunt down a murderer with powers beyond imagination and discover terrible secrets of both magic and science in a city that is desperately trying to find a balance between the two.
Part One is now complete, and you can find it starting here.
My modules don’t get as much traffic as my stories, so today I’m going to draw your attention to Singer Lake, a short (2-3 session) adventure for the New World of Darkness/Chronicles of Darkness system. It was designed to introduce new characters to the World of Darkness setting, and involves a rogue mage, a werewolf biker gang, and a detective with a secret.
If that sounds interesting to you, it’s only three posts long, and starts here.
If you have something you’re working on that you’re excited about, feel free to tell me about it in the comments 🙂
Did you know that in addition to the serial novels I’ve posted, I also write adventure modules for tabletop games? Today, I want to show you The Well Below the Valley, a campaign-length adventure for the Call of Cthulhu RPG system. It has puzzles, mysteries, historical intrigue, and eldritch horror for you and your players, and is beginner-friendly!
It also contains many elements of a good story, such as steam trains, magic spells, libraries, and manuscripts, such as this one, translated by the late Professor Ragnarsson:
“On the feast day of Mary Magdalene in the year of Our Lord 795, a party of Northmen descended upon us like wolves in the night. The heathens slew Brother Conn and Brother Faendelach and plundered all the gold from the altar and the scriptorium.
And I the unworthy Brother Bran begged the Northmen to spare us with the promise of greater riches to the north at the hollow island. They departed with their plunder and they will not return.
I fear I have done the unforgivable and I pray God might have mercy on our humble souls and on the souls of the heathens.”
With Part One of The Book of the New Moon Door finished, it’s time for me to start a new project, and I want to know what my readers think. Do you want to know what happens next, or is it time for something new? The poll will stay open for a couple weeks or until I get around to closing it. ETA: The poll will close Sunday, September 19, or most likely early Monday morning.
Thank you for voting! Feel free to leave me a comment if you have any thoughts or opinions.
“Wait,” Berend says as they reach the bottom of the stairs. The house is still dark, but it’s an ordinary darkness, and the streetlights are visible from the front windows. An intermittent dark stain leads from the front door toward the back of the house.
Isabel takes an instinctive step back. Is it blood? It was too dark, before, even with her candle, and she hadn’t noticed it. There are no other signs of violence that she can see, though the holy symbol of Alcos on the mantel remains corroded and black.
“We should keep moving,” she says. She doesn’t want to give Geray a chance to begin another ritual. She had sent the ghosts away, but a powerful enough draw could bring them back, and others besides.
Gods. For the briefest moment, she had held their tethers, felt them straining against her will. It was nothing like the gentle touch of the bell and her own ritual circles. The ghosts were in terrible, agonizing pain, crying out with a sound that Isabel could feel rather than hear. She had released them as soon as she had the awareness—she should have taken the time to guide them across the veil properly, but she could barely think. Still, the sensation of it lingered.
If that is what necromancy feels like, she cannot think of a reason why anyone would willingly perform it.
Just like Berend suspected, Isabel’s sword proves far more effective against the ghosts. It’s light and springy in his hand, lacking the weight and authority of his own two-handed saber, but when it cuts through the misty forms, the spirits recoil and visibly dim. Their figures remain intact; they’re not like Mikhail, broken and screaming.
Out of reach of the blade, the ghosts rally their energy, brightening and pressing forward again. Something—Geray, the house, or some mystical nonsense Berend won’t even try to understand—is giving them strength. Unfortunately for him, he is made of flesh, and can’t do the same. He’s not as young as he once was, and it’s so very cold in this hallway. The candle hisses and gutters, but for now, it stays lit.
A hand of fog rakes at him with talons like a hawk’s. He brings the sword up, but it’s no use—the ghostly arm passes right through it, and its fingers reach his chest. He feels as though he has swallowed ice, the cold moving down the inside of his body. There is no pain, no sensation of being cut, but the ghost tears through his clothing and skin, leaving bloody marks from his shoulder down to his belly. The wounds ooze, and frost collects at their edges.
They aren’t deep. Eventually, Berend guesses, the spirits will draw enough blood to kill him, or he’ll freeze to death in the aura that surrounds them, but for the moment, he is still able to fight. He’ll keep them off of Isabel until she finishes whatever she’s doing.
It is that moment when she slumps over, hat askew, her body curled around the chalk circle inscribed on the wooden floor.
Berend said that he saw only darkness when he broke their connection, and now Isabel knows he was telling the truth. She can feel her breath condensing in the frigid air, but she cannot see it. There is nothing but black.
The illusion is a powerful one. In the ordinary darkness after sunset, it wouldn’t be too complex to cast, especially if one prepared ahead of time, but she is impressed with Geray’s skill. If he had stayed with the church of Alcos, or even with the university, he could have been the most powerful magic user in Gallia, if not the world. Maybe he wouldn’t have become wealthy from the research opportunities, but at least he and Warder would not have to be begging Lady Breckenridge for an investment. Instead, he was doing…this.
What’s the point of all of this? The murders, the summonings. It would be so much easier to do anything else.
She’s distracting herself, Isabel realizes. Panic is setting in, tugging at the periphery of her thoughts like a ringing in her ears, and she is just barely keeping it at bay with these mundanities.
The house is clean, the wallpaper tamely floral. Berend was expecting filth and rot, like the Belisia estate—some clear evidence of the spirits’ rage at their imprisonment—but there is nothing worse than a little dust on the wood floor.
It is dark, though, darker than it should be. The narrow entry opens into a sitting room with windows on opposite sides, facing front and back. The curtains are all open, but no light from the street passes through the glass. Isabel’s candle casts thin light on the edges of the brick fireplace and the stiff-backed chairs. It’s bright, leaving spots in Berend’s vision whenever he chances to look at it, but the halo it casts is small and weak. Darkness hangs on the room like a thick fog, cold and heavy. It tastes like a coming storm.
Is this what dark magic is like? He’s not enjoying it, but he has seen worse—the Belisia estate, for one, and the battlefields overrun by the walking dead.
Space Whales Press 