Reluctant Journal

[Random_White_Guy]

It has been suggested, upon orders of my newly attending physician, that I keep a journal.
Beyond merely writing reports for my archaeological works, my notes of research, and more that I seek a more personal reflection. So I have purchased this journal from the Souk. Having lived for hundreds of years and given the breadth of my training and the dedication to focus, willpower, and memorization I have never had need for such a book. If I wish to remember something I simply recall it.

However she has made a very earnest effort to my unlikely recovery. And per my personal ethos it feels disingenuous to not at least in part oblige her. As many have come to learn from the heights of political power to the depths of the ruinous gutters - Loyalty is a rare currency and one I place above all others. There are times it shocks humans, ashfolks, and others of Ephia. There are times they seek to abuse it, but that is their failing not mine.

She is a woman in a foreign land, of a faith few respect, but she is not without her skills. Even absent of her rites and rituals her acumen as a physician is laudable. After spending a few hours with her attending me that much clear. While I do not put much stock in the faiths of this desert - my faith died when my home did. How can one claim to serve true a new god, when a lifetime of devotion lent? So many of the Awoken seem to merely shrug and partake of the Wheel's offerings. My reticence for such has been an obstacle in my time in the desert. "Oh, he must be an Izduan" as I quietly watched them speak about me in Sandstone College, in the Scribes, and now in the Tower.

I do not believe she shall have much success in my treatment but I am skeptical of all things by nature. To take them apart, to study them, to sit and observe. It is what made the Scribes so soured that I cared little for their gossip of the day of who, did what, outside Bashir's shop. And so too why my peers at Sandstone College chastised me for being aloof to their incessant pursuit of Board-work. And why even among the Astronomers I am deemed fringe, outcast, dangerous.

It baffles me to find myself among a cadre of men and women whose master and High Zenithar espouses the notion of pursuit of knowledge beyond all else, so binding themselves to abstraction of moral constructs and a fabricated societal norm. He stood before the Sultan of the Baz'eel, a deific god-king bestowed by the beliefs and support and infrastructure of centuries of cultural appropriation from millenia past. At one point the strongest military in existence, at one point the most widely reaching empire in the entirety of the Great Ash Desert. He stood before this figure, and when told something he knew to be false. He declared simply - No. For such He was cast out from Baz'eel, his home, his life and thrown adrift.

When I did the same? They fired me from the Tower. For refusing to break an oath to my once trusted Apothar who bestowed upon me my first epoch.

But it was not all for naught, as two days later I would return to the Tower. Deemed a danger to myself, to others, and "Better that I serve the Tower than pursue my works independently". A new Apothar taken, a second epoch acquired, a new class of Nadiri who entered after I began to carve my place, and a growing influence.

I would not say it has been without obstacles. But after last evening, despite my inconvenient physical crippling and a searing pain that is difficult to put into words...

I cannot help but find myself at an unusual peace. The ritual was a success, wide swaths of my Thesis proven. Solace is taken that knowing beyond all doubt...

My name is Celybuin Hui'nalyw.

...and I am one of the most accomplished Warlocks in the Great Ash Desert.

[Random_White_Guy]

Reticence aside, I continue the journal. Proceeding where I had left off.
A Warlock is a complex entity. At the fundamental level the heritage of the individual in question shapes and warps a great deal of both the powers bestowed for such entreating but also in the means by which it manifests. A broad shape and scope of oddities are expected when magic is involved but in the realm of invocation and eschewing the natural order of things matters move a step even further.

For the question comes wherein lay the dilatation? As the entity is bestowed greater power, a new scope, perspective, considerations begin to weigh in new measure. A separation from their natural lineage towards a greater preponderance for their supernatural lineage. Those considerations though are what contains the distilled essence. It is in those barest, smallest details that the truth of matters comes to light. A ranging scale from barest boon to apotheosis. So how is one to measure on such a spectrum where line is drawn? Is it an external imposition, an internal one, a remedy to past mistake, an enlightenment lent by experience?

Some warlock are Predator. Scouring the known and the unknown realms in pursuit of greater hunger, baser thirst, unsubtle drive. Leaving in their wake a cacophony of terror and violence. Scattering black magic artifice to the farthest reaches for the sheer joy of watching reality burn. Gleefully undertaking whatever is required for more, always more. Feast.

Some warlock are Defiant. Cases of unfortunate breeding spawning a tethering to the Eldritch manifesting in atrocious urges and thrashing against the forced shackles of birth, of circumstance, of fate, of lineage, or what call you. Turning their powers upon thwarting their ancestor's works for some self-satisfaction of standing before an immortal entity and shrieking no more, now know my power. Now you kneel to me.

Some warlock are Scavengers. Picking clean the bones of greater powers yet still, supplicating themselves before the altars of the Gods, of Demons, of Wretched beasts, of Indescribable and primordial. Reconstituting piecemeal paths to power by any means, eking out existence picking bones clean of greater and ancient entity to sit the last one standing over all other victorous.

Some warlock are Explorers. Delving into the blackest arts of necromancy, of curse, of malady and terror, pushing the boundaries of what they may do for no reason other than the sweet taste of forbidden fruit. To tread the path others fear, to walk where told not to, to discover that which only a rarefied few have ever known upon the fringe.

Some Warlock are parasites. Affixing themselves to the underbelly of greater entity - suckling blood, ichor, venom, toxin, poison, whatever you wish to call such. Seeping it in ravenously while the host none the wiser. Or better yet when the host is the wiser, knows such, and yet for one reason or another cannot help but indulge the parasite. And it grows, and it grows.

There are more of course, as many as stars in the sky, those who when presented with the path before them taking new and different direction.

I have come to know in my life over the centuries those who have walked each path. For a few decades I have walked some of their paths. I have studied their bloodlines, their natures, their motivations. Which ancestor made such a binding, what drove them to take such a far step away from the banalities of a "normal life".

For me?

...I suppose I was merely bored.

[Random_White_Guy]

Boredom though is a powerful motivator.
It is an inevitable state that many run from but when one truly digs into such it opens many avenues of thought and creativity. Like forcing yourself into a pretzel's shape, only to find new way to wrestle your way out.

While my peers indulged in history, in song, in more I had spent a few years over the centuries doing the same. Being well rounded is not only expected but a natural progression when one has such an abundance of time. The ten thousand hours it takes to master a skill, when you've no limit upon hours, coupled with the lack of need for sleep. It leads to many avenues.

And I suppose the Devil's face at my questioning was worth the time spent. She tried to offer me a great many things to break free of her binding circle.

Immortality though pales for an Elven. My bloodline made me a Warlock and while I able to invoke I held no need for Pact. Wealth, my family accumulated over generations as barest investment bore great fruit. Skills? Anything I can learn with enough time given. Pleasure is derived from the self and she was particularly not my taste. Overtime she grew increasingly frustrated, sharing with me that the Humans are far simpler to deal with.

Humans. I had heard of the creature in some of our library's history. Oafish creatures with wide brows, nubbed ears, protruding skulls and flat noses. So I asked her what made Humans simpler to deal with. In her frustration she offered me quite a few and curious tales of others she had made deals with over the ages. Some seeking great things, others seeking banalities.

...And though it was borne of boredom, I was able to glean a fair amount. It became an easy pass-time. To have such a repository of foreign entity trapped in my uncle's drawing room. Akin to how some may keep a caged bird to sing dulcet tunes.

It was a learning experience to say the least. Studying the creature's habits, the way she spoke of those she deemed lesser than her, those she bragged about beguiling and tricking into shortcomings and linguistic traps. I had stopped keeping track of the weeks, but as all things in time I became quite bored. She was released from her binding and sent back to the Hells which spawned her.

But it was not long until Boredom set in again. So I consulted the next on the ledger drafted by my Uncle's quill. One, then the next, and on. Some of the monstrosities were stomach-churning to gaze upon. Angular and fierce, brutal and miserable. Others though were effortlessly charming. Both physically and intellectually. The allure was easy to see but as with the first - My wants were few.

It was the first time I came to the realization. Whereas my Uncle plied with these creatures for political favor, for blackmail, for spying on rivals, auld treasures and such baser wants. Driven by his obsession with lost glories of his youth and past kingdoms in far off places long from our delightful island home - That there was something here.

Something I had never quite felt. An odd sort of discovery to make. Here I was with all the fortune I could ever ask for in a millennia. Vast repositories of relics. My uncle's sycophantic courtiers, house servants, guards, imported rarities of wine and narcotic, a collection of diverse skills, a collection of robust knowledge.

... In some odd way? Well. I was not so different from the creatures I would see brought forth to the drawing room. They had undeniably quite a few millennia of existence over me, but I held a luxury they did not. They had to be brought to this land. I merely had to drift from one door to another. Add to that my Uncle and I discerned the source of our Bloodline's latent powers? Well. Merely becomes my Ancestors made me a Warlock did not mean I could not become more.

While my Uncle wasted his time with courtly politics, I began to ply my invocations and machinations upon the Help.

They would sate my boredom and I would satisfy their basest desires. For a price.

[Random_White_Guy]

Fundamentally speaking the basic wants and needs of any are parsed down to five nodes, intertwining and overlapping.
Depending of course upon external and internal pressures. Internal pressures leveraging the personal self as nutured or neglected overtime, external pressures leveraging the societal ethos that produced them and acculturation by proxy.

Attention, Purpose, Permission, Power, and Peace.

Though each varies in individuals depending upon the internal and external pressures the crux of the study I've been fortunate enough to test on numerous subjects and moved from theory to practicum just over a century ago.

The Sentry who serves as guard of the Estate is self-fulfilled of purpose. His vigilance brings him peace. His posting gives him power. His Master gives him permission. What he lacks - Attention. Many walk past him as if he does not exist, treating him as not so different than statue or hedge. Small conversation nurtured overtime gave way to an in-depth understanding of the self which made the offer an easy one.

The Handmaid who is berated by her Lady in between sessions of court is starved. Not of Power, nor of Peace, but of Permission. A beaten creature overtime settles into its role but a kernel begins to fester and flourish. Merely offering permission to let down her hair, to explore where her darker thoughts take her, how pleasurable it would be to act with impunity rather than the shrieking of her mistress. A bottle of wine, a quiet space in the garden, and simply time spent lending her a guided meditation towards her baser wants. A small step to secure the offer but the kernel fostered much joy at the idea of her Mistress choking on her own blood beneath her newfound freedom.

That is not to say every endeavor a success. In my early studies a miscalculation was made when it came to a man who though he was wildly favoring of the drink and fornication was not so eager of the notion to divulge himself of his secrets at the touch of an Erinyes. It was revealed at a most inopportune time that his drink was borne of guilt, and his fornication an indulgence to assuage his guilt in the throes of being told it was simply "All okay". ... the solace was dramatically lacking when the Erinyes revealed she a corrupted celestial. At which point he took to an unpleasant moment of clarity, lucidity, and attempted to skewer me with a nearby broken bottle.

Each subject though was a fair lesson. A learning of what to offer, when to listen, when to speak, how to ingratiate myself, social strata, and more. My techniques growing and refined, and my invocations growing increasingly potent with every offer accepted. An easy trade to the record-keepers and hungry bankers of the morally corrupt. A soul pledged to me, pledged to they, in exchange for a fraction of power. Enough pieced together across century brought a robust moasaic.

I had been preparing to kill my Uncle as it were, and enjoy my inheritance to expand my works, when the world came crashing down around us.

Difficult to be a Warlock when the Low Planes are sealed or destroyed. When all your powers reduced to ash in your fingertips as your invocations take to fade. When the source of all you once built turned to nothing.  I have many things to say of my arrival in the Great Ash Desert. But I will say this first-

It certainly was a remedy for boredom.

No longer nestled to the Island of my birth, my resources stripped, my knowledge deemed useless as few care of the last how many countless ages I was adrift before awakening. Millennia to sift through and study, esoterica to learn, Empires great and powerful sundered to nothingness.

To gain an understanding of my new surroundings, unfamiliar with the desert climate and more, I took a familiar and old mask. Not a false mask, but neither the full truth.

I began to tell everyone I was a Scholar. And one such man paid me 750 Dinar to join the Sandstone College. 500 to tuition, 250 dinar to "Encourage new students to find place". He craved pride in his institution. To cultivate an air of professionalism and propriety. The man craved Attention. A familiar node. That it was not deemed unseemly to "Wear the Potato Sack". I took his dinar and obliged.

...and from that first agreement made, so many more would follow suit.

[Random_White_Guy]

Such as it is, Sandstone College is a passable institution.
As a well learned individual already it provided a degree of security, obfuscation, and more importantly easily overlooked status. Only tthree individuals of note I met during my time therein - A scholar by the name of Balstan, the Legate of Gold. Two others - Arymathras and Oskrul. One was wildly interested in the forbidden magics of the far depths, the reason the Sultan collapsed the City in on itself, the Bright Madrassa. The other was interested in the Ash Storms and the Ash Revenant.

For weeks we would see each other in occasional passing, tending our scholarly business. Majority of my time among the organization was spent discovering what I could of the past - The Lizardfolk in particular with their black magic leanings caught my eye, as well as the innumerous tales of the Djinn, and other darker powers-that-be among the wasteland that this Desert seemed to be.

My reputation as Scholar slowly grew with the likes of the Torchbearers advocating I perform task for the Warmaster regarding the Kan'zuzu, an odd insect adjacent to the Melek of the Wyrm, odd-cousins of the same Lizardfolks I had been studying. This parlayed into attention from a local outfit.

The disenfranchised and disillusioned of the Tablet, a scouting company called Sagebrush. Among them was a Wizard by the name of Miranda Marlin. Hubris, to the largest degree, her flaw. Her node was an obscene demand for Attention. To be known as a Great Wizard, to be known as a defiant of the Astronomers of Q'tolip, to be known as a teacher of many Apprentices.

It was almost too easy to court her favor. The unexpected notion came in the form of warning. "The Astronomers want me dead. If you're to work with me and remain in Sandstone College you cannot join our organization as we sit upon the Stele. Can't be in both. Equally so they are not able to pressure you, let us keep your apprenticeship secret from the Astronomers".

...And so it came to pass. A Wizard hungry for pupil, eager for attention, the self-satisfaction of lording over her rivals. I became the Apprentice of the Gull Witch Marlin.  While her spellwork was undisputed her personality and ambitions in tandem were standard fare. Her scouting company scoured the wasteland but also the illegal depths, raised their fortunes in Boardwork, skirmishes with the local law enforcement.

Textbook outcasts yearning for both support and resource. Of which I could provide both, discreetly, in exchange for Wizardrly accoutrements.  My days turned into studies at the College, my nights with the Sagebrush learning how to survive in the desert, but all the while I was able to pry away from their reservoir. Drip by drip, bit by bit, piece by piece my power grew while theirs waned. This was not lost on everyone however. Even the most subtle act cannot go unnoticed.

Her associates were naturally suspicious. Why was I so helpful, why was I so eager. "She doesn't do this for everyone, you know. I want you to know how serious it is. Don't fuck with us".  "Why, I would never, Meadow". "Certainly not, Greenbranch". "Whatever it is you say, Pang".

And the days would pass. They introduced me to many of the up-and-coming figures in the hamlet of Ephia's Well. Nasreen Shabani and Shania of the Merchant's Union, both of whom eagerly wished me to join.  Shocked when I refused - noting that in the fine print of their contract they demanded I secure voice in two months time and cede them my vote. "Oh, we do not enforce that". "Then why is it in the contract?" No answer, so I departed, back to the Sandstone and the Sagebrush.

Greenbranch, was my introduction to Ephian politic. Though the Sagebrush fled the Torchbearers over political dispute, Greenbranch found herself Prelate to the Gold League. And an increasing push towards militant status eager to assist the scholar turned Legate Balstan.

Over and over for weeks did these events bleed into one another. The outcasts wanting to be aloof with no way back into the mainstream, demanding to remain apart from the political maw but demanding respect and a "Seat at the table" and the odd juxtapositions of delusion. But I cared little. I indulged their egos, I secured my spellbook, I raised my fortune, and I dug deeper into the Great Ash's history.

When the Seekers-After-Death came however, came too Conscription. The notion of being forced to the Front or admist the throngs of the Boarworkers of the Krak de Rose or the Sagebrush scouting in the fore sat ill with me.

So when opportunity struck with the death of Scribe Martin Ashbury - I filled the vacancy. I valiantly joined the ranks of the Scribes of the Sublime Garden. Finding myself access to both the Legates and the Warmaster, a discreet and unassuming seat upon the War Council as "Chronicler of the Divan" - writing flowing tales and mild propaganda.

A small price to pay for such social climbing without ever raising a finger nor paying a dinar.

[Random_White_Guy]

Overlooked and undervalued fits well the Scribes of the Sublime Garden.
They are given an unprecedented amount of access to the city of Ephia's Well. And so low was the bar set by my predecessors that to simply take notes of a Legate's meeting resulted in laurels. Bonus dinar given, access to private information and meetings, leave to enter their chambers unobstructed. Wage was paid regardless of productivity and if one were called to secure funding for license, a handsome charitable price given.  Coupled with protection from Conscription, no expectation of combat activity, and free to do as I pleased it was a very easy way to learn of the political landscape of the city. The operating forces, the cults of personality, who was reliable and who was not - even the foreign diplomatic corps opened to the Scribes for a more robust discussion than the average denizen. A luxury of serving Baz'eel, I suppose.

The mere action of being judicious with funding lead to my selection as an Auditor in service of the Chief Scribe. Having just lost her son she was bereaved and of little concern to oversee my affairs as I proceeded to systematically lift the proverbial rocks of the entire city. Memorizing the map of the Divan's war room and documenting troop movements for a rainy day. Access to the Financials of the Pyramid, at least the ones the Chief Scribe did not keep stored under her desk, and the Legates.

Legate Balstan was a political operator who found himself in the laudable position of playing foil to a firebrand. All he had to do for profit was grant permission, an ascenting nod, to whatever driven efforts saw the Pyramid so moved. All for the price of an exceedingly cushy retirement from political life.

Legate Argent was a charismatic sorcerer who, by virtue of his zeal, infatuated many. He knew well the Boardworker's ambitions and the wealthy of the City's lust for nothing but more wealth for their dragon's horde. The dealings of his predecessors he cared little for, the dealings of the future were malleable, and in systemic fashion he was able to cripple and subsume platforms from both the Purple and White League with relative little care. The War was no longer about Baz'eel, it was about Ephia, purple Weakened. The War was no longer about the refugee, but the wealthy Mercenary, the WHite League weakened. And with the Double-Gold Pyramid raised the duo would go on to leave their indellable mark on Ephian politics achieving what neither the White or Purple could achieve.

Legate Marcellus Saenus returned to the seat of Legate after a relatively non-memorable campaign effort that saw the "DeadlocK" of bureaucracy returned to Ephia's Politics. So too did it embolden some of the Scribes to begin more openly contesting the Dragon's influence now that a favored son of Baz'eel returned to throne. It was a very good learning experience to see how much the Humans and Dwarves differed from the fair folk I had spent my centuries offering business with, as well as observing how the Ashfolk had mastered the craft with cultural ease.

Until I was threatened with charges of Treason during a spat betwixt the first Deputy Chief Scribe and Legate Argent for publishing transparent report on the Pyramid's finance.

At which point one begins to naturally seek new opportunity. But when opportunity presents, as so often the case in War, one must act. Though it came from the unlikeliest of sources - The ex-Scholar turned Nadiri Arymathras. My once colleague of the Sandstone College who departed with what he craved and found his way to the Tower of the Scholar Q'tolip. Watching his antics wax and wane with the tide of the politics was a curious study.

When the Physician Ashley Scherwin attempted to murder him, a fellow nadiri the Tower was abuzz, frenetic, busy. The Pyramid was abuzz, frenetic, busy as only Capital Trials may draw the eye. I had heard the tales of course. The vaunted select few Apothars of Q'tolip and their faithful. Apothar Mevura, Nadiri Scherwin, others who of highest moral fiber - at least to the public, if the records in the Pyramid are to be believed. Behind closed doors a very different matter. But in the throes of their contest would the Palatial Physician be called to task. To trial.

One of the last vestiges of openly professed morality in the Tower, the others exceedingly more negotiable. For the most part.

It was effortless to depart one service and find my place another, doubly so when so organizations were so busy preparing for a Capital Trial. After a showcasing of my engineering and archaeological works during the half-hour rush of paperwork and meetings and preparations "Provisional Nadiri" they offered me. A week's time to "Prove" myself.

It would take less than that, and then efforts would begin in earnest.

[Random_White_Guy]

In the throes of the Capital Trial coupled with the increasing pressures of the War Efort I found myself in the familiar position of tacking stock of matters.

Fortunately my studies had advanced considerably in my time in the Scribes, as well as my fortunes - for it is simply a matter of good business that the Auditor well paid. Services to customers bore enough fruit to expand my research efforts. Moreover though the shift to Nadiri brought the widest revenue - A return to Boardwork. Fieldwork required by the Tower and many were swift to welcome an Arcanist with the stamp of Accord Approval.

During the first three days of my provisional works the first was spent scouring our old records and archives within the Tower, same as the Scribes and College before it. An old Library and an Archaeolgoical dig are not so different. You merely dig deep enough to start at the end, and work your way upwards to the present.

Serving as a Foundling of the Tower though, and a provisional one at that, I never found myself feeling more than a Valet. Coffee for an Apothar while she spun her political machinations. A task easily done, and a task taken a step further by creating my own syrup to add a degree of sweetness to her work. When one is being servile it is the small touches that ingratiate. A lesson learned from my Uncle's staff. It proved effective. For each humble task undertaken I found myself deemed "Useful".

An Apothar did not care to draft his notes, I was a scholar and scribe, chronicler of the Divan, transcribing a forty five minute meeting was no stretch of the imagination. But in such works opportunity presented itself.

The other Apothar were aloof and distant at times from one another. The many Nadiri, they were not overly involved beyond their own projects. So I endeavored to be the bridge between them. Offering them not only Tasks and services but to serve as courier and messenger between them. Records for the archive, notes and letters passed, records kept of meetings to help keep others appraised. It was a simple enough duty that had some sizeable implications.

Divisions among the tower quickly became more apparent, seeing how deep they ran. Likes, Dislikes, Frustrations, Suspicions. A hotbed of gamesmanship and one-upsmanship despite so many of them all surviving with the teachings of a singular figure.

By the third day of my duty I challenged a boardworker by name of Atticus to a formal debate. Offering to utilize our Tower's debate chambers. So much so it caught the eye of the Zenithar Obam and his protege Zol Nur. The Deputy Chief Scribe. Former Legates. More. While I did not prove victorious in the debate it was never about winning. It was about display.

Standing before the Deputy Chief Scribe, before many of the Purple, before Janissary, and more. And showcasing evidential proof that the use of Charity by the Ashfolk of Baz'eel based upon the standard deviation of devaluation of their coin presented a faux-charity. Their generational wealth secured while the Dinar was robustly more valued. Overtime they devalued the currency, flooding the numbers, making it appear lavish and extravagant and wildly impressive to the Refugees from the outer rings who never knew, who never knew better, who never had better.

Openly spouting heterodox rhetoric against Baz'eel's hegemony, based purely on research and scholarship, a foundation of the Tower.

It was the first moment when matters began to change.

The second would come in the battle of the Eastern Front. Where I had been involved in skirmishes in the past, opportunity presented itself to take part in a true battle. I am loathe to engage in wanton violence, I simply find it banal at this point. There was a time in my youth the glean for violence danced behind my eyes, but after centuries now it is simply a means to an ends. In this case - An impression had to be made.

The battle of Ztae'ikos, the Spear. Reporting back the rigid failings of Legate Marcellus in simply leading our forces into a trap over and over, while more and more men and women died while he was outflanked and out maneuvered and then simply did it again. Risking the lives of many, refusing to change tactics, merely charge...watch men die... watch the rear flank be massacred, retreat to reinforce the rear. That's settled, the rear secured, charge once more. Wait, no, the Rear again...

Some of the Apothar took to laughing over such, declaring it a metaphor for his politics. Some for Baz'eel's plan for the Refugee.

Apothar Isaac Naught gifting me war supplies, impressed with both my efforts as a four day Nadiri but so too in keeping record and other works of the tower.

Zol Nur Apothar would profess that upon the end of my provisional duties, my seventh day as Nadiri, if so chosen he would serve as my Apothar. Intrigued by my efforts of restoring the archive, pleased with my subservience, eager to foster my growth as an equally former of the Sandstone College with an emphasis on Archaeological Works.

Apothar Estelise Azimi would gift me more complex task tied to her politics amidst the White League, Apothar Eisenberg would dispatch me to sites of antiquity and curiosity to find old mystery, Apothar Mae Stern dispatching me towards her own political ends among the Purple League.

And in such before my provisional days even concluded, the Five Apothar had both more complex task and more robust reward for my successes.

The work was soon to begin in earnest.

[Random_White_Guy]

When it came to begin the work of the Nadiri in earnest I found myself an abundance of tasks in need of completion.
Some large, some small, some mundane, and some robust. Investigations into missing persons, suspicions of brookers, familiarizing myself further with historical sights, acquisition of knowledge prohibited from the Apothar through my mercantile contacts, attendance to boardwork with allies of the tower to foster greater relations.

My research was well funded by affiliations with the merchant Zina, who when she first arrived to the settlement we brooked a deal, favorable to us each. Wands and potions I would funnel through her shop. It spared me the need of hunting customers while permitting her to grow her stock to a unique and greater audience. It served quite well to give me an edge over the Nadiri who were more hamstrung by lack of wage.

Fieldwork, bolstered by my ties to La Banda Rossa, the Adventurers Guild of Asherias, Ex-Nadiri Dante Moretti, Zina's hired hands, and more saw to no shortage of boardwork to assist in my funds and studies. Alchemy, Engineering, Prismworks, Navigation. Each new skill a new means of finance but also a means of expanding my usefulness, my offerings, my services and talents.

For as learned so long ago in my Uncle's parlor above all else - men and women of ambition welcome those who are useful. Doubly so when they are humble about such. They shall overlook at great many things and not look so much further than surface level if they believe what you offer is earnest and what you offer achieves their ends. A very simple but cunning measure, which overtime developed into many fruitful relationships.

One by one I would utilize these relationships in service of the Tower of Q'tolip, securing a breadth and wide array of research headway. Foremost though - my first Epoch.

My thesis was a complex question - one that no Nadiri or Zenithar could answer for me. A mechanism of action in the Great Ash Desert for Milennia that has ever existed. Ever waxed and waned. Ever permeated so much of every Empire to Rise and Fall.

My archaeological works gave way to those questions when Zol Nur Apothar had me watching his Debates with the Sybaline Sisterhood.

"Some people have mind that does not grasp, well, the mysteries. This is because mysteries are expression of truth that cannot be expressed in words ordinarily, as our tongue is not made for it.

Therefore, the words of mystery, often can seem ... difficult to grasp, like dream."

He said it so plainly as was his Want for so much. A very wise individual without question and one I was glad to learn from. Beyond the mere tips learned of surviving the hazards of the Great Ash, studying at his side lent me these and a great many other insights.

Like a lens reflecting the Celestial Disk it set my mind aflame. My previous works were waylaid because the Planes had been sealed, that much had been known for months. But while I studied indepth the Archaeological histories of this vast land, from the Orentid's blasphemes of Bayt al-Yakdib, to the curious egruitic carvings in the home of the Baharuan rites and rituals, to the rise and fall of the Giants...

This simple wisdom he bestowed to try and best Sister Nebtu and her cohorts, began to dig into my brain during the hours when others took to sleep in the Tower.

None could answer this mystery for me, so I would answer it myself.

Why...How... what are the methods by which the workings of the Djinn are empowered by Name and Name alone. To hold the name of another, to speak their name, to write their name, to carve their name in stone, over and over there were countless warnings from Apothar Mevura's oldest workings on his Thesis to the various reports far and wide cast across the Tower's archive.

Always the Where, the What, the Who.

Never the Why. Never the How.

It became my focus, and inevitably, my Thesis. To the chagrin of some of the Apothar. But Zol Nur Apothar wished me to learn and more importantly found me useful, so such indiscretions overlooked. My work in the Stars allowed me to gaze far and wide with my Apothar's teachings into the night sky. Astral entities, named for their Stars, I established communication with. In time I would come to learn the names of many odd, alien creatures that wandered beyond the Stars.

Though I am no Diviner by trade, my works allowed me to Conjure them as effortlessly as one would the beasts and creatures of the Material Disc. They were fascinating oddities. Foreign to this land as I was, distant and aloof. A certain kinship forged in their curious presence. For a time they were terribly effective tools and worthy companions for a budding Nadiri. It also further set me apart from the other Nadiri.

Though dipping but a single toe into the Astral Plane sent ripples, and though success was had there is ever more to learn. I was patient and in time opportunity presented itself.

Few questions asked when my old colleague, Oskrul Vraaz was arrested on suspicions of Necromancy. However in his possession was found a Totem of Blight, delivered to me in the depths of the Janissaries Garrison to ensure it would not spread its plague nor be of use in the accused's hands during his Trial. So Ordered by the Apothar to me. As matters spun out of control regarding the Trial and his Hand severed and his Exile and more...

None ever questioned me on the matter.

It was a curious piece. Hewn of the court of Earth and Flesh, went missing presumed destroyed. It became an artifact of no small fascination as I studied it. Poking, prodding, chipping away pieces. The disease it sought to fester was easily warded way in a sterile environment with proper equipment and an enchantment of ironguts and endurance.

I was able to make fair headway and learn a considerable deal of things without ever finding myself forced to get my hands dirty. Similar properties held to lesser Helms found in the region, as well as the more complex Mauls left behind by the Djinn slain.

The Totem though another sort of magic entirely. An Ethereal Tethering of the Metaphysical Djinn to our reality. It was a risk but a calculated one that opened a great many facets of my research.

...Though matters all changed when Soldier Grimes of the Legion and Zol Nur Apothar's other Nadiri Shum invited me to Solder Grimes' new Estate near the Souk. As we discussed matters I made mention of Alchemics and preventing them from open circulation.

It was a simple question. "You mean like this?" and as if himself a black magician, a small parcel was given to ensure it stayed off the streets and did not fall into the wrong hands. From the Soldier it was given to Nadiri Shum, who in barest moment of disgust, gave such to me to store in my magical satchel covered in runes.

...A Flesh Horn. With such I was able to reverse-engineer Oskrul Vraaz's work, improving upon his Totem of Blight to craft something more. Greater.

But my repertoire as Warlock grew. It was in collecting such I first became a Fleshcrafter, a new sort of magic to study.

[Random_White_Guy]

Misconceptions rule the realm, wherever you go.
It is a fundamental alchemy that is a difficult thing to pin down. When one begins to walk beyond the edge of the map and into black magic there is no shortage of danger, but so too is there discovery. The kernel of myth, the seed of truth, the inklings of fear and doubt. You begin to see at the barest core the paths that have lead what is, to what they have become. It is akin to the blueprints of a Palace only ever seen from outside or heard of in tales of those who have visited for better or ill.

Fleshcrafting is no different. It does not take long studying the blueprints and beginning to build the proverbial palace do you begin to see. How these works become the stuff of nightmare. To the decent, to the godfearing, to the temple-going, to the adherants of the Wheel, to the Janissary, to the Cinquefoil, to the Q'tolipan, to the Boardworker.

It is difficult to describe until you hold in your gloved hands the building blocks of life. To take what is, to bend it with your will, and make it something more. It is an unforgettable and changing moment. And gracious, the smells...

But at its core while re-arranging the flesh, bone, entrails, and essence of an entity you begin to see the paths that lead such a study to the heights of fear-mongering and myth. A sort of out-of-body experience to be actively reducing the diameter of the vertabrae to allow your creation more flexibility - not by magic, but with your own two hands. Is such a thing how the Colossi felt when they were birthing the Inheritor? Or is it as Nadiri Shum posits and the lands littered with failed experiment?

Though it is a, frankly, disgusting practice in the literal sense of the word. The ichor, the bile, the smells, the lingering tastes in the mouth after leaving the workspace. It offers though such a raw sense of accomplishment than Diabolism ever did. Binding and studying and understanding Devils - while infinitely manipulative and dangerous beyond the scope of the imagination they all fell into a few distinct category. Their drives were simple, their motivations base. Control, manipulation, thwarting the Demonic, building their empires on the temptation of the mortal.

The Djinn though. It is a remarkable interplay of the foundational building blocks of life overlain with the Elemental fundament. Begging the question which lead to the corruption?

Was the Earth contaminated by the Flesh? Or was the Flesh maligned by the Elemental? Is this merely the outcome when the sapient and mortal consciousness finds itself in effigeal tether to the ravenous and unrelenting elements? Flame consumes as if it has a mind, knowing that Pra'raj once bathed the great forests in it. Only in memory it remains until the horrific notion of malice and blood and essence gives life to so much worse in the Court of Fire and Blood. Water and Light reflect imitation of life, begging for a soul but only mirroring legitimacy. Air and whisper hunger... it goes on.

But before one delves too far it is the fundamentals that must be learned. And while holding such thoughts you realize in grounding yourself back to the physical plane you are holding a Spine in your blood covered hands while the mind wanders.

...and you resume the work. Molding, scraping, peeling, burning, cloying, building. Making something more from what was less. Crafting the Flesh.

A raw, primal, nascent practice. How, when doing such, can one not feel powerful? Though it is a fleeting hubris. Only to realize this is but the first and barest step into a litany of wonders, dark and magnificent, looming beneath the vast sands and just beyond the edge of sight. Lurking in the corners of vision. Bottom of the deepest cavern. Beneath the surface of the gimmering sea. At the heart of the volcano. In the darkest shadow.

...Terrible. Terrifying. Beyond all rational thought and conviction and self preservation. The heights of power these creatures hold, the metaphysical ramifications to their influence in the physical realm. To be but an ant in a Maelstrom.

And yet...

Affixing more teeth to the growing maw, additional arms, perhaps too many arms as it limits mobility, testing, refinine, rebuilding. Learning. Growing. Shaping.

Craft the flesh, take steps to master it, to study it, to understand it.
Bind the blood, take steps to master it, to study it, to understand it.
Swell the glints, take steps to master it, to study it, to understand it.
Walk the whisps, take steps to master it, to study it, to understand it.

This is the path forward, the blueprint of not just one palace, but the four palaces. Four palaces where dwell four Courts attended by Two Lords and Two Ladies. Each of such terrifying power, each of such unfathomable danger, of incomprehensible horrors.

But in their feud, not so different than the ancient Blood War, there is the barest fundamental flaw. Immortal as though they may be, they are marred and bound to rules and conventions.

...Immortal as I may be, I am not so bound by rules and conventions. Though I have over the years compounded my own restrictions and prohibitions that ease The Work. This the blueprint that shall carry forward, as I find my way through this Tower. As I carve the Fifth Palace. Such though requires bricks, bricks begin with Clay, and so the Flesh is crafted.

Next begins the work of Blood.

[Random_White_Guy]

Brooking though, as far as blackest magics go, is not a straight line.
There are delineations and considerations. Contrary to what the Orthodoxy of the realm would share there is a gradation of influence and influenced, incursions, names taken, pacts, and more that all lend to a variety of outcomes.

When tending the black arts as Warlock with the Contracts of Devils such a thing was merely a matter of scrutiny. The Djinn are far more ephemeral, cunning, mischievous. Whereas a Devil would honor the word of its deal, over the spirit, they intersect. Not uncommon it was to find myself with some errant imp blathering in the streets attempting to implicate me for one deed or another despite the prohibition upon secrecy etched into the contract. For in their cleverness they ever found a way to subvert such. One need only have contingencies in place. Move, counter move.

But they are all now sealed and gone.

The Djinn though. There is such a primal influence. Sometimes the best means to defeat such is merely luck and happenstance.  Where Zina and others of contraband and smuggling would fail, where my contacts in the Creep would come up both empty and dry, it would be the most unlikely of places. It would be the Merchant Vilia, my once companion apprentice of Miranda Marlin who provided such luck. She herself an alchemist and in her workings had claimed to have "Found and forgotten" a relic.

...A relic by which brought into my hands the binding of the Court of Blood and Fire. I was most glad to promise her this piece would be taken from the streets. As after all there no safer hands than mine. A boardworker who had requested some research in payment for Aberrant magics, trading one vein of blackest magic for another. The most classic of currencies. And with such I would begin advancing my efforts. Studying her Relic, such an effigial tethering of the Court of Fire and Blood. It lent me insights I had only considered in abstract.

How different the two courts, how similar, how naturally opposed to one another. And yet...

...In careful and practiced hands, oddly complimentary. It allowed me though to bind not one but two courts, a rare feat. And with the statuette in my possession, I was able to do as I had previously with Oskruul's. I would scour this desert, searching far and wide. Money was no object, reputation a currency to be spent, customers and clients far and wide I had of La Banda, of the Vanguard, of others...

All my efforts would produce little success. Thousands of dinar spent to no avail on spies, smuggler, criminals, legitimate men and women of business, and any who could assist in my search for the Boiled Bloodsack.

And once more it would be the most unlikely of sources. Asherias Myl, who sits now as Prelate of the White League, the steadfast champion of Ephia's arenas. A self-proclaimed hero and leader of the Adventurer's Guild.

We would take a relaxed contract in the Krak de Rose. And in the southern desert, in a Caravan sacked en route to Ka'esh waylaid by Goblins. She and I would butcher them all. And from their spoils of the Caravan... The simplest of glass jars. Clutched to the severed hand of a Goblin Pyromancer.

... Would she and I find the Boiled Bloodsack.

She truly was, my hero.

And with such in hand I was able to deconstruct Vilia's works. Though it is one thing to Bind a Djinn from the workings gifted by another, it is a wholly different scale to find your own path. For in that search and discovery, does knowledge gleaned bare sweetest fruit.  Creating my own effigeal tether to the Court of Blood and Fire, mastering the craft of creating such Effigeal Tether while studying at length the physiology, metaphysical attachments gifts, and mysteries of the Court of Fire and Blood. All the while the miscreant known as "Sagelin the Blood dancer" blamed for much.

To test her limitations though, I would begin my alliance with my old schoolchum.

I would become patron of the Exiled Necromancer Oskrul Vaaz.

[Random_White_Guy]

Centuries of the darker crafts lends you to a singular realization: Plans, no matter how lofty, must always have contingency.
What began as simply an opportunity - securing property in the Creep after a famous Merchant and Brooker perished, turned into one of the greatest investments of wealth in my time in Ephia. Nathaniel Blackvale was a man I had only met in barest passing aside from his shop before his exile, never after, but while securing his chests of supplies lent fair fortune as well as selling some of his stolen and black market merchandise... a place within the Creep was without calculable value.

A place I could work free of the oversight of the Apothars, the prying of the other Nadiri, hold discreet conversations with smugglers, thieves, worse. While Apothar Azimi is prone to fits, and for refusing to give her the password to Assuru, I was fired, my work continued unimpeded for days. When I was ushered back into the service of the Tower, I retained possession of it as a place I could store more distasteful artifacts that would bring me the scrutiny of the Tower.

It would be here that my old schoolchum Oskrul and I found our re-acquaintance. A soft rapping on my door, and he standing huddled and maimed. His hand severed, and despite paying such a price the Citadel decided it was too lenient and still exiled him anyway, marking him a necromancer, marking him for death. A poor host, and a worse Warlock I would be, to not lend aid to one in distress or desperate.

...for a price, of course. Always for a price. A contract, a deal, a pact. Call it what you please depending upon your geography. Refuge would be given in exchange for knowledge, contacts, efforts, as well as operations against rivals who took to their brooking practices with wanton abandon. A balancing act for certain but one by which at times a darker hand may lend a firmer grasp. For a number of weeks we would attend our dark pact in dark cavern beneath the streets of Ephia. Simple codephrases, ample wardings, robust efforts of study.

Though I have partaken of the Necromantic arts they are currently forbade to me, a prohibition I honor, but there are many avenues of black magic. Hexes in particular I have ever had a talent for and together we were able to make considerable headway towards the understanding of the Nazaru. Of Assuru. Of the Formorians. An odd kinship to be reunited, for certain, as we always had during our days of "Facade" - enjoyed a degree of overlap in Archaeological studies and Magic. Only now free of the pretense and double-speak we could make legitimate advancement.

He proved a worthy asset, and in kind honored the fact I was true to my word. A rarity in Ephia to be truly loyal once word given so he offered me a number of boons and reprieves that he did not offer others as he took to hostilities upon the Well. Regrettably his reach exceeded his grasp - at the time, and word reached others. Our formal partnership sundered. Though it was a clean and beneficial departure and a boon to us each.

It was worth it though. Even losing one of my most talented and agreeable research partners. Advancements made with my studies of the Court of Earth and Flesh, Advancements made with my studies of  the Court of Fire and Blood...

...and so my gaze drifted once more. The Court of Light and Water. A most nebulous, esoteric, and confusing power.

There have been scant reports over the ages, through antiquity to present, in discussion and deciphering of works of black magic I have uncovered. Many have managed to bind Two courts of the Djinn.

...Sparse though was word of man or woman of any sort who bound Three.

I would move from the practical portion of my research into the theoretical - pushing the boundaries of known possibility. Expanding my works on high and low alike towards this singular focus. Tens of thousands of Dinar spent in pursuit. Auld answers, new questions, complex deciphering.

How to bind a Third Court?

This question floating in my head as I sold the property at long last to Oskrul to begin his works while mine took me far and away into the Great Ash. To Hufiadh, to Harrowden...


...To Frostport.

[Random_White_Guy]

Deviation from the standard fare ever leads to tension.
Among the Brookers there are four caste - Fleshcrafter, Bloodbinder, Glintsweller, and Whispwalker. These four figures have in a way, shape, or form adorned themselves with the favor of one of the Four Courts of the metaphysical entities known as Djinn that influence and interfere with the Physical world. In their endless conflict these creatures, and the entities they use as proxy - mortals tethered in one way or another, influence the realm.

Fleshcrafters have the most robust history in Ephia, one of the first noted encounters in the Astronomer's files since the influc of 7787 was the Fleshcrafter Merizad. Sending a number of Nadiri into a swirling tailspin of how to pursue his actions, how to adjust to the Janissary ranks of Soldier Colmes, and navigate the intricacies of League politic. As Voiced he was deemed favored to some, but not to others. It was Nadiri Mevura who began at length documenting the transgressions though other Nadiri found themselves drawn into the investigation.

Matters shifted when the Court of Air and Shadow discovered a prominent figure affixed to the Court of Earth and Flesh increasing his sphere of influence, resulting not only in Incursions of that court, but instigating the Court of Air and Shadow to follow suit.

While I had reshaped the flesh, and had taken to boiling the blood, I couldn't help but notice the severe differences in the Courts. The intertwining of the four facets of the elements, the four facets of a mortal figure. Like some twisted and errant hommonculus, deconstructed and twisted across the cosmos.

I had read the files, and heard the tales, of the two courts I had not yet encountered but it was a driving force forward. To understand not just the two courts I had bound, but all four, would be required to commence the works. It would be arduous and jarring, dangerous, and the highest of risk.

I would have to find those I could trust, or failing that, I could knowingly or unknowingly implicate in a robust conspiracy.

Zol Nur would not serve as an Apothar in such pursuits. His apathy a boon for finding my foot into the door of the Tower and securing my first Epoch, but I would require a broader approach. For his betrayal of me stung deeply. That he would permit the others of the Tower to do as they please to me, it sat ill with me. It would be Apothar Naught, who bestowed upon me my second epoch. For my coordinated works with other Nadiri and Apothar. My works with Zain on the Banners, my works with him on the War Lights, my works with Zol Nur and Shum on Assuru, my works with Azimi on the investigations, my efforts to placate Apothar Stern's many fits of whimsy.

The beauty of a conspiracy though is that it is multifaceted. It is not some simple drawn line. Nor is it something readily apparent. The simplest sleight of hand. While all are gazing in one direction, hands move in another.

As I did not need to sleep as the others it was simple enough alchemy.

By day I would take and keep notes, help the other Nadiri or Apothar on their projects. So much so at one point that Legate Marcellus and Apothar Stern offered to return me to Scribal Duties WHILE a Nadiri to help attend and keep their records. A flattering offer but the dutiful nature of my work was primarily a simple and humble ruse. A difficult one to maintain at times but patience abounded.

By night it would be further works with Oskrul, with others of the Creep whose names have faded to the past, works with Zina and her mercantile cartel and her associates when I needed more mundane duties attended or smugglings. Works with Vilia on her Aberration interests in exchange for discreet aid and reagents of a far, far more unseemly nature. Qadira, the auld Machine, the even aulder machine, Assuru, Harrodwen, Hufidah.

For weeks I would traverse the Great Ash. For weeks I would Pepper the landscape with djinn artifice. Surplus of the Court of Earth and Flesh, un-needed trinkets of the Court of Fire and Blood. If the workings of the Merizad case were true, if the rise of Djinn in the region of one court lead to an increased influx of a Rival court, saturation would be required.

I would seed like a farmer, the landscape of the Great Ash Desert. Those pieces of Djinn artifice I could not find a use for in my works of the Tower, I would cast to the winds. Different boxes, mostly left by the Baladeer Alejandro in little stashes all over the desert. A gift from the past to the present. The perfect place to leave a flesh horn, an antique saif, a helm here or there...

I had started at first for contengency, if I had ever needed to flee that I could pick up my work beyond. Instead though each time I revisited, each box was stripped clean. Someone, or many someones, helping themselves to my surplus artifice.

...and then began the trickling tales.

Oskrul's increase in Djinn activity finally bubbling up from our works in the Creep to the surface. Rumors of flesh, of blood. More, and more. As reports circulated of a Wyrm Cultist adorning a Helm of Flesh to waylay travelers. As reports circulated of a Bandit with a bleeding scimitar.

...Of a curious box of blood, delivered to the Legate's office.

Week by week, day by day, it began to percolate. The Metaphysical influence seeping into the Physical reality of the disc. More and more desperate peoples, outlaws, brigands, one by one finding my gifts.

In turn they would set the stage, perfectly, for what was required. For my theories were confirmed. And Frostport would be the site. Wandering into the frozen tundra, conjuring a powerful Djinn of Fire and Blood. Slitting its throat open and spilling its boiling blood onto the frozen grounds.

As the water gave way to the sticky sweet ichor, bubbling and roiling, came the High Djinn of Fire. Enraged that the blood of its servitor would be shed. It laughed, it balked, it attempted to sway the mind.

It was beaten, but not bested, and it was beginning to be bound.

Then came the deep roar echoing off the Fjords. Then came the shrieking, bone chilling wind. The terrible cold. In the domain of a High Djinn of the Court of Water and Light. I had sullied the land by inviting a sworn rival into his territory. It declared of audacity, of hubris, of foolishness, of blind fury, of vengeance upon the unrighteous.

There would be a fight. It would be, if the tale ever reached the public, an odd myth. Difficult to put into words.

To be drawn out of the Physical realm, into the Metaphysical space beyond the Disc. To the boundary of power between the Court of Water and the Court of Fire.

and amidst the fighting, I would be caught in the crossfire...

I do not know if it was indeed as the Djinn spoke, my hubris. Or perhaps simply instinct. Maybe self preservation. Perhaps if I was to die, they would die with me.

So I did the only thing i could muster against two horrific and terrifying monsters of the twisted imagination.

I would summon a towering Djinn of Earth to fight the Water and Fire...

And be perhaps one of the few entities in mortal history to bind Three Courts at one time.

Though it came at cost. Tens of thousands of dinar, countless contacts and networks raised in conspiracy. Obscene and chronic damage to my physical form.

...but it had worked. And I survived. Barely.