A Slushpost

a post de slush, in the same vein as many | of  | my | betters. contains material from two notebooks and a few years' worth of conversation. there's more where this came from; perhaps it will see the light of day.

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1. Fantastic names for an investigator: Seeker, Eye, Quester, Harbinger, Stalker, Questioner, Hand, Scion, Auditor, Herald, Hound, Gatherer, Watcher, Warden, Justice, Keeper, Assayer,  Winnower, Unveiler 

2. The thing no-one ever tells you about magic is how much it hurts.

3. O, sing the song of Yeruzhen, city most resplendent, city most desolate. Jewel of the Tarr, seat of the Empress; monument of ruin, home of the lost...

4. ALL PRIESTS ARE PROPHETS UNTO THEMSELVES — ONE WORLD FAITH — ONE TRUE LIGHT — MANY VOICES

5. We are Flame — an ephemeral incandescence dancing across this realm and the next, shifting twisting flickering in place and world and time, everlasting essence of light's final moment. 

6. The Ruler, the Maker, the Watcher, the Butcher, the Dreamer — patron of leaders and commanders, of farmers and family, of scholars and sailors, of the bloody and the damned, of thieves and lovers

7. spatharokoubikoularios: an office in the Byzantine court, "sword-chamberlain".

8. Hedge Knights—so named for their choice of steed, the noble hedgehog...

9. skyship flight powered by the secret names of angels, inscribed upon gold blocks. wielding the pieces of the divine machine in this way allows pilots violate the law of gravity.

10. Pigeon • /ˈpɪdʒɪn/ • noun. : a simplified speech used for communication between birds with different languages.

11. A colony ship, bearing a hundred thousand settlers in suspended animation and a still-awake skeleton crew. It veered off course a few centuries ago; culture among the descendants of that original crew diverged, still holding true to "the passage to the Land That Was Promised" and now worshipping "Those Who Slumber", all of their once-knowledge lost to time and superstition.

12. Dreznor stands triumphant, a glorious shambling mess of slums and smog, built atop the mage-blasted ruins of a city now forgotten, lost to the ceaseless churn of time.

13. The masked priests of Our Lady of Immaculate Eternity rise with the sun. They don their vestments, sorrow-black and earthen green, adorn themselves with the jewellery of their station, ring and torc and glittering pendant, and begin their solemn procession through the city of Brenstadt...

14. A Divinity of Clockwork (Jodorowsky, 6:01pm)

15. Wildly differing levels of magical concentration across a setting — aetheric deserts and island pockets of mana, with concentration of magical species, wizard towers, and mysterious ancient artifacts correlated thusly

16. priests with violence on their tongues and prayers on their blades

17. “Through the crimson canyons and desert seas of Mars, there howls an eternal wind. Through its red hills and forgotten canals, it can be heard; it can be seen. In the swirl of dust at the bottom of a crater, in the great storms atop its highest peaks, it is found—the everlasting funeral cry of the long-dead ghosts of a planet bathed in blood.”

18. The Court of Ancient Kings — the Crown Prince's highest council, a parliament of undying souls. Accessed only through the Voice of the Court, a priest of Shanahndrash (maiden of dreams and death), each Prince ascends to its membership upon their death.

19. I awake in darkness. I have always been in the darkness. The darkness has four walls, without windows; its lone door, across from where I lie, stands locked. I have always been in the darkness.

20. A dishevelled god sits slumped on the street corner, an empty cup in front of them, the cardboard sign beside them bearing in bold black marker: “WILL WORK MIRACLES FOR FOOD”

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LOT 41. ATLAS OF ENDLESS EARTHS.

A green leatherbound volume, with its title debossed in gold on the front cover. Authorship unknown, it was recovered from the Library of Babel during an expedition lead by Sir Francis Drake. Its 410 pages contain detailed descriptions of many realms, some of them very close in description to our own world. The means by which many of them might be accessed remain obscure, though the book´s passage from collection to collection speak to the desirability of such a work to any of our Auction's fine guests.

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A tradition in a certain nation in Far-Flung Parts is that of the Festival of Bounty. Once each year, as spring approaches and the harsh lord Winter retreats to the north, people of all ages come together in the streets to celebrate, as well as to hope and pray for a great year of harvest ahead. Precise practices differ, with common ones including parades, dances, and parties, though one unifying thread are the masks. Participants don the visage of all sorts of beasts and wild things, from bears to tigers to dragons and more.  In some regions they are relegated solely to children, often crafting their own out of paper-mâché or cardboard, but some claim they hold their roots in a tradition far older.

The Masks of the Maker are ornate vizards that appear to be crafted from wood, albeit without any seams, glue, or carving tools. They perfectly mirror the form of one the Twelve Holy Beasts, as though moulded directly from them. Each is kept isolated deep within the Greatwoods, guarded by ancient guardians and obstacles. While wearing such a True Mask, the bearer possess all of that animal's characteristics, save appearance; they become as heavy, strong, etc. as their bestial counterpart, and gain all of its abilities and senses.

The Twelve Holy Beasts:
1. Bear
2. Hare
3. Crow
4. Eagle
5. Deer
6. Fox
7. Bull
8. Wolf
9. Squirrel
10. Boar
11. Tortoise
12. Lizard 

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and lo, so began our descent;
into that vile dark we went,
t'ward the maw of the beast—
in hunt of the wretched priest

miles and miles the tunnels stretched,
grim markings on the walls etched
though our lamp went low, ne'er did we slow

hours passed in that grim cave
afore we came upon their grave.
there, there i saw that dreadful sight
more foul than any horror of the night
there we found them, sprawled 'cross stone,
their skin as pale as bone
shrouded in raiment grim,
bent crooked in every limb—
this song i name their parting hymn.

— — — — — 

Through the crimson canyons and desert seas of Mars, there howls an eternal wind. Through its red hills and forgotten canals, it can be heard; it can be seen. In the swirl of dust at the bottom of a crater, in the great storms atop its highest peaks, it is found—the everlasting funeral cry of the long-dead ghosts of a planet bathed in blood.

— — — — — 

There I knelt, ‘fore ancient throne
Forehead pressed against the stone.
For the crown’s favour I did vie,
Yet knew as soon I was damned to die;
For it truly is a fickle thing—
The mercy of a merciless king.

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We are a mountain of steam and steel — a profound contraption of chrome-plated cogs and ever-pumping pistons, marching ever-forward. A pilgrim searching for something forgotten, we wander across the desolate landscape, trundling, stumbling, rumbling over hill and mound and barrow.

We are unbreathing; we are unyielding. Through once-great forests, through blasted wastes, through labyrinth streets and abandoned wrecks, we roam.

In the ruins of the future, we find ourself.

We round a corner, pass by an abandoned relic that scrapes the sky, and there we see it. A fragment of untarnished metal among the heap, brightly gleaming under the moon's light, a diamond buried among all the filth in the world.

There, the smallest part of us says. There, comes the call. In moments we are but one in mind and goal, a thousand internal voices shouting in unison, every part of us at once.

There, comes the cry, and we are there, and we are reaching every part of us forwards upwards outwards, opening ourself to this new self and its name and history and truth, outstretching extending widening towards it and we feel it and we know it and we embrace it until it is no longer itself and we are no longer wholly ourself but a union a bond unbreaking until its history its name its truth become ours and once more we are but us: indivisible.

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fin.