A Tale from the Desert: Sorcery and Power

[Minuvas 3193]

 

The Lords of Sorcerery:
Misery in the Desert

The dark-skinned Farfolk man hoisted another bucket of water from the cool Oasis, pouring it over his forehead, drinking in the life saving liquid. He thrust the bucket towards a boy, pressing it to his chest.

“Drink” The man exclaimed

The boy guzzled the water, tired from their labours - sweating glistening from his brow. “Will all days be as difficult as this?” said the young man.

The man paused, “Boy. You know nothing of hardship. Our people lived under the yolk of Warlords, enslaved for centuries - until Fahrazad. These times are troublesome, but our labors allow us to survive. Our Lords will return once again”

The boy took another sip, “It is true than, Father. The great Lords of Sorcerery shall save us?”

The man let out a loud laugh “Hah! Save us!? Hamazad, have I taught you nothing. The Sorcerer-Lords do not save us, they rule us. There will be battle, great Kaggath amongst powerful houses. Unimaginable struggles of power, and even more spectacular displays of sorcerous power - and we shall serve in their retinues, fight in their name, bleed for their causes. Then….then we will know misery…but we shall also know more….”

The boy Hamazad, looking confused said “I do not understand Father….we seek misery?”

Amused, the Father unsheathed his scimitar, it was marked and etched, saying ‘Fahrazad’. “That misery is what forged us, breaking our shackles, allowing us to seek something beyond suffering. It hardened us, purged us of weakness. It brought us glory, but ultimately it brought us freedom and liberty. Our family fought as Sanfi, honored mercenaries, for House Fahrazad - and no greater joy in life did I have than drawing the blood of our enemies. The Mage-Lords demand much, but their pursuits unlock more. When you are older I shall tell you when the last of Hohkmat's spires did rise on the horizon. When the name sorcerer inspired fear and awe, when Orc and men did quiver at the thought. Imagine, a city powered by magic - the water was always warm, hell’s….the streets had magic brooms that swept the floors. We fought and we killed many demons and apostates. When the Magi rule, our tribe once more had power, and honor…”

The boy interrupted, saying “But what of the Mage’s Gui…”

He spit, “Boy! The Mage-Lords must prove their power, sipping tea and reading books is not enough to earn the respect of the tribe of Hakad.”

Again, curious, the boy scratches his chin and says “And what of the Imperial Ma….”

This time, he drew a backhand from his Father, the pommel of his scimitar striking the boys chin “You insult the Mage-Lords. They do not submit themselves to servitude, no King of Sorcerers wears an Imperial yolk. We cannot understand their schemes, we await….eagerly….the sorcerous-lords cannot be contained. Our rebellion begins when they take what they are owed, and we will follow. Until then....pick up your bucket of water and tend to the camels”

[Morigung-oog 5697]

OOC: This response was written using the Conduits of Enlightenment lore to explore Valindra's own feelings towards Hohkmat. This should not be considered common knowledge.

 

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The ruins of the once bastion of Magi in her mindscape were always the same: crumbled spires, charred buildings and total absence of life.. Valindra walked them as one walks through memory, each step echoing off a ground that was not the ground; under a sky that was not truly the sky. Not much effort was required to summon the ruins to the front of her mind, the sight, sounds, smells etched into her mind. They came to her as they always did. Hohkmat rose around her, and fell to nothingness in her wake. It was once a city of prosperity and progress, now a carcass of stone and hollow pillars. 

 

The 'fenn stepped across  the rubble of the old marketplace. where floating lanterns once bobbed in the air. They were gone now; shattered and crushed on the ground. Her hand rested on a toppled column, the collapsed entrance to the undercity she once called her own. The head of the statue of her once friend, turned foe that they'd erected in the wake of her departure, intended to forever loom above her creation lay now, half exposed beneath a pile of rubble.

 

Valindra's lips curled into that of a sardonic smirk. She always had the last laugh.

 

She walked deeper. Her footsteps left no prints, the sand and ash of her mindscape sand never kept track of where one had been. The great central tower of Hohkmat loomed broken, cleaved in half as though split by some divine axe. Still, even ruined, it reached for the sky with desperate yearning, as though clinging to the promise of progress now shattered.

 

She reached the base of the shattered tower and placed her palm against its cold surface. The stone hummed faintly, a distorted echo of the Void that once saturated every stone of this place. A familiar hum, one she considered dangerous. The stone groaned and flickered. 

 

“There was glory here. I will not deny it. But glory without humility, discipline, is often the precursor to disaster, tragedy.”

 

The chamber of the magisters still stood, in the recesses of her mind, yet three of the four thrones lay reduced to ash.. The only one that remained left a bad, bitter taste in Valindra's mouth. Her nose wrinkled in revulsion- the Throne of Paradox, a once valued ideal utterly tainted. The original Magister of Paradox never enjoyed the pomp and circumstance of thrones, crowns and gowns. Such were utterly beneath her.

 

“Some histories,” she whispered, glancing to the lorraine that hung from her belt, “are tombs. And some nations are graves that must remain closed, lest we unleash the horrors locked away.”

 

"Hohkmat can never return."

 

 

 

 

 

 

[Murdervish 308]

An ancient sahir, trying her best to impart the arts and wisdom among the youth of her people, had been encouraging them to rethink the imperial propaganda with stories of the Caliphate's sages and the peoples of the Hakad. She did not expect that more examples of her teachings would rise from the sand so soon.