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An Addition to Soul Puppetry Written and discussed by epic_raccoon, and mthdominator. A beginning note: ALL original lore must still be followed. This is merely an addition! What is the addition to this lore?: With the addition of this lore, the act of create a soul puppet with no longer be as simple as gathering the appropriate materials, and shaping a doll into the image of your victim. The intent of this lore is to provide a more challenging way to go about it, and allow for "official" puppets to be created-- Something to distinguish a soul puppet, from a regular (though disturbing) doll. How does this lore work?: Quite similar to how a puppeteer would conjure his harness from the void, a spell would be cast to conjure a needle of a substance dubbed "Grim". Grim would be used as a substitute for the thread used to sew these dolls together. Grim, quite simply put, is the essence of the puppeteers soul. Just as a puppeteer must harness the soul of his victim through their blood, the puppeteer must sacrifice some of his/her own to create his link to the doll, and utilize his soul to sew these dolls together. Any doll created with use of the puppeteer soul is officially a soul puppet, and may used to cast curses/hexes upon another being. How does Grim work?: Grim works just as yarn would when creating a puppet. It is the soul in a compact state; entirely opaque, and wispy in nature, though solid, and capable of binding the material of the puppet together. When a doll is completed, and the grim has been used to do so, the doll is officially linked to its creator, and its victim. (Note: These puppets must still follow all rules within the original lore. The victims blood must still be used to create the link to their soul, and the materials needed to apply specific curses must be present.) No being is capable of harvesting grim before being tutored by a veteran Puppeteer, already capable of the process. This being said, the magic may not be self taught, as no knowledge of said process is provided to the common man. As the puppeteer’s soul is connected to the victims, any curses performed are now far more grueling for the caster. Whilst they will not suffer the pain the victim might, they will be fatigued, and risk faster corruption of the body. End notes: -It is now possible to officiate a soul puppet. -The magic is contained, and the knowledge must be taught, rather than learned. -The puppeteer suffers further harm from the magic. -Puppets may no longer be made with something as simple as twine. -The process, in its nature, will be far more time consuming.

Philips is a figure, an icon, a strange skull at that. He often talks to Grendor as a friend, an enemy, a frustrated spirit. Grendor, so immersed in his work and skill level as an architect has never had the Social Skill level of that of a Jester or even a peasant. He is often seen as a fool, a hound, a genius too real for his own self good. Many have strayed far to keep from him but others, the more adventurous goers, the ones that had given him the opportunity to reveal a somewhat delightful side to his otherwise repulsive personality have accepted him an his ways into their very own life. The first, more by force than by self choice, was Philips. Philips was once a Clay-Maker. He was just above the average man in his craft but far from the best. He worked often for the King, in his older years, and had seen many of them fall and rise. He had watched the Kings grow mad, become heroes, or rise to the Thrones only to be destroyed by the very foundation on which they built. He was a quiet old man, physically younger for his years and never seemed to grow past the age of sixty-three; he wore the facial blemishes of an old man, but the muscle strength and qualities of a younger. He was wise, being the age far past one-hundred, and had learned a lot. Philips lived in a small monastery just outside the Capitol and lived among the Monks. He attended the prayers and services but had different feelings and beliefs towards blindly following a being never to be seen. None-the-less, he was fond of them as they to him. He lived apart from the rest of the Monks: he did not like the idea of sharing a room with twenty other men and felt he would desire privacy at some moments. So, to appeal to the requests of the old Clay-Maker, the Monks cleared out the Courier House that they stored all of the letters send to the Capitol or other larger towns surrounding. He liked the small home and made it his own by setting up small figurines of clay: children, horses, families, pipes, and other tinkers he would create in times when he was not employed. Philips traveled a lot, being the created of fine pottery and other decor, and had once come across a man with a strange vial of a clear substance. The man said that it would animate anything smaller than a hand and nothing more. The Clay-Maker was thrilled at the idea of his wonderful little community of clay being able to interact with him; as if they were his own family. He then returned to his home with the vial of Animant and was eager to try it on his friends. He pored the Animant over one of the boys: one with knightly clothing and a small wooden sword with detailed, fine runes embedded in the clay sword. The boy ran and jumped around and attacked the other clay figures. The Clay-Maker immediately took the boy and punished him by dipping him in small goblet with wine inside. The boy became motionless and looked as though the life in him had been drained to the very last remains, never to be seen again. The Clay-Maker grew sad at the result and set the boy down, gently. After a while Philips just loathed around his small home and say by the hearth, away from the Monks and the cold Winter air. He took the goblet and pored the whole thing into his mouth and swallowed with disgust as the wine tasted very sickly and gross. He stumbled around and walked out of the home into the white abyss, blinded by the brightness of the snow. He marched on, going to a place he had not known and walked for days and days until his body had reached exhaustion. He collapsed onto the ground and bowed his head. He spoke a small prayer he remembered and fell onto the soft, glistening snow. Years had passed and Philips lay there, motionless yet somewhat alive. His body had long gone except for one: a round, grey, perfectly shaped skull that had seemed to frown somehow but lacked the capability for facial expression. It lay there, frowning at the trees and animals, seeing through the charade of life and witnessing the truth of all. Grendor had been treking across the lands, searching for Schoolmen to learn the teachings of Architecture and mathematics only taught by few in the Realm. He had come across Philips while smoking his long, dark wooden pipe. He took the skull and thought it a beauty, perfectly shaped and a warm grey tone seemed to radiate from the figure. He stuffed it into his bag and continued on, smoking his pipe. Days after he had come across the skull and had forgotten it had been in his bag, whispers came from the skull: insults to Grendor, compliments on the writings that lay within his bag, and other speakings that were quite unpleasant. Grendor removed the skull and held it in his hands, listening to the whispers. He whispered back insults about him lacking a body or attractive features and the skull shouted back at him indescribable things. Grendor tossed the skull into the woods and looked back in his back for a journal. He often felt it soothing to write about his adventures for not many would listen. He took the journal and began writing. As he had finally come to the conclusion of his entry, an old, dusty voice came from within his bag asking to read the writing. "I want to know what you are saying about me so that it may be a heroic tale of the Great Clay-Maker Philips!" Grendor reached into his bag as he set his book down on a log and found that the skull lay there, looking back with a frown. "How are you hear?" he asked as he took the skull from the bag. "I threw you into the forest, yet here you are, spouting out nonesense about your great, mystical powers as a dirty bone of a man that played with clay." "Why are you so relaxed about conversing with bone? Are you a daft, do you not have the brains of a small child?" the Skull said, snapping his jaw around. "You sure are a mean little head," Grendor replied as he dropped the skull next to the book. "How can you see, anyway? You haven't got any eyes." "Magyk?" the Skull said, trying to move closer to the words that lay on the page. "How am I talking and alive? How could I possibly be here if I don't even have shoulders? What else could it possibly be? I was just an Old Clay-Maker; a damn good one at that. I drank some nasty wine and here I am, talking to a daft." "So, you are a magykal Wizard that took the form of a skull?" Grendor asked. "Yes, Boy, I am a great and powerful Wizard that can only be summoned by the blessings of women and wine!" The Skull read the entry and sighed. "You don't even know my own name. Isn't it obvious? I shouted the Great and Powerful Philips! How could you not gather at least that much information?" the Skull said, mockingly. "All right, Great and Powerful Wizard. Your name is Philips, mine is Grendor H'ghar-Builder!" he said, proud of the name. "Is that a relation to Tom Builder II? Are you his daft son?" "No, it was given to me by my father, a stone mason." "He must have made the prettiest rocks in all the land," Philips said as he tried to hop around. "Yes, he did. He also had arms, legs, wine, and a beautiful wife, living a happy life with an entire body and never resorted to talking to daft young Elves," Grendor said, frustrated as he shoved Philips deeply into the bag and continued through the thick forest.