Short Stories

Thomas stared up at the lighthouse.

When he had first arrived, it had looked like a beacon of hope, a place to hide and live out the rest of his days; a stone tomb he had interred himself in to rest at last. Now, it looked like a jail, a prison of intangible cell-mates who tormented him every day with their absent lives.

He used to try to ignore them. He spent his days struggling to do his work without acknowledging their presence, and it hadn’t worked. They had only begun to shout louder, manifesting as horrible images of suffering and half-eaten corpses.

He began to talk to them under his breath. Now he muttered to them without always realizing he was. He even muttered in his sleep; he had woken himself up several times with his own frantic gibbering.

Sometimes he wondered if he was a prisoner or the jailor.

The weeks were long in the lighthouse. Time passed slowly for Thomas as he muttered his way up and down the lighthouse steps. He cursed the chills and the heat, he spat on the creaking wood and sneered at the fragrence of rotting seaweed that permiated the stacks of flotsam that lined the walls.

“Ten,” he muttered, after counting. “Ten of you, eh? No matter. I’m ready for you. Got my own, see? Got my own.”

Tending the lighthouse was a simple enough job. He changed out the oil every day, adjusted the valves and chimney as required, and that was that. All he had left to do was explore the detritus of the sea and avoid any ghosts.

Two lights shone in the darkness.

The first was bright and blazing, a pyre fed by two resevoirs of oil. It sputtered and flamed all through the night, casting its rays through the dark and foggy air. A thousand ships had seen that light in their time, carefully keeping their distance from the craggy and rocky shoreline that threatened their hulls.

The second was not nearly so warm nor bright. It sat atop a tiny candle, and served little more than to shed a dim glow over the bone-yellow paper being written on by the lighthouse keeper, a Mr. Thomas Salford.

This story was made using the solo RPG The Magus, by momatoes. It is a “crunchy” journaling game: while there are only seven “scenes,” you have to make choices about your character that drastically adjust the results of the story.

Eventually, the High Sorcerers learned of me, but by then it was too late. Several of the rasher youths tried to dethrone me from my tower but I had grown too powerful for them. Two lay dead, another fled while acknowledging my strength. The wiser sorcerers granted me clemency; a farce and a pantomime, but welcome all the same. I would not have been able to resist them all had they united against me.

But I was one of them now; a Sorcerer in my own right. I did not need to hide my self away and skulk through the underbrush like a timid vole. Now I was the tiger, claiming the region as my own territory.

I dreamed my ghost regularly, drifting through the streets and forests of my land. I saw the people muttering in hushed tones, disgusted at my rule. Many left my lands, eager to live free from my protection. I do not begrudge them their foolishness; I took from them rarely and their blind hatred of my power harmed only themselves. I did not even punish those who spoke out openly against my claims, as I easily could have.

It might have gone differently. Had I not had Trella’s kind heart and gentle words to keep me from the darkness, I might have gone down the same path as so many others.

Time passed slowly for me. I studied, practiced, plied my trade while scraping together what living I could from the surrounding lands. I often went hungry if I could not find simple work in the nearby towns, and every moment spent away from my practice was a blade that pierced my heart.

As the years passed I created more spells, discovered minor tricks and cantrips that provided me some amount of comfort. I delved into the old artifacts and found a measure of their use. I even managed to provide meager repairs to the tower, enough to keep it from collapsing down on my head. It was something of a home now; not nearly as cozy or friendly as Trella’s, but certainly better than a tent or cave.

Things might have continued in this manner, steadily improving as I toiled towards greater and more exotic astral power, had I not found the gemstone.

In the end, I decided to ask Trella if I could stay for a time, to both peruse her small library and help in any way I could to repay her kindness. She seemed delighted at the suggestion, and so for several months I shared her house, spending my days tending the yard or working in the nearby town, or studying the books in her library. The more I read, the more facinated I became by this strange and wonderful world. She had books on flowers and trees, books about animals and insects, books about stones and how rivers moved and even some on the secret ways of the guilds. Books about making iron or tanning hides. Books about brewing ale or making candles from wax.

I kept up my practice from my own book, late at night after she had gone to bed. I had looked long and hard through her library for books on magic, but only a few volumes provided any minor insight, and they were written by Royal Witchhunter hands.

The most useful book was a diary by the old Royal Witchhunter Primus, Fenlark the Bloody. In it, he went into solacious detail about rituals he had disrupted, profane acts he had prevented, and provided far more information than might have been prudent. His descriptions of magical instrumentation and unholy sigils provided me with keys to unlock hithertoo unknown secrets in my book, and as such my abilities grew in strength.

My name is Mari. I had a family name, many years ago, but once I chose to abandon my family’s path in the world, to strike out on my own and master the mysteries of the unknown, I thought it best to forsake any connection with this past.

Magic is a forbidden thing. The high churches burn witches and warlocks, while the high sorcerers — too powerful to be stopped, even by the armies of the united Kingdoms — are quick to destroy those who appear too eager, ambitious, or dangerous. There is no confusion as to why; Magic is a powerful and dangerous thing. The fae and enchanted creatures of the wild use magic freely, and their corruption causes daily strife. The dark mage-lords of old destroyed kingdoms with their power, and the High Sorcerers are too powerful to hinder.

Six Trials of the Weavers, along with 1888 Amenti, was an experiment to see what short-stories could be created through solo journalling RPGs. The following is the behind-the-scenes dice-rolls and card-pulls that created the short-story, along with some final thoughts.

Wretched thing.

Holly opened her eyes. The bugs were gone, her flesh was whole. The path was nowhere to be seen.

We are not Spiders. We do not Lie.

The mists slowly began to receed, drawing away like reverant priests. Holly stood up, her eyes scarcely believing what they were seeing.

We are Weavers, and we have tested you thrice.

The three figures were there, standing at the other side of a long bridge. The buzzing that had once filled her head now echoed from deep below in the chasm.

One final test awaits you.