Part 2
This story was made using the solo RPG: The Magus, by momatoes.
I left Trella’s library half a year after I first crossed its threshold, wiser and stronger than I had been. I swore to her to find a way to repay her generosity, and she sent me on my way with enough food and supplies to get to the next town to the west.
I had, however, a different destination in mind.
Among Trella’s books was a book on the history of the region, going back many generations. A brief mention of a Dia Garoma caught my eye, as Di is an old form of address for wizards. Garoma lived in a region far to the south, in an old tower near a large lake, before he died during a peasant uprising in the local region. If my suspicions were correct, this Dia Garoma was a local sorcerer, possibly slain by a mob of peasants, or more likely destroyed due to carelessness or lax practices while practicing his art.
It took me many weeks before I found another sign of civilization — a tiny hamlet of only five or six buildings, filled with farmers and a blacksmith. They were a quiet and wary people, but sharing the few meager coins I had left opened their lips, if not their hearts. They knew the ruins I spoke of, and refused to give me more than cursory directions, as the region was surely haunted, cursed by the mysterious monsters of the forests.
I put no stock in their folk-tales, more fool me. I made my way to the tower ruins, and began the aching labor of uncovering the secrets left behind.
It took many hours of labor to shift many of the cracked and aging stones. I found little that had not rotted away, torn by rodent teeth or pecked to pieces by curious beaks. Shards of ragged tapestry hung limply while rust-covered metal bent and sagged like rotten tree-branches.
At long last, I found what I had been searching for; a trap door that had been covered by a collapsing wall. It took what little strength I had left to pry open the door and descend into the darkness, lighting my way with only a tiny candle.
The celler had begun its collapse many years ago. Tree-roots and spills of soil broke through the stone walls and ceiling, threatening a cave-in at any moment. It was not bravery that pushed me onward, but hubris. I could not concieve that the world would take away my victory, not when it was so close at hand. I know better now, but I was lucky then that I did not perish benieth a mountain of earth and stone.
Deep benieth the tower, I found what I had saught: the old wizard’s laboratory. There I found books and scrolls that were so old as to be nearly useless, but even the few remaining snippets were useful. It was humbling, in fact, to see how much had turned to dust, and yet even the scraps were priceless jewels to me.
I spent longer than I should have in that cellar, pouring over what I could find, ignoring the faint dripping sounds and periodic creaks that echoed in the dark. It wasn’t until I found the chest that I truly considered leaving: it was large, the lid was cracked, and inside I could see a book and something else wrapped in silver silk. I managed to pry open the lid and threw everything I could find into the empty space before dragging the chest up the stairs and into the light.
I set up camp in the remains of the tower and resolved to not move from the spot until I had learned what secrets I had unearthed.
The silk held a collection of strange magical artifacts, items I had not seen before and could not guess at their function. I knew better, even so young, than to blindly experiment with such items, so I set them aside, carefully wrapped, to study when I had more time and wisdom.
The book was, in fact, Dia Garoma’s journal. It was similar in many ways to the book I am writing in now. It spoke of his history, his family, his experiments and explorations across the far reaches of the arcane. In many ways it was more helpful than a simple spell might have been, for it showed me how sorcerers think.
This is not to say it did not provide me practical information as well. Luckily, Garoma chronacled his experiments and detailed his discovery of a great spell, which he entitled “Dreamer’s Ghost.” A rite of great complexity and danger, the spell dragged forth the power of a sleeper’s mind, placing them into a coma from which they will not wake for a full cycle of the moon. During this rest, the soul of the dreamer separates from their body and becomes unteathered to time and space. The secrets of the spheres are open to the dreamer, lending them the power to appear anywhere they wish, and do anything they will. Such is the power of dreams, that even the strangest things are made simple.
I followed along with his experiments, tracking how he adjusted his art with each failure, and why. I found reminents of his old laboratory equipment that a steady supply of elbow grease and makeshift efforts turned into passible tools. Scraps of old dried scrolls provided clues as to what worked, while the journal hinted at what would not.
At long last, I pieced together the mighty spell. I drew the sigil around my cot, prepared the sacred ingredients harvested by my own hand, and spoke the incantations as clearly and precicely as a bell.
That night, I dreamed of flying. I saw the ruined tower in which I slept, and with a wave of my hand made it anew. In the blink of an eye I was next to Trella in her cottage, watching as she finished her supper. Another instant and I was at my parent’s side, watching them sleep undisturbed by nightmares of their lost child. I danced on clouds and sang on mountaintops. I swam in the deep sea and watched the sun rise in the hardest desert. I felt nothing, for my skin lay still and quiet in the cradle of magic.
The first few weeks were spent in frivolity and drunken delight. I was dreaming, yes, but everything was real. It was not until the third week, and the memory of my physical form loomed large that I returned to my body to inspect its condition.
I need not have worried, the spell held fast. The tower, however, was not made whole as it had been when I first left. My dream magics were little more than illusions, dreams themselves that lasted only as long as I willed them so. Still a great power, and one worthy of a mighty sorcerer. I could summon storms to frighten villagers, or monsters to distract enemy sorcerers. Anything I could imagine I could present as real, and those who had not the power to see through my magics would be fooled.
The last week I spent testing my abilities, to see how far they could be push. The last two days I did not move from my body, considering the power I had attained. I left my body only once to spy once more on Trella, to see how she was getting on. Her life was simple, tending to the ten gods she worshipped and sometimes traveling to the nearby towns to sell her services as a scholor and teacher. I spied on her many times, and never did I understand how such a humble life could be so satisfying.
I could not understand her. There was something in her that I had never had; a satisfaction that I had, at various times throughout my life, categorized as resignation, cowardice, stupidity, divinity, and a lack of imagination. Eventually, I stopped searching for what it was that she had that I did not, and over the years I came to resign myself to my lack of understanding.
After I returned to my body that first time, I stood up in a body that felt older and weaker than it had ever felt before. I hobbled my way to the window, flush with the victory of my first great success. I decided to claim the tower as my own, repair it if I could, and spend my days becoming a sorcerer worthy of the title.
As I watched the sun rise, I saw a single eagle take flight, calling out it’s hunting cry. I knew then that I was the eagle, and I was just beginning to soar.
Time passed slowly for me. I studied, practiced, plyed 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 homely 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.
I had recently created a new spell, one of my first, that I called the Globe of Thought. On tendrils of etherial power, the spell invaded the mind of my target, congealing their thoughts into a reflective sphere that I could peer into, and descern exactly what was going through their mind. It was a minor trick, as far as I was concerned — what mattered the thoughts of peasants to me? But I had learned such small things could prove useful in unexpected ways, so I completed my research and added the spell to my grimoire.
I had taken to exploring far off lands as a Dreamer’s Ghost, to suppliment my research. As a spirit I could not be detected by those without great power, so I leapt through miles of rock and inches of steel to spy on minor sorcerers and find long lost tombs. I scoured libraries from far off lands to hunt for ancient sorcerers and draw their secrets out from their bones. I was ever cautious, as the eyes of the High Sorcerers were many, and subtle, but when I was but a dream their gaze was less piercing.
I found little, scraps enough to keep me searching, but one day I found mention of an ancient legend of a god’s eye that held unimaginable powers. The eye had been plucked from the skull of the god by the wizard who slew it, and hung around her neck as a symbol of her power. She ruled for centuries, dying only when a band of seven sorcerers united against her. According to legend, the sorcerers buried the eye with her, to be forgotten forever.
This was the power I sought, and so I scoured through histories and atlases, searching for the location of this lost tomb. It took years of searching before I found it, buried beneath a thriving green swamp.
The stones had long since been covered by green, and what few pieces of the outer tomb remained were broken and covered in mud. Only the top of the building poked out of the water, and it was only because of my ethereal nature that I could explore the sunken building.
It was a small mausoleum, fit for a single corpse, but there was no body inside. Instead, the room was covered in ancient sigils and markings of magic. In the center of the room set in an iron clasp sat a gemstone of bright green. As I approached, the gemstone began to whisper to me.
It promised me power even greater than what I had already attained. It swore that with its help, I need no longer hide in a dilapedated tower, hiding from the High Sorcerers and avoiding the Kings and Queens of this land. I could strike down my foes and conquer my desires as easily as snapping my fingers. Such things it promised me!
Before my hand could move to grasp the gemstone, a cloked figure emerged from the shadows. “Beware,” it said, “Know that the gemstone lies to you, and will bring you only corruption and death. Turn back now, before it is too late.”
I had learned much in my time in the tower, but the magics of the gemstone were unknown to me. The sigils were strange and foreign. I knew the gemstone could teach me much, whether I listened to its whispers or not. My indecision was swift, as I struck on what I thought was a grand solution: the Globe of Thought could tell me what the gemstone’s plans truly were. If it held darkness in its mind, I would leave it there forever.
As much as I knew, I was still ignorant, however, in the ways of the void. When I looked into the gemstone’s mind, I saw such horrors that I could not even concieve of. My mind was bent until it cracked, sending horrors and madness into my very soul.
Even now, so many years later, I know something was taken from me. Looking back through my memories, I know that I am not the grand sorcerer I might have become. The gemstone was doubtlessly some trap, perhaps a snare for the weakwilled and easily corrupted. I am fortunate that I escaped with my life, but I will not seek that gemstone again.
How little I still knew, how foolish I still was.