The Magus: Part 3
This story was made using the solo RPG: The Magus, by momatoes.
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.
I had recently created a new spell, one of my first, that I called the Globe of Thought. On tendrils of ethereal power, the spell invaded the mind of my target, congealing their thoughts into a reflective sphere that I could peer into, and decern 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 supplement 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 its skull by the wizard who slew it, and hung around her neck as a symbol of her power; the Eye of the Demiurge. 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 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 dilapidated 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 cloaked 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 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.
Years I spent a broken shell. My studies languished, my passions dulled. I suffered nightmares unimaginable, and my magics became wild, uncontrolled. I feared my magic, such that even when the horrible echoes of the gemstone faded in my memory, still my fingers balked at weaving the arcane threads once more.
I still practiced, I still learned, I still grew in power; but I did not grow in wisdom. I was a broken soul, and the darkness within me refused to leave.
My cracked self did not remain hidden. Somehow, the people knew that I had become tainted, corrupted somehow. When I walked through the towns before, they spared furtive glances, showed respect, and gave me wide berth. Now, they dared not even look in my direction. They whispered words of fear and disgust. I could hear the anger rising in their tones, and see them eye their weapons. The people of the region fear mad sorcerers, and if they suspected what I had done, they may have called the High Sorcerers to my door or even taken action themselves.
I shunned their company for years. I stopped writing letters to Trella. I hid in my tower, fearful of every sound and twitch of aether.
I felt my anger growing. The future denied me was still out there, but I could not move. Why? Fear of the peasantry? Those hapless fools who did nothing but cringe and struggle beneath the weight of the world? Those who had not the stomach for courageous action? Oh, how I hated them, for taking my future away from me!
I do not know how or why, but eventually I found the strength. I could not continue like this, a haggard and hopeless corpse, shambling about like a madman. I had already done great things, I had an even greater future ahead of me. I would not be stopped by some petty thing like fear.
Somehow I managed to pour myself into one final spell, a spell worth all the rest. I could name it nothing but the Anger of Brokenness, and it took shape over the course of a month. A mighty soldier made of fire, stone, steel, and earth. I thrust my anger deep inside it, watched it burn and blossom. Before the month was out, the Anger’s eyes opened wide, a roar of pure rage spilled from a mouth of flame.
I feared it at first, but I held fast. It was my spell, and so answered only to me. It strained against its bonds and screamed its fury into the air, but I held it chained by my will and magics alone. I tamed my anger then and there, trapped in a shell of metal and wood. I kept it in a dungeon of my own creation, an incorruptible guardian of my tower and person.
The thing still lives, still prowls my tower. Its howls echo in the night…I do not think it hindered the whispers about me.
But I felt stronger. Now I had a guardian who would keep me alive, fueled with all the hatred and loneliness I had experienced in my life. I was ready to continue my studies.
How much time passed before Trella sent me another letter?
Ever since the Eye had tainted my soul, I had forgotten about her. The letters seemed so insignificant. They were nothing more than ink on paper, easily burned in the blink of an eye. She had no magic to share, no wisdom to impart, no reason to speak to me, nor I with her. I ignored her as just another obstacle on my path to true power.
Then, she wrote to me.
It had been years since our last correspondence, and yet her letter arrived as plainly as it always had, in the nervous hands of the local barkeep. I had learned something of him, and he of me, and so he held my letters when I came to town. He was one of the few who maintained their relationship with me, though our conversation had become quite stilted of late.
The letter was short and simple for its contents. Trella had missed our correspondence, and wanted to know if I was ill. She offered to come and meet with me, an offer as impossible as it was touching. She was well into her later years, and travel was hardly feasible.
For her part, her life had been quite comfortable. She had moved closer to town and expanded her library, with the blessing of the locals. New books and travelers come from far-off towns to her little library, and she was training a young boy to take her place when she passed.
It struck me, reading up on her life, that she was just as passionate and devoted as I to her craft. In her old age she had less time in this world than I, and she took a portion of that time to write to me. She wanted me to be healthy and happy. She wished me well. She was a person who saw greater value in me than I had dared.
I wrote back to her and she wrote again to me. Our correspondence restored, I learned something powerful then; the magics of humanity, of connections, of emotion and heart.
Speaking with Trella again made me feel stronger. I was better than I feared and stronger than I hoped. I would not lie back and let the world conquer me.
Since that day, the magics have come easier to me. To know that I am not a thing above or apart, but a thing entwined…I no longer commanded the arcane to bend to my will, but asked it gently, kindly for its aid. I flowed along the currents of magic like a branch in the water.