Oraculum

The Nightmare of Dunwick Manor

Although he had hitherto not perceived any indication of fatigue, despite having stood leaning against the wall near a dim corner for what seemed to have been the best part of the day, finally contriving to seat himself upon the segment of a bench vacated by a corpulent adventurer was for Ectemund a singularly relieving experience. Nor was the elation exclusively physical in nature: notwithstanding the undeniable fact that the fewer participants were eventually to set off upon this expedition, for such it seemed it would be, after all, the fewer assets its body would have disposed of, a lesser number of them would likewise have entailed less distracting and fundamentally unnecessary tangents, not to mention a lesser likelihood of provision shortages, which could certainly not be defined as an unwelcome development. Besides, the vast majority, not to say the visible entirety, of those present appeared to him to belong to such sorts as more often constituted an obstacle to one's endeavours than anything else, unconcerned as they were with anything beyond practical, palpable and often perceived benefits; not that such a stance was in itself more reprehensible than many others, he allowed, yet it was little more than a nuisance when encountered on a serious venture, similarly to stinging gnats and damp weather. Ah, as concerned damp weather...

Ectemund winced as he abruptly straightened his arms and right leg, which were beginning to wax torpid through their lengthy inaction, and their junctures snapped into place with what must have been an audible report, accompanied by a brief, yet pernicious burst of pain and an unpleasant sensation of brittleness in his limbs. The journey to Roses had led him into a swampy region whose exhalations, which a stouter and, perhaps, younger constitution than his might have shrugged off with comparative ease, had seeped into his bones, rendering them, it seemed to him, water-logged and prone to such rupture-like accesses. Truly, he had been assured by a physician some months before that such symptoms were the forerunners of some chronic ailment as inevitable as the end itself, which would have overtaken him no matter where he might have strayed; yet he was nonetheless convinced that the land he had now wandered into had at least precipitated its advent. Had Sigismund not mentioned rumours of some nefarious influence surrounding this place? Ah, the tricks blind fear of the unknown all too often played upon the imagination... There was surely nothing preternatural in the weariness of his frame, and he wondered just how great a part of those voices had been engendered by some outrageously prosaic cases of illness, as it had all too frequently been the case with "cursed" bogs and marshes he had encountered in the course of his studies.

He caught himself upon his own thoughts. Nay, sceptical jesting aside, there was, in sooth, something curious about the town and, as far as he had seen, the forest beyond it. The desolation and dilapidation he had witnessed were, in themselves, neither extraordinary nor interesting; however, from a number of minutiae he had observed in their appearance, there did seem to exist some particular set of conditions to them, the perfect likeness of which he did not recall having heretofore beheld. The local plant life was markedly bizarre, with such elements as black flowers, an abnormal proliferation of lichens on virtually any organic surface, including grass, and most inorganic ones as well, and misshapen horrors which might have been the distant, degenerate descendants of farm crops standing toe-to-toe, if such an expression was appropriate, with the hardiest of weeds. A mere glimpse of this forsaken stock would doubtless have rendered his esteemed botanical colleagues ecstatic, and had recalled to his mind a previous experience in the environs of a long-abandoned woodland shrine which, he had been told, radiated a dark corruption, and had proved a most fascinating find indeed. There was, of course, the possibility of all these splendid abnormalities being eventually discovered to originate from some perfectly explicable cause, yet was that not always the case? For now, the environs of Dunwick Manor shewed promise, and this was the utmost which could be hoped for at this stage.

Having reassured himself on this account, Ectemund cast a glance about the tavern, which by that time had grown largely deserted. The remaining figures seemed, in the evening penumbra, not to differ exceedingly from the majority of those who had gathered, with high yet fragile hopes, in the morning. Nonetheless, a sudden thought drove him to squint his right eye in alarm and attempt to repeat the survey as inconspicuously as possible. After all, what assurance did he have that one (or more, or all) of these shapes might not be intently scrutinising him, awaiting the most suitable moment to nonchalantly approach him and request "some moments of private conversation", perhaps fingering a hilt under their cloak to lend their low tones further emphasis? Had not both Erfried and Hulzen been accosted by such gentlemen within the last year, and refused to set foot without the University ever since? The warden's contact in Asterwatch was safe, of that there was no doubt; yet was there not a danger that, unbeknownst even to them, this invitation of sorts might have been a scheme to lure out the most zealous investigators of - he winced - "unsavoury" matters? Admittedly, the King probably had better occupations to fill his time than these. But the King had many subordinates, each of whom doubtless aspired to be rewarded for some display of initiative. And who, it may be asked, would be the ideal casualties of their ploys, if not the aforementioned investigators, who were of no use - no use! - to anyone either way?

Lost, despite himself, in such grim reflections, Ectemund barely restrained himself from gathering into a defensive posture when the grinning innkeeper approached him with a loaded tray and set down a mug before him. Somewhat mystified, inasmuch as he had not called for anything of that sort, he peered disconsolately at the mug's contents. It was not far worse than the usual University fare, especially now that funds were running low (they had been running low for as long as anyone could recall), but it was nonetheless not something with which he was impatient to make his throat acquainted. Thereupon he noticed a startling detail - a napkin. Not even in the most opulent taverns he had lodged in had he been treated to such a luxury, and its presence in such a forlorn place as this one was puzzling at the very least. Lifting the scrap of cloth to examine it, he saw that beneath it lay a petal of one of the curious black flowers which abounded about the town, and upon its nether side there was scrawled a word - "Stale". No, "Stable". More baffled than ever, Ectemund lifted his gaze and scanned the room once again, but could barely discern anything in the gathering darkness. Seeing no other alternative, he attempted to suppress his apprehension, which was far from being dispersed by the cryptic message, and awaited any further developments with as imperturbable a mien as he could muster.

The Nightmare of Dunwick Manor

Name: Professor Ectemund Aitherweld.
Age: Forty-two years.
Gender: Male.
Race: Human.
Position and Trade: Ectemund occupies the position of historian and - informally, for reasons which shall be made clear in his biography - Professor of Occult History at the University of Eltensbrook. This institution, founded in the wake of the beginning of the Free Era, has, despite its members' best efforts (though lately these have been less and less frequently manifested), remained, to this day, a marginal influence on the academic landscape, tending to focus upon matters pertaining to unorthodox and esoteric spheres of knowledge rather than scientific and technological innovation. This, along with vague and unconfirmed yet persistent rumours of questionable pursuits and practices (including, at one point, the vivisection of Fae and half-breeds and the reconstruction of certain ancient ritualistic paraphernalia of ill renown) held within the University's walls, has resulted in it receiving little in the way of positive attention - and financial support - from the throne, though it has attracted the inquisitive gaze of more than one Royal Censure official.
Ectemund's field of expertise comprises the recordings of magic use throughout known history, with especial care devoted to unearthing the modality of such events. Though such a shadowy, uncertain and unwholesome subject would offer little appeal to a serious scholar, by the means of both notes and works left by his predecessors and extensive individual research of documents such as chronicles, "arcane" grimoires of varying degrees of genuineness, records of unusual legal cases and field reports of the Traitor's War, as well as investigation of folk tales and various locations associated with strange happenings, Ectemund has pieced together a considerable body of lore. The specific details of the overwhelming majority of the cases he has encountered continue, however, to elude him, much to his frustration.

Appearance: Though he is not yet effectively old, years of dedicated labour have left their mark on Ectemund. His frame, though of average size, is slightly diminished by a stoop acquired by poring over numerous manuscripts; his complexion has grown almost sinisterly pale due to infrequent exposure to sunlight, and the skin on his brow and about his eyes is abundantly creased and furrowed as a result of the frequent squinting which has accompanied the steady deterioration of his sight. In other features, such as the unkempt, palpably receding hair of a discoloured chestnut hue and a chin which has seldom undergone more than a hasty shaving, as well as an almost alarming leanness brought about by the practice of allotting the bare minimum of necessary time, at irregular hours, to such a vital function as nourishment, age has been abetted in its consumption by ill-keeping and unhealthy habits. All of this combines to form a gaunt, almost spectral figure which it would be difficult to describe as anything approaching comeliness.

Personality: Being already endowed by nature with a rather secretive, solitary temperament, Ectemund's studies and profession have done little to temper these traits of his character. In fact, the pursuit of occult knowledge, fraught as it is with subtlety, as well as the antagonism encountered in these endeavours from the side of royal representatives and enforcers and common folk alike have contributed to their strengthening and proliferation in guises and mannerisms, causing him to grow so reserved and diffident as to seem almost misanthropic. On the other hand, years of inquiries and investigations have likewise taught him that valuable information may come from the most unexpected sources, if these are properly approached; therefore, when dealing with people from without the narrow circle of his colleagues, he takes care to affect at least some degree of interest in his interlocutors, subtly prompting them to reveal what they might know concerning the matters which he deems worthy of attention. Such expressions of sympathy as may come from him, however, are virtually never sincere. Though not actually hostile toward anyone in particular, Ectemund sees others, whether they be human or not, merely as potential research subjects or targets for interrogation; any consideration of them is inwardly overlooked, as it is not conductive to his research.
The latter forms, as could be inferred, the greatest focus of his intellectual abilities. Ever since his earliest youth, Ectemund has been driven by an insatiable, morbid curiosity to pry into the darkest, most recondite and forgotten secrets known to him, or indeed anyone. His fascination with magic and the occult arts seems to be the most coherent, structured and obstinate manifestation of this tendency to date. In its foundation there might be glimpsed the aberration pervading his innermost entity and defining his entire character: rather than view the most sinister aspects of the unknown and radically different with dread and suspicion, he sees in them a lure more potent than anything already within his grasp seems to offer, and raises their exploration to the state of his life's most exalted goal.
Vices:
- As mentioned, Ectemund is perpetually spurred on by his unwholesome curiosity, which renders him capable of fixating upon various details regardless of the inconvenience it might cause.
- His generally suspicious demeanour and unwonted interest in strange matters often make him appear untrustworthy to those with whom he interacts.
- His tendency to direct his attention exclusively toward those things which appear to him relevant to his endeavours often causes him to overlook factors of practical importance, impairing his ability to formulate plans and courses of action.
- He possesses an intense and irrational aversion toward high temperatures, and by extension fires, furnaces and all sorts of incandescent substances and locations. He is intensely reluctant to approach any such place and object, and lengthy exposure may result in an outburst of brief, yet violent fever-like mentally induced illness.
- In the course of his research and experiments he has grown, presumably by accident, addicted to a particular hallucinogenic drug reportedly used during ancestral shamanistic rituals. Failure to consume a portion of it at least once every fortnight will lead to him being wracked by painful spasms and his mind being clouded by a sensation as of an oppressive, nausea-inducing void.
Boons:
- Ectemund is as well-versed in his semi-academic discipline as any "professional" occultist, if not more so, and disposes of a wealth of knowledge regarding magic usage and its history.
- His observational and mnemonic skills, already notable at their natural extent, have been sharpened by his scholarly activities to attain great heights, and may serve him well in virtually any situation involving exploration and prying.
- Through analysing multitudes of documents, more or less intelligible, he has reached a remarkable skill in interpreting and employing linguistic intricacies, as well as connecting clues and hints.
- His nigh-obsessive thirst for occult lore often aids him in subduing fear and apprehension in the face of unknown menace and horrifying sights, and he is often unfazed by the most eerie and disquieting of locations and atmospheres.

History: Ectemund Aitherweld was born to a moderately wealthy merchant family which, having originally established itself in trade through logging activity, had long hence transferred its seat to the capital of the Star Kingdom. As he displayed, since an early age, a propensity toward prevalently intellectual pursuits along with the markings of uncommon mental capability, his father saw in him a possibility of raising the family's renown from the world of a nascent bourgeoisie of sorts into some more highly regarded sphere - for instance, the promising field of scientific research. It was with some dismay that he saw his son drawn to weird legendry and folk tales rather than "actually scientific" disciplines; however, being persuaded by the resourceful youth that even such things as those may be made the object of what would qualify as perfectly acceptable "science", he eventually acquiesced to allowing him to continue his studies in this direction in the best institution to be found to that purpose - the shadowy University of Eltensbrook.
In the latter Ectemund found an atmosphere of sinister secrets and furtive complicity perfectly suited for his inclinations and interests, and was promptly accepted into the local academic community after having, on more than one occasion, shown proof of his extraordinary dedication to his pursuits. The University was so much to his liking, in fact, that he elected to remain there until he had accomplished his goals, and possibly even afterwards. Its other inhabitants did not object to this design, and, even when Ectemund's dissertation was placed under ban by the Royal Censure for containing "undesirable materials", unofficially elected him a professor in his chosen field. Not even the passing away of his parents would have stirred him for long, were it not that, among the various properties he discovered he had inherited, there was a curious chest containing what was described as "family heirlooms": namely, several large tomes written in an indecipherable code composed of strange symbols, some of which he had already encountered in his studies in most fearsome connections, and a large dagger of strange make, with an angular, jagged blade seemingly designed for evisceration, other cryptic signs carved upon the hilt and forged from an alloy wherein iron was combined with an unknown metal, granting the weapon an extraordinary light weight and solidity and apparently preserving it from rust. Curious as to how such things should have come into his family's possession, Ectemund initiated a genealogical exploration, which eventually led to the discovery that the name of Aitherweld had once, the span of many generations before, been associated with an edict proclaiming the illegality of some forest-dwelling cult whose name and patrons had been lost to time. Beyond this, his research did not yield any further information, and the mystery of his ancestors' association with that forgotten sect has since woven itself into the scope of Ectemund's interest, promising, in his view, to prove of great assistance in the most daring of his endeavours.

Weapons / Equipment / Supplies:
- Ectemund carries the dagger he discovered among his inherited goods as a weapon, finding that holding it grants him a strange sense of boldness.
- He is clad in the travelling leather-bound clothes which have served him well on many a field expedition in the past.
- Along with himself, he carries some notes wherein is condensed the information he judged most relevant to his current enterprise, as well as some excerpts of the cryptic inherited volumes' code, and a supply of clean vellum and writing implements.
- Among his supplies there are provisions, mainly in the form of bread and cheese, to last for some two weeks if consumed sparingly.
- Finally, he bears with himself slightly over an ounce of the drug he must regularly ingest, in the shape of a fine powder. It is worthy of note that, if consumed by one not gradually accustomed to its use or introduced directly into the bloodstream, it will cause dangerous poisonings which, if not treated, might be fatal. This drug is made with certain rare materials, and a surrogate cannot be produced on the spot.

The Contract:
The pale light of the late afternoon shone through the library's high, somewhat narrow windows, falling upon the deftly positioned table strewn with scrolls grown ragged at their edges and volumes whose pages were yellow and faded with age and the man seated before it. In the bleak, colourless luminescence his twisted, bony finger, already gnarled and bloodless, seemed almost skeletal as it ran along the lines which had once been laboriously traced by some unknown hand, as though striving to scrape away the superficial semantics of the document's contents in order to uncover a deeper, esoteric import concealed beneath these tiresome and irrelevant memorials. Yet, as it reached the end of the page and slid off upon the table's coarse surface, borne more by its momentum rather than the strength of the hand seemingly driving it, it grew manifest that both this fantastic toil and its more prosaic counterpart performed by the eyes and mind of the reader had met with insuccess. Ectemund shook his head and, releasing a barely audible sigh, lifted his gaze from the writing, only to cast it into the shadows which had gathered in a corner of the imposing chamber. He had, in sooth, not expected these accounts to provide any especially illuminating insights, nor, for that matter, anything of interest at all; yet, until that moment, hope had stubbornly nested within him, fending off the meaningless words as though they were so many blows, ere the conclusion, just as meaningless, had finally constrained it to bow before factual evidence. If not else, he reflected, attempting to raise his spirits, he had determined that this document was indeed of no use to him, and the day could not be said to have been altogether wasted. Despite his best efforts, and the fact that this argument was as sound as any, he nonetheless failed to be convinced.

At that moment he was interrupted by a sequence of approaching steps, light and leisurely, which came from the direction of the door leading to the library's first room. Lifting his eyes, he saw it was Sigismund the warden – a curious sight in these regions of the University, as the portly yet diminutive fellow seldom visited the library, and in fact was almost never seen in the western wing at all. “Why, here you are!” he exclaimed, brandishing what appeared to be some sort of missive in his right hand as he approached the table, “The historians told they last saw you somewhere about the courtyard, but, as I know them, they might well have been referring to yesterday... Thus I had to seek you myself, and, as I wanted to avoid Montbach's spiders – the cursed beasts – for as long as I could, I thought I may begin from the western wing... Here, see what our correspondent in Asterwatch has heard. I dare say this will be a sufficient reward for interrupting your work.” He handed what he had been carrying to Ectemund, who had been gazing at him with a certain impatience and proceeded to swiftly peruse its contents. Having completed this, he glanced back at the warden. “A manor? What am I to do with this? This seems to be something for our antiquaries. Or for those people studying the excesses of decadent nobility, as they claim – those who filled half the southern cellar with their outrageous rack. Or even for Montbach with his “postulates of decay”, if it truly is in such a deplorable state. At least he would stop breeding vermin in his chambers... Why is it you shew this to me?” “You see, that is not any manor, but Dunwick Manor.” Sigismund replied, “For as long as I have known of it, there has been speech of strange doings, so to say, about it. It is said it has an effect – a mystical influence, even. It blights the land, and those living upon it... And, will you believe it, nothing has been heard of its owners for decades. Such a place does not simply become vacant... No, there is something very unusual and very wrong at work there, this I can tell you.”

Ectemund slowly stood up, leaning slightly upon the table to support the weight of his emaciated form. The light behind the windows had waned, and, before his eyes, the faint shadows of twilight seemed to spell out, in alien alphabets, enticing promises of darkling horizons awaiting his discovery so that they might unveil vistas he had been vainly seeking in the records scattered before him. In his worn eyes there had awoken the glimmer which sometimes slumbered, yet could never truly be extinguished. His voice, previously little more than a whisper, rose for a moment to a height reverberating with unyielding energy. “To Dunwick Manor, then.”

The Hand of Fate

A sudden waft of foetor overtook the figure, causing it to abruptly halt in its tracks. It had been marching through the woods for hours at an almost mechanically steady, regular gait, barely taking any notice of its surroundings beyond the least degree necessary to avoid the tree-trunks which occasionally rose to bar its way. It would have been apparent to an onlooker that its mind was quite far from the path it was following, the trees surrounding it and the forest altogether; whether it might have been conceived just how far it had drifted from path, trees and forest, however, was a somewhat more difficult matter to determine. Nevertheless, presuming that some intellect of outstanding quality should have succeeded at that endeavour, it would have been, perhaps, somewhat surprised by the fact that even the stench of a goblin, vile though it might have been, should have prompted the absorbed traveller to gather his thoughts from such distant reaches and restore them to their bodily vessel swiftly enough to act in the latter's defense.

Weary though they might have been after their flight through the aether, the being's thoughts spun and sped along their twisted pathways with remarkable celerity, prompted by the reflection that any encounter - especially those of the unexpected sort - might potentially result in the failure of his task, which event he had come to regard as a fundamentally cosmic impossibility whose advent would have entailed, at the very least, the annihilation of all that he could conceive, which included most things pertaining to himself. A goblin was near behind him, this was apparent. His experiences with goblins had, to that day, been rare, yet generally unpleasant. The impish creatures he had encountered were rapacious, bellicose and tended to adopt a reaction toward unknown dangers diametrically opposed to that of humans - as long as they did not know what exactly stood before them, they were as intrepid as any folk tale hero. The one behind him had apparently never encountered anything resembling him, and its attempt at a stealthy approach suggested a hostile intent. A display of power was the most appropriate response the figure could devise; whether it might have been harmful or even lethal for the goblin or anything else in the environs was none of its concern.

As this conclusion reached its conscious mind, the goblin had probably crept a few steps closer. The figure cast its left hand high into the air, its fingers bent into a claw-like form, and uttered words which, despite not belonging to any of the worlds that those possessed of lips such as its had ever inhabited, had grown familiar to it through years of eldritch invocations: Yiyakhul uer-dhathh!
The air around the figure's outstretched hand was lit with grey-greenish blaze as it seemed to writhe and fold upon itself, its unnatural movements deforming the space adjacent to it in an advancing avalanche of eye-searing contortions reaching at each other in what might best be described as a circle propelling its centre beyond its circumference. The roiling enormity tore and clawed at all that was caught in its way: grass and undergrowth wilted ad crumbled to strangely-coloured dust, trees snapped as they were bent in circular shapes and turned upon their tops, hapless woodland creatures were twisted into nightmarish shapes before noiselessly crumpling into themselves. Throughout all of its ravages, no sound rose either from it or from the land it touched, as though the latter were too fearful even to cry out in pain.

After what might have been instants or minutes, the nameless distortions faded away, leaving only a few curious stirrings, barely discernible in the darkness, in the air to mark their wake. The figure cast a glance about itself, its unseen eyes gliding over the desolation wrought by its incantation: within a radius of some fifteen yards not a thing stood, the now barren soil covered with a fine dust whose hue might have puzzled a painter or miniaturist. Within some feet from it the dust bubbled in an almost liquid fashion, small clouds of it rising into the night air and drifting away upon a soft breeze. Having spared this phoenomenon but a cursory look, the figure turned about itself to face anything which might have remained of its would-be assailant.

The Hand of Fate

My apologies for being slow at responding. My connection to the website has been behaving strangely of late, and I either was not notified of the last posts or could not access the page altogether at various times.

The Hand of Fate

Aye, we do happen to know each other, and I am as alive as ever. The motives for my inactivity mostly amount to my attempting to somewhat mirror my character's progress (he is travelling on foot, after all, and I fear that his journey would not be quite so interesting as to warrant regular descriptions) and not wishing to put too great a strain upon you, as you appear to be preoccupied with quite a few of the others at the moment. However, if it would pose no problems for anyone, I am ready to rejoin at any time.

The Hand of Fate

As the unearthly intonation reverberated through its entire form, not quite spreading from the mind as much as seeping in from without through loose ends and edges, the figure froze in place as though spellbound. One of its legs being bent in mid-stride, it appeared as though it might be about to kneel, yet it neither completed its intended movement nor sank down. Instead, it turned its concealed features upwards, as though beckoned by an unseen force, and thrust its arms toward the heavens, fingers poised as though it would clutch the black fabric of the benighted sky. In this position it remained long after the voice's final cryptic command had faded into the void whence it had been issued.

Finally, a stirring of its bag shook it from its stasis. Lowering its arms and plunging its right hand into the uninhabited satchel, the figure at once began to mutter in a whisper so strangely hollow as to convey an impression of being uttered by a disembodied shade, or some creature lurking in distant subterranean halls. "To the east... I have sought far and wide in all the corners of these lands, and naught was there in any of them that would lead to that which I am to find. Nor yet have I encountered any land of rot, or anything which might be worthy of such an epithet..." By the time it had completed this sentence, it had produced from the bag a folded parchment, grown yellow with age and wear and bearing some conspicuous stains of dubious nature. Once unraveled, it was revealed to be a somewhat crudely drawn map of the world as far as it was known to the Kingdom's cartographers, with a number of symbols having been added to it by a foreign hand, presumably that of its owner. The figure threw a glance at the stars, gauging its position by the constellations above it, then thrust a finger in one spot of the map, as though to pinpoint its current whereabouts. It then slowly shifted its gaze toward the right edge, until it reached what seemed to be a blotched black stain upon the parchment; upon closer inspection, however, it could be seen that it was merely a feature of the chart, depicting, with some graphic extravagances, a vast swampy territory.

"The dragon's grave..." the figure muttered. "What I seek cannot be there. Yet there are to be answers... What answers could there lie in such a place, where there are neither living to tell nor dead to show?" It remained silent for a few moments. "It is said it lies at the core of this world, and the roads departing from it are all of equal length. Mayhap it shall be known to me which one I must take." With these words, the figure folded the map and, returning it to the satchel, resumed its march, headed in the direction whence that which had spoken to him had last let itself be heard.

The Hand of Fate

I see no problem whatsoever with the scene you have written. It might be worth mentioning that the voice is inaudible to any save Ultrovos himself, but that is not quite so stringent.

The Hand of Fate

Though there was no cloud to obscure the sky, the night, undefied in its black dominion by anything beyond the pale luminescence of the stars, was as dark as any autumnal celestial pall might have warranted. On such a night, when even the most harmless shrub seems to harbour menaces of subtle danger, the forest, though by day it was no more than solemn with great antiquity, appeared more forbidding than a wind-battered mountain peak jutting over a barren wasteland. Its great oaks spread their mighty limbs at an awe-inducing height, casting vast and strange shadows in what little of the starry glow reached the soil. Their leaves whispered in a soft, warm breeze; muffled replies arose from the undergrowth, as though a host of conspirators were quietly gathering among the towering trees' roots.

Yet the lone figure which was slowly, yet steadily making its way through the woods seemed to pay no heed to this furtive exchange, nor to the oaks' looming shadows, nor to the gentle touch of the wind which made the ragged edges of its cloak sway in its wake. It forged ahead almost blindly, as though its mind were wandering far from the forest it was traversing, and perhaps from the world itself; an observer who might have been watching it from the circumstant shadows, however, would have been unable to determine whether this was effectively the case. Impenetrable in the best of lights, its garments presently made it almost indistinguishable from the blackness surrounding it; it was as though a living patch of night had woven itself into a vague shape and set about some purpose with the resolve of an elemental force. Anon, the rustle of fallen leaves beneath the traveller's feet grew slightly fainter, and soon it stepped from under the oaks' reaching branches into a small clearing of roughly circular shape. Now, though the best part of it remained akin to a living shadow, it was possible to distinguish certain of it features: the gnarled, almost claw-like hand firmly gripping a wanderer's staff; the bag slung near its chest which shook as though endowed with a life of its own; and the vague stirring of the veil before where its mouth might have been, which, though not accompanied by any sound, indicated that, whatever the being could have been, it was alive.

 Having moved a few steps into the glade, the figure stopped in its tracks. It remained still for some moments, as though listening intently; then it cast back its head and stood with its veiled features turned upwards, toward the stars. It stood thus for a few silent minutes, during which even the restless bag did not move. Then, lowering its gaze once again, it reached into its second repository and produced thence a small, leather-bound and somewhat worn volume. The figure turned a number of pages, seemingly seeking a particular passage. Having presumably found it, it bent over the book for some moments, then abruptly straightened itself and, casting forth its empty hand, exclaimed in a loud, yet hoarse and hollow voice: N'uraith yuulhieh vuul.

The soil at the centre of the clearing began to shimmer with a sinister, flickering light of a vaguely purple-bluish hue. This luminosity grew in height, reaching the size and faint shape of a bonfire; nor did it stop at that point, but blazed ever taller and brighter, until it gained the semblance of a radiant column reaching far into the night sky. Great tendrils of flame sprouted from its bulk, coiling in a dazzling spiral wherein was reflected the eternal, unfathomable game that was the growth of an universe...

And suddenly it was gone. Where the colossal apparition had stood not a single blade of grass bore any mark of its passing. The cloaked figure stood for a while, gazing at where it had been; then returned the book into its bag and, casting a final glance at the stars that had impassively witnessed its doings, disappeared once again into the shadows of the forest.

The Hand of Fate

The Star Seeker

Tarot Card: The Star Seeker

Name: Ultrovos, the Veiled One

Age: 47

Gender: Male

Appearance: The Veiled One appears as a tall, gaunt figure entirely wrapped in a black cloak, which has grown tattered and frayed at the edges. His head is concealed by a cowl, and before his face there hangs a black veil. With one hand he leans upon a gnarled wooden staff, whereas over his other shoulder are slung two leather bags, one of which occasionally twitches and writhes.

Backstory: Ultrovos was once an aspiring wizard, studying the arcane arts in one of the Sun Kingdom's academies. However, following a seemingly failed spellweaving experiment performed in the course of his learning, he began to be plagued by strange dreams, from which he would wake gibbering wildly. Deeming them to be caused by an illness, he retired to his quarters for weeks, in the course of which strange mutterings could be heard issuing from them - yet Ultrovos never received any visitors. After that period, he emerged from his confinement having acquired a mostly taciturn demeanour, a habit of draping a dark cowl about his features due to "vulnerable eyes" and a mighty strange journal, which is presently his most valued possession.
To any observer, it appears as full of barely legible gibberish. However, Ultrovos himself is able to use it as a spellbook, invoking strange and disturbing enchantments from its pages and occasionally merely leafing through it or scribbling some further notes.

Having underwent such baffling changes, he departed, with little explanation, on a quest to find "the shattered star", which he believes to lie somewhere upon the world's surface. While he himself would probably be unable to say what exactly he is seeking, he is convinced he shall recognise his quarry upon seeing it.

However this may stand, from then on the wandering Veiled One became a rather dreaded figure. Though not actively malicious, he inevitably brings strange and fearful prodigies wherever he travels, and havoc follows in his wake.

Abilities: Ultrovos is able to evoke diverse and potent otherworldly magics from his makeshift spellbook, often ensuing in chaotic effects as these alien incantations grate against the fabric of reality.

Additionally, he seems to be suffused with some sort of unnatural vitality, as he is able to subsist for exceptionally long periods without sleep or nutrition.

Theme song: https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=ZC2LXZE_6rw

Other: Ultrovos possesses a familiar of some sort - a creature dwelling within an ever-darkened bag. The being itself has never been seen, but the bag occasionally writhes curiously, and anything deposited into it is swiftly and silently devoured.

The Outer Spheres

The Realms Beyond

Thanks to the tireless labour of generations of magi, scholars and divinists, the inhabitants of the material worlds nowadays possess a rather significant measure of knowledge concerning the shape and structure of the cosmos at large, encompassing both its inner core and the regions astral, celestial and infernal stretching beyond the reach of immediate perception. Yet seldom are the works of mortals, and even immortals, flawless, and the lore of the universe is no exception. There is a limit beyond which all known laws fade, and which, if breached, will reward an explorer not with wisdom but with madness; that limit is the boundary of the Outer Spheres.
These cryptic realms - though they might very well be an universe or several unto themselves - stretch without the furthermost dimensions of the known cosmos, and are unlike anything even those strange peripheral lands might ever have seen. How vast they are no one can tell, for those very few reckless souls who have succeeded in contacting the Outside and retained some little sanity dared not travel far into it. All that is known is that it appears to an observer as a chaos of shifting distances, unpredictable geometries and unnameable shapes and hues which cannot be described with coherent words. Colossal and horrifying presences are said to glide, or swim, or shamble through that pandemonium, generating even more disquieting abnormities as they move.
Though such a location ought to discourage any visitors by its own nature alone, there have nonetheless been many conjurers and summoners who attempted to open rifts between it and their worlds, seeking to study it or harness its energies for their own ends. However, it would seem that the Outer Spheres are so alien in their composition that no conscious effort has to this day succeeded in breaching their borders, unless strengthened with occult knowledge already obtained there (and those who have mastered this resource are, as a rule, either unable or unwilling to share their findings). Rather, it has recently become apparent to the few arcane circles willing to deal in such matters that some comparatively simple conjurations, if performed by a distracted or inexperienced evoker, have a minute chance of exposing the unfortunate caster to the maddening influence of the Beyond. This contact lasts the merest fraction of an instant; yet who knows whether this might not be enough for the spellcaster's mind to be shattered - or for some nameless entity to bind them to an unknowable purpose?

The Hand of Fate

Excellent. Here, then, is my character - I shall try and concoct some piece of arcane cosmology to match him tomorrow.

The Star Seeker

Tarot Card: The Star Seeker

Name: Ultrovos, the Veiled One

Age: 47

Gender: Male

Appearance: The Veiled One appears as a tall, gaunt figure entirely wrapped in a black cloak, which has grown tattered and frayed at the edges. His head is concealed by a cowl, and before his face there hangs a black veil. With one hand he leans upon a gnarled wooden staff, whereas over his other shoulder are slung two leather bags, one of which occasionally twitches and writhes.

Backstory: Ultrovos was once an aspiring wizard, studying the arcane arts in one of the Sun Kingdom's academies. However, following a seemingly failed spellweaving experiment performed in the course of his learning, he began to be plagued by strange dreams, from which he would wake gibbering wildly. Deeming them to be caused by an illness, he retired to his quarters for weeks, in the course of which strange mutterings could be heard issuing from them - yet Ultrovos never received any visitors. After that period, he emerged from his confinement having acquired a mostly taciturn demeanour, a habit of draping a dark cowl about his features due to "vulnerable eyes" and a mighty strange journal, which is presently his most valued possession.
To any observer, it appears as full of barely legible gibberish. However,  Ultrovos himself is able to use it as a spellbook, invoking strange and disturbing enchantments from its pages and occasionally merely leafing through it or scribbling some further notes.

Having underwent such baffling changes, he departed, with little explanation, on a quest to find "the shattered star", which he believes to lie somewhere upon the world's surface. While he himself would probably be unable to say what exactly he is seeking, he is convinced he shall recognise his quarry upon seeing it.

However this may stand, from then on the wandering Veiled One became a rather dreaded figure. Though not actively malicious, he inevitably brings strange and fearful prodigies wherever he travels, and havoc follows in his wake.

Abilities: Ultrovos is able to evoke diverse and potent otherworldly magics from his makeshift spellbook, often ensuing in chaotic effects as these alien incantations grate against the fabric of reality.

Additionally, he seems to be suffused with some sort of unnatural vitality, as he is able to subsist for exceptionally long periods without sleep or nutrition.

Theme song: https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=ZC2LXZE_6rw

Other: Ultrovos possesses a familiar of some sort - a creature dwelling within an ever-darkened bag. The being itself has never been seen, but the bag occasionally writhes curiously, and anything deposited into it is swiftly and silently devoured.