“Without life a necromancer cannot sharpen her art, and without death she has no tools. The moment between life and death, or when life becomes death, that is where she does her most potent work. Blood of our forebears, earth of this world, allow new life into these still bones.”
— Manciple to the Dead
Act IV: In Ending
The tablet illuminated the chin of the chanting priest, his face smudged black by a thick layer of hastily applied grease paint. Everything was hastily done now, there was no time for proper sacrament or liturgy, no time for a proper space with vestments. A hole had been smashed into the roof, the symbol of god (lines curving into lines interlocked) had been smeared onto the wall with the same grease paint, and two cultists stood by the window chattering in their loudest whispers as they took turns gazing through a telescope. The sun was a ring in the sky, that was proper, as was the young woman dressed in white.
She did not move, though her chest raised and fell, so she was still living. The dress was thin and silky, real silk even, and clean despite the state of the rest of the room. Hoping that perhaps god in his various infinities would be willing to overlook the rest so long as she was still pretty enough. Her golden hair was long, and it slid over the edge of the table in twisted clumps like strands of glittering ivy, and over her eyes a blindfold had been wound of white cloth.
This was the ending, brought about by shuffled feet and muffled voice, as many were. Was this a different sort of ending perhaps? There was a lack of fervor and zeal, but that was just the sleep deprivation. There was a lack of ornamentation, but that was just the fault of the fire. The cult was small, but that had been the fault of rifle shot. There were many faults to the ending, but did that make it truer?
The eclipse above was watching them, that was what the two by the telescope knew. God of the ghosts of stone was listening, that is what the priest knew. And what the woman knew, she did not share. She did sit up though, for the ropes were lost to the fire, first to her elbows, and then again properly with her legs over the edge of the table. She looked up, and the blindfold obliged to fall away, so she might stare into the eclipse. It was not at the red corona of the sun, or the black of the moon, but the white spot opening in the moon’s heart to which she was drawn. The whole of the thing like an eye with its colors all jumbled. In that spot of white, something made itself whole and known.
She reached for it, and it for her.
“In death the soul and the spirit separate and go where they must, for one the River and the other the sky, only such separations are not always easy. They long for one another, spirit and soul, for each other is all they have ever known, and so in death they cling like lovers. The spirit is the energy of the soul, and the soul of the meaning of the spirit, and together without the flesh a ghost or revenant is formed. They cannot become one with the River in such a state, but they can find a place within stone or dirt or water. With this said, why do you think, child, that the moons are haunted?”
— Occula Primary of the Gazing Eye, watchful for the Stars that Move.
Act II: Of Ghosts and Spirits
It was a tech-cult ship, those who live and work within the skin of their manufactured gods worshiping the ghosts within the machine. They say those cultists are always careful to keep some great works of their life unfinished or some grudge in their hearts fresh and wet, and I don’t think it’s too hard to guess why. There’s something people fail to realize about tech-cultists, how cautious they are. The soul does not yearn for machinery the way it does dirt, so they had to find the ways to trap a soul and to bind those ghosts to the wiring. And, that was the ship we found drifting dead.
Space is a big place, but the River has only so many tributaries unless more are made. I think tech-cultists know how, I think that’s what this ship was, a means to carve a new stream into the River. The ship was dead and I mean that well and truly. Tech-cultists make their ships places of undeath, places of ghosts but there were no ghosts on that ship. They use the River as most others do to travel between here and there, and they buffer their ships so their ghosts aren’t peeled away, but, what if and maybe this is just the liquor speaking, they used the ship to carve a new branch into the River?
It’s possible, right? Their ships are full of ghosts, their ships can touch the River for they are also full of dead. But why, I can’t understand that. The wards on the ship were shattered, the crew was gone, and this piece of space has only been charted by the Occula, so why would they expend a god so carefully crafted of spirit and soul to place a new branch of the river here?
I love cults, I collect cults, but this is something I think best left alone. Leave them their secrets before their secrets find us.
“It was necromancy that enabled space travel, people forget that. If not for the River, if not for spirit science and paraenergy discovered back in the 1970s then we never would have left the skin of Earth or the light of Sol. I think we forget that too, how kind Sol is. It burns its heart for us, and does not hunger as its false cousins and dead relations do. There are stars whose foreign light should never touch your skin. Light that should never reach your eyes, lest they become your eyes. There are stars that burn cold, and those living-things are the hungriest of all.
Perhaps it was better on Earth when we only knew the gods of home, but it’s too late. The stars are already hungry.”
— Commander of Reliquary for the Nine Cohorts
Prologue: Old Plots, New Victims
There is much to say about the universe, but so few words to say it in. Of the things that linger in the void between stars, the gods that create worlds and the worlds that create gods, the stars that look back at you in malevolence, or moons haunted and yet still living. There are as many cults as there are unknowns to be worshiped, as many religions as there are gods to demand our attention, as many settlements as there are systems that do not reject us. Yet, anyway. Maybe all of this means a lot to you, or maybe it means so very little. Magic and occultist meaning, important to some, meaningless to others. Why care about those who worship the great Kraken of Earth’s shifting seas when you’re many light years away and working a nine to five.
The universe might be out to get you, but what is there to get if you’re not sticking your neck out there? Though, sometimes you find yourself with your neck out there through no fault of your own.
You knew Cold Harbor was a cultist ship long before you boarded it, it was hard to miss the runes of blood and decorative bone that gave strange shapes to what had once been some model transport or another. Did this concern you? I cannot say, but you chose to board. Maybe it was for vacation, perhaps for work, or driven by the search for new opportunities, it doesn’t matter. What does matter is that you are here, and that the universe is full of plots and plans, and that you’ve found your way into one.
And once the eyes are upon you, they will never look away.
“Strangeness begins when you first notice it, and it is that noticing that allows it to see you. It’s fine of course if you stick to the regular sort of strange, magics and magi, necromancers of the flesh and bone, for the things that look back are those that are known. The problem is when you start looking into strange unknowns, when you start letting curiosity demand answers of you. You do that, and the crooked things will turn their gazes, and everything gets completely fucky-wucky. It’s a bit like when you learn a new word and next thing you know everyone is saying it. Only, the words are aware that you know them, and that makes them want to speak you too.”
— A warning on an old cult collection forum
Act I: You
Name:
Everyone goes by something, don’t they?
Gender:
There are plenty of ways to be who you wish to be.
Age:
Still use old Sol standard for this, be a shame if kids living on Pluto didn’t enjoy at least having one birthday before they die.
Cult:
Do you have one? Tell us a little about them, just a few words for my collection.
Expertise:
What are you good at?
Magic:
Do you have talent? A touch of the occult? Grace with magics defined or newly found?
Bio:
Who are you?
— Manciple to the Dead
Act IV: In Ending
The tablet illuminated the chin of the chanting priest, his face smudged black by a thick layer of hastily applied grease paint. Everything was hastily done now, there was no time for proper sacrament or liturgy, no time for a proper space with vestments. A hole had been smashed into the roof, the symbol of god (lines curving into lines interlocked) had been smeared onto the wall with the same grease paint, and two cultists stood by the window chattering in their loudest whispers as they took turns gazing through a telescope. The sun was a ring in the sky, that was proper, as was the young woman dressed in white.
She did not move, though her chest raised and fell, so she was still living. The dress was thin and silky, real silk even, and clean despite the state of the rest of the room. Hoping that perhaps god in his various infinities would be willing to overlook the rest so long as she was still pretty enough. Her golden hair was long, and it slid over the edge of the table in twisted clumps like strands of glittering ivy, and over her eyes a blindfold had been wound of white cloth.
This was the ending, brought about by shuffled feet and muffled voice, as many were. Was this a different sort of ending perhaps? There was a lack of fervor and zeal, but that was just the sleep deprivation. There was a lack of ornamentation, but that was just the fault of the fire. The cult was small, but that had been the fault of rifle shot. There were many faults to the ending, but did that make it truer?
The eclipse above was watching them, that was what the two by the telescope knew. God of the ghosts of stone was listening, that is what the priest knew. And what the woman knew, she did not share. She did sit up though, for the ropes were lost to the fire, first to her elbows, and then again properly with her legs over the edge of the table. She looked up, and the blindfold obliged to fall away, so she might stare into the eclipse. It was not at the red corona of the sun, or the black of the moon, but the white spot opening in the moon’s heart to which she was drawn. The whole of the thing like an eye with its colors all jumbled. In that spot of white, something made itself whole and known.
She reached for it, and it for her.
“In death the soul and the spirit separate and go where they must, for one the River and the other the sky, only such separations are not always easy. They long for one another, spirit and soul, for each other is all they have ever known, and so in death they cling like lovers. The spirit is the energy of the soul, and the soul of the meaning of the spirit, and together without the flesh a ghost or revenant is formed. They cannot become one with the River in such a state, but they can find a place within stone or dirt or water. With this said, why do you think, child, that the moons are haunted?”
— Occula Primary of the Gazing Eye, watchful for the Stars that Move.
Act II: Of Ghosts and Spirits
It was a tech-cult ship, those who live and work within the skin of their manufactured gods worshiping the ghosts within the machine. They say those cultists are always careful to keep some great works of their life unfinished or some grudge in their hearts fresh and wet, and I don’t think it’s too hard to guess why. There’s something people fail to realize about tech-cultists, how cautious they are. The soul does not yearn for machinery the way it does dirt, so they had to find the ways to trap a soul and to bind those ghosts to the wiring. And, that was the ship we found drifting dead.
Space is a big place, but the River has only so many tributaries unless more are made. I think tech-cultists know how, I think that’s what this ship was, a means to carve a new stream into the River. The ship was dead and I mean that well and truly. Tech-cultists make their ships places of undeath, places of ghosts but there were no ghosts on that ship. They use the River as most others do to travel between here and there, and they buffer their ships so their ghosts aren’t peeled away, but, what if and maybe this is just the liquor speaking, they used the ship to carve a new branch into the River?
It’s possible, right? Their ships are full of ghosts, their ships can touch the River for they are also full of dead. But why, I can’t understand that. The wards on the ship were shattered, the crew was gone, and this piece of space has only been charted by the Occula, so why would they expend a god so carefully crafted of spirit and soul to place a new branch of the river here?
I love cults, I collect cults, but this is something I think best left alone. Leave them their secrets before their secrets find us.
“It was necromancy that enabled space travel, people forget that. If not for the River, if not for spirit science and paraenergy discovered back in the 1970s then we never would have left the skin of Earth or the light of Sol. I think we forget that too, how kind Sol is. It burns its heart for us, and does not hunger as its false cousins and dead relations do. There are stars whose foreign light should never touch your skin. Light that should never reach your eyes, lest they become your eyes. There are stars that burn cold, and those living-things are the hungriest of all.
Perhaps it was better on Earth when we only knew the gods of home, but it’s too late. The stars are already hungry.”
— Commander of Reliquary for the Nine Cohorts
Prologue: Old Plots, New Victims
There is much to say about the universe, but so few words to say it in. Of the things that linger in the void between stars, the gods that create worlds and the worlds that create gods, the stars that look back at you in malevolence, or moons haunted and yet still living. There are as many cults as there are unknowns to be worshiped, as many religions as there are gods to demand our attention, as many settlements as there are systems that do not reject us. Yet, anyway. Maybe all of this means a lot to you, or maybe it means so very little. Magic and occultist meaning, important to some, meaningless to others. Why care about those who worship the great Kraken of Earth’s shifting seas when you’re many light years away and working a nine to five.
The universe might be out to get you, but what is there to get if you’re not sticking your neck out there? Though, sometimes you find yourself with your neck out there through no fault of your own.
You knew Cold Harbor was a cultist ship long before you boarded it, it was hard to miss the runes of blood and decorative bone that gave strange shapes to what had once been some model transport or another. Did this concern you? I cannot say, but you chose to board. Maybe it was for vacation, perhaps for work, or driven by the search for new opportunities, it doesn’t matter. What does matter is that you are here, and that the universe is full of plots and plans, and that you’ve found your way into one.
And once the eyes are upon you, they will never look away.
“Strangeness begins when you first notice it, and it is that noticing that allows it to see you. It’s fine of course if you stick to the regular sort of strange, magics and magi, necromancers of the flesh and bone, for the things that look back are those that are known. The problem is when you start looking into strange unknowns, when you start letting curiosity demand answers of you. You do that, and the crooked things will turn their gazes, and everything gets completely fucky-wucky. It’s a bit like when you learn a new word and next thing you know everyone is saying it. Only, the words are aware that you know them, and that makes them want to speak you too.”
— A warning on an old cult collection forum
Act I: You
Name:
Everyone goes by something, don’t they?
Gender:
There are plenty of ways to be who you wish to be.
Age:
Still use old Sol standard for this, be a shame if kids living on Pluto didn’t enjoy at least having one birthday before they die.
Cult:
Do you have one? Tell us a little about them, just a few words for my collection.
Expertise:
What are you good at?
Magic:
Do you have talent? A touch of the occult? Grace with magics defined or newly found?
Bio:
Who are you?
