The hub of the universe is a humble place, nigh-perpetually frozen save for high noon. It is Autumn, the Season of Tempests. Winter-wheat stands still on the sun-side of the rolling hills that approach an immense mountain range, said to safeguard the Valley of the Gods, a gate to the Otherworld.

Not that many believe in the Otherworld.

Man is at war with Winter. Winter steals the breath, stills the heart, and cracks the very ground. Furrows are deepened to ravines, and forgotten tombs are exposed, wounds of the past broken open.

The spilling blood from these wounds are the Dead, which no longer lie. Groaning, warriors climb from burial chambers, ensorcelled weapons in their hands. Their armor is brilliant gold and mithril, their arms machine-guns that fire the stuff of suns, mechanical behemeoths meant to regulate even the lesser Gods.

All of it is so much dust. Magic is gone from the world. The machines do not no start. The guns do not fire. The armor is not gold but bronze, and not mithril but brittle iron.

A man drives a spear through the throat of a revenant God before it can rise, and his brings a pick to bear through the barrow-god's heart. The God stills, and is catalogued with another number. The inscription on his axe is copied to carbon-paper for later study.

A burial urn, half buried, is left undisturbed - judged too delicate to risk moving at this juncture. The men move on, to the next barrow, their deadly cold-iron going with them.

Trapped within this urn is a spirit, a spirit stirred by studious activity of these men. The Princet of Learning.

The Hanged Man speaks to you, Princet of Learning:

Princet of Learning, you are presently stuck in an urn within a cave midway down a crevasse in the earth. If you fail to reach the Otherworld and your Fount before Men discover what you are, you will die permanently - a spark extinguished.

Your physical disability makes shifting the lid of your urn about the extent of your ability, but your Glamour is powerful and your wits sharp. As a lingering spirit, you may not tread the skies as Angels do; you are anchored to the earth, but you do not cast a shadow or leave footprints unless you choose to extend your Glamour to these aspects. With your supernatural charm, your glamour can cover four senses at once and affect your person, your apparel, anything you touch, and anything within 11 cubits of you. You may choose to become undetectable to all but a single sense. The more distant your Glamour is from reality, the easier it will be to initially see through, but if not seen through it will hold a stronger grip - Man does not like to change his beliefs.

May the stars shine for you.

The mellow voice fades from your mind, but you understand that you can contact it again by expending some sort of spiritual resource - Lore.

Princet of Learning
M0 S1 W3 C4
B. Armor = 0.5/0.5
B. Health = 2.5/2.5
B. Path = 7/7
B. Song = 7/7
B. Lore = 7/7
B. Speed = 2
B. Strike = 1
B. Damage = 0
B. Influence = 5.5
B. Glamour = 4
This message was last edited by the GM at 23:52, Sun 16 July 2023.

The Princet is slow to stir. Pain suffused their being; the pain of loss, the pain of their final moments. Time eroded much of it and the passing of magic from the world took away much of what was left. Even before then, vast swatches of what they once were had been ripped from them, stolen and scattered to the four corners of creation. There almost hadn't anything left to bury, let alone to rebuild from in such inhospitable surroundings.

They think they were... evil? A horrible, terrible monster of a... monster. But a successful one. It had taken many heroes to bring them down. Their battle shook the Otherworld. Well, not them personally. What an aberrant thought! Working directly seems like such... work.

Maybe if they don't cause a fuss, this horrible awareness would pass and the peaceful nothingness would take them again. Or maybe they had to make a fuss. The fussy fussers fussing about outside sure seemed to be efficient and enthusiastic about killing.

...

. . .

... ... ...

Oh, alright. Maybe just a little peek wouldn't be too much to manage.

With all their inconsiderable might, the princet cracks open the jar containing them. Just an inch was all they needed. Tendrils of white, pink, and blue helix out like escaping steam and with them comes a marvelous fragrance; sweeter than honey, cloying and flirtatious in its promises of blissful demise. Buried in that oh-so-tantilizing scent was something off, as well; it was the smell of rot and decay, an artifact of imperfect preservation and a horrid reminder of the death they had somehow survived.

The pale pastel colors resolved into a shimmering humanoid figure with a delicate and feminine figure for just the briefest of moments before fading away. To unaware eyes, the colors looked to have dissolved into the chill air, leaving only the cloying fragrance.

The Princet remembered this fragrance well; it had brought their own undoing, and even an eternity of dreamless slumber could not erase its stain upon their soul. They tried to breathe deep of their scent, but their lungs were swirling dust. They flicked their tongue to taste it, but it was of the same air it licked. Desperation and frustration seized them, but all their struggles were in vain. They needed physical form.

Even as diminished as they are, one of these creatures patrolling the graves of legends past ought to be vulnerable. They drift invisibly and silently, observing the graverobbers that had roused them. They watched, and listened for signs of weakness, for one whose gluttony and lust extends beyond the dead and towards the pleasures that life can bring.
This message was last edited by the player at 22:03, Sun 16 July 2023.

The small barrow was in the side of a cliff, and stepping out of the barrow into cold gray light nearly had the Princet of Learning tumbling down the ravine. The ledge was narrow, only about two cubits wide, with a rope secured to the cliff-face with iron pitons as rough handrail. The stone was slick and dangerous, even for a ghost.

The 'graverobbers' had just ducked into another barrow further down the gently sloping cliff trail, one leaning against the outside, holding a bulls-eye lantern up to shed on the interior. They were conversing lightly.

"Barrow D-18. Interrments of three-" a slam of iron into ancient flesh -"make that four dead Sidhe. A short-sword with the Conclavic era script, mail appears of spider-make, likely a Low Lord and retainers. No literary materials, glyphs on the dog-amulet identify this as - Kra-y-lek?"

"Crailek. A soldier under the Eldershade, then." said the one with the lantern.

"Interesting. The Eldershade was - that's pretty far back. Prior to the League of Divine Right. Second Age?"

"Crailek was one of the Elder Gods that returned during the Age of Dust, if I remember right. Died attempting to reclaim his Tower."

"Huh. Mark this one for further study, might be historical significance to the placement of this barrow."

It sounded like they were about to move on. Then one outside sniffed. "Hold on. I think I smell incense? Let's look further back in this barrow."

The scholar with the lantern entered the barrow, disappearing from your sight. Behind you, the cliff face went up towards the mouth of the ravine, with at least two more barrows set into the cliff; far below, you could hear a river.

There was also grave-goods left in your barrow that you had not inspected yet, including a very recently abused corpse.
This message was last edited by the GM at 01:10, Mon 17 July 2023.

The Princet yelped as they nearly slipped, although the cry went unheard. More knowledge of what they had lost comes to mind. They were once some kind of... nature spirit? As the rocks and snow sullied their ephemeral form with their base filth they knew that at the height of their power such natural things would have posed no threat to her, that they wouldn't dare mar their perfect flesh. Distant memories now, more evidence of what they had lost.

Evidence that they were not as intangible as they appeared at a glance, as well. Or, perhaps, the physical realm had the capacity to harm the memory of what they once were. That was the world they inhabited; thought over matter, a realm where concepts rule and physical laws were polite suggestions. Quantum uncertainty principles? Observance... yes. Those are certainly... words. They knew these things in their past life. They knew a lot, forgotten more than many gods ever knew. They wondered if they could ever even begin know just how much that was.

Collecting themselves, the Princet stealthily approached and listened to the living as they pillaged and slaughtered the dead. They mouthed the syllables of the names they heard.

Crailek...?

The sounds and motions feel unfamiliar on their lips; that is not their name. Much of what was said had no meaning to them. But talk of spiders rekindled a memory. In the beforetimes, they had poured their soul into an artifact that laid bare the secrets of the divine court, a spider that so effortlessly unraveled the tangled web of intrigue spun by the powers of old. They doubted it would have survived the death of magic intact, but even its wreckage ought to have some value. It ought to be around here somewhere, still... they double back to see if they can find it.

Princet of Learning

The spider looked nothing of the sort. It was a small silver thing, like a sharp-angled egg, buried amongst her ashes within the urn. As she held it in her hands, she felt the magic that had once animated it was lost. There was something within her, though, that called to it.

Within her breast she felt many small hearts, reservoirs of power. LORE could called upon to gain knowledge; PATH could shape the flow of magic into objects, people, and places; and SONG could supply that magic from her own being for a time.

This thing was dead, but she had all the tools she needed to bring it back to life. Old pathways were already carved within; she would just need to clear away the blocks and scars, then sing.

Princess of Fortune

"Gold! Jesu Christi, Efa, come here!"

"Solid, or more leaf? Pure?"

"Heavy. Soft in the hand, takes a shine easy. A pure, solid gold apple."

There was silence.

"It's probably cursed to shit, isn't it."

"No way it would still be here if it wasn't cursed to all hells. I'm not about to get murdered by a mummy over a bauble. Leave it, Aled."

The male voice - Aled - sighed. "If we're so smart, why are we even robbing barrows?"

"Because wisdom doesn't fill a belly."

Aled paused again. "Say. We've already rudely broken into this barrow, so we might get murdered anyway by whatever spirit is strong enough to keep this gold here."

Efa considered. " . . . Fuck."

"Listen, Lord or Lady of this House, we had no idea of your station when we entered, and we sincerely apologize for disturbing your rest. We've shined up your apple and your scales, there, got all the dust off 'em, and now we're leaving in peace. Even more than that, we'll be sure to tell everyone not to bother you either back at the town."

"Now it knows there's a town, Aled!"

"Fucking Jesu Christi, goddamn. Sorry for the language, Spirit. Please don't leave your barrow and wreak your terrible vengeance against the town, either. There, are you happy now?"

"Well, that's about the best we can do given we ain't got much to offer a spirit. It's already got gold sculptures and its own house, that's far sight better off than anyone living in the town."

"Right, we're off now, Miss Gilded Bones Lady Spirit."

"Pretty dress, by the way."

The two remarkably cautious and respecful graverobbers turned to make their exit after closing the apple-wood coffin that contained a freshly awoken Princess of Fortune.
This message was last edited by the GM at 06:56, Mon 17 July 2023.

As they thought; their killers had buried the Web of Intrigue with them. They reckon that something something power corrupts something something and those who tore them from the living realm didn't want such an artifact around to tempt them.

Fools.

The construct looks a little different than the Princet remembers, but the channels of power running through it are deeply familiar. It wouldn't take much to bring it back to life... but what would be the point of doing so? Secrets are only of value while one has the power to act upon them.

The Princet daintily picks up the inert artifact in the hopes of it someday being useful. Their form resolves and sharpens as they commit to this physical act, revealing more of what they might once have looked like. Their hands are so very very delicate and have clearly never seen hard labor, and have to be finely maneuvered to avoid damaging the long hot-pink-painted nails tipping their digits.

More interesting is the thrum of magic that rises within them. It seems that they may still have some power. Good. That makes things easier. They focus their thoughts inward and try to recall some small portion of the control they once held, psychically beating and berating the long-disused laws of magic back into some kind of order.

---

Creating a spell: Memory Theft. The user asks one question of a target's subconscious and steals the answers and all relevant information from their mind. The target can resist or submit; resisting obscures and corrupts the answer but causes terrible psychic trauma to the victim, while submitting leaves them relatively unharmed but unable to hide the sought information.

---

So armed, the Princet turns back to where they saw the last set of graverobbers in order to bleed their minds dry.

The Princess of Fortune had fallen far from her old grandeur. Back in the far past, when the tree was facing spiritual and physical Erosion called the Rusting, the Princess of Fortune was far more than a skeleton in a barrow. She was piece of divine Geography itself - a Grove of Golden Apples - while also being a woman. The Stranger. And the people dismissed her, except those who didn't. Like the shamans and such who knew to heed the signs of what she really was. Of what the Golden Chaos really was. And how Goldshire had managed to push back against the Rusting only thanks to the Leyline-reinforcing presence of her Grove-body. Goldshire's fertility was artificially sustained in that way.

She was chaos, and fertility, and a dash of gold to top it off. And she was on the way to becoming a new occulted power, and putting down the barbarian hordes who weren't aligned with the shamans who acknowledged her, and the Keeper of Wisdom. And everywhere she walked, blessings and curses alike flowed in her wake. And the mortals gasped in awe and shuddered in exasperation at her passing.

The Golden Apple there was the First Apple. The very first Golden Apple of her Grove-body, and the one she kept for herself at all times. It most certainly was, how did the robber put it..."cursed to shit." It's power derived from her divine grove-body, so not even magic could really handle the shitstorm that came when people stole her apples. Certainly not the First Apple.

And boy, did they narrowly dodge a bullet there. For the Golden Chaos was vain as well, so them polishing her scale and Apple in an attempt to butter her up was well-received, and since they didn't steal it they avoided the curse.

But then they had to go and refer to her as an "it" when talking about "it now knew about the town." Yeah...RUDE MUCH! And the fact that they felt it was okay to just barge into her barrow, when she was in the midst of her beauty sleep. RUDE MUCH! And they saw her golden skeleton! Ugh! It was worse than someone lifting her dress for a peek beneath!

It seems mankind had grown overly bold and arrogant while she slept. She wondered if the Rusting had passed. If the conflicts that had caused her to temporarily die had passed? Well...she had slept enough. She determined that the world - both gods and men alike - needed to be put in their place and taught a lesson in humility.

They left her gold, so they weren't cursed. But they still broke into the barrow, and that would have consequences to say the least. Especially since to them it was just a dayjob. HOW RUDE!

Ugh she was mortified that she was a skeleton right now! But at least she was a beautiful golden one! Silver lining and all, yes? But she had enough of her own musing. It was time for the Golden Chaos to be unleashed upon an unsuspecting world once again!

She...attempted to muster her will, and her spirit, and her divine spark...her consciousness...and let it surge through the skeleton. After a bit of this, she tried to will her skeletal golden hands to push open her coffin lid...

Princet of Learning

The Princet of Learning dissociated, her mind torn apart and thrown to the Four Winds and Eighteen Stars. She was so much bigger than one body - so much of her power was pooled elsewhere, elsewhen, in a place called Iris, the Fount of Learning.
Her long pink nails dug into the ether, pierced the Gloaming Veil between the realm of men and fey, drawing out long strands of something shimmering. She wrapped the strands around her left hand, instinct driving her to particular a particular arrangement of intersections. The strands burned away, the flames flaring in pastel hues of cyan, pink & off-white - leaving behind only the identations, the pathway of the spell.

Path: 2/7

Chant Emblazoned:  MÂN LADRATA COF.
Title Added: FIRST MAGE OF THE NEW AGE.

MÂN LADRATA COF
MAGICIAN: Calling upon the Fount of Learning, you access the memory of one. Refusal of the request is met with tribulation.
FOOL: Calling upon the Fount of Learning, you share a memory with one. Refusal of the gift is met with tribulation.
EMPRESS: Calling upon the Fount of Learning, you may detect if your mind has been intruded upon, and meet such invasion with tribulation.
EMPEROR: Calling upon the Fount of Learning, you suppress the memory of one. Refusal is met with tribulation.
HIGH PRIESTESS: Calling upon the Fount of Learning, you permanently enhance the memory of one at the cost of tribulation.

May the stars shine for you, First Mage.

Turning back, you were invisible save for your drifting scent as you approached the second barrow that had contained something associated with Crailek, the Eldershade. The graverobbers were just leaving the barrow, having lost your scent.

"There it is again . . . that scent. Is it coming from a previous barrow?"

Your long nails invisibly cut into your hand, ectoplasm welling up in the faint lines on your hand. The chant MÂN LADRATA COF thrummed in your mind, ready to reap the memories of hapless mortals.
This message was last edited by the GM at 18:32, Mon 17 July 2023.

Princess of Fortune

Life surged to her old bones, spirit joining together what was once encapsulated by flesh and blood. She was as strong as any ordinary man, and shifting the applewood lid was the work of a few moments. The lid swung out on ancient brass hinges, now green with corrosion but sturdy despite the millenia. Iron had not been a trusted material in her time.

Her self-memory flowed like water, spilling from her eyes over her torso, arms, pelvis and legs. The water became a mirror, and then her body looked as it once had - the white Grecian dress filling out appropiately. Spirit was not ephemeral, it seems, but rather a different kind of substance. The term 'ectoplasm' came to her after a moment. Something about it felt different, though - there was a trick of perception to it. Her body was real as long as everyone agreed it was.

Scales in one hand, apple in the other. The Twin Lines of Thunder were intact - the Hunger abated - the Harrowing healed. A new world. The very air told her as much. It was sweet beneath the earth.

Once a mistress of discord, she could feel lines of connection tugging at her soul. Her Hallow was still intact, but . . . elsewhere, like a love across the sea.

There was another connection, to a higher version of herself. The Hanged Man. A masculine inversion, nigh-omniscient. There was a well of possibility within her - several distinct wells. Once for divination, one for shaping, and one for empowerment. Lore, Path & Song.

The Hanged Man speaks to you, Princess of Fortune:

Princess of Fortune, you have been returned to life to share in the rebirth of the world.

However, If you fail to reach the Otherworld and your Fount - the heart of your Hallow - before Men discover what you are, you will die permanently - a spark extinguished.

Your mind is keen, and your grandeur enduring. Be confident that the weak-willed will obey your command. Evade the kiss of cold iron. The world is new, but the Twin Lines of Thunder sleep; no magic yet graces the World of Man. Pierce the Gloaming Veil and carve new Paths into the skin of the world with your Song.

May the stars shine for you.

The mellow voice faded from your mind, but you knew you could call upon it for answers by expending Lore.

Princess of Fortune
M1 S1 W4 C3
Base Armor = 1/1
Base Health = 3.5/3.5
Base Path = 7/7
Base Song = 6.5/6.5
Base Lore = 6.5/6.5
Base Speed = 1.5
Base Strike = 1.5
Base Damage = 1
Base Influence = 5
Base Glamour = 3
This message was last edited by the GM at 18:33, Mon 17 July 2023.

This feeling of being scattered across time and space was... not unfamiliar. Incorporeal, even more so than before, they mouth the name that came to them. Iris.

Iris... Iris! That is a name they know! It is not their name, but it is a name for them. So much of what they were comes into focus now: they are plurality, multiple, we and them. And at the center of that scitzophrenia, the multitude of them, stands a single her.

She still doesn't know her name or the extent of who they all are, but she knows her face now and that is enough. Her body is not so grand as she might have wished; in fact, she is a tiny, wan little thing. Arms like sticks, an adequete but unremarkable bust, and hips that have never known the glory of carrying a child. She is beautiful however, pale as the moonlight and just as bewitching. Hair like a waterfall of silver streamed out behind them, sparkling many-hued like a prism as it flowed. They are -- or were -- a naiad, her skin as clear as the freshwater springs she embodied. Or... once embodied. It felt as though she had diverged from her base nature and somehow came to represent something else, such that when she died it was not the Sea but the Mind that she was left with.

Or... Learning, she supposes. That is certainly one of the Mind's key features. It seems that she has pulled far more lost knowledge than anticipated, but the wealth of options bestowed upon her by the distant Fount is not unwelcome. And these names being whispered in her head... she knows them. The Major Arcana. Magician, Foom, Empress, Emperor, Priestess... the voice itself labeled itself the Hanged Man. She had thought the Tarot an amusing novelty, but in this new era it would seem the laws of magic are aligning to the cards. The arcana were setting themselves up to be the means by which all is revealed.

Interesting. She will have to follow up on that thread later. For now, the Fount calls her. She must find her way there with all due haste! But if the ephemeral voice heard upon waking was to be trusted, the way there was across the rugged mountains. In her state she could not make the journey. She would need slaves to carry her.

The raiders were coming back this way. She did not favor her odds of engaging them on this slippery strip of treachery, and so fell back herself to just past the entrance of her own burrow. She watched invisibly from behind a rocky outcrop, and once confident in her hiding place she let loose a quiet giggle through her glamor to draw the men to where they had carelessly roused the Mind Mistress.
This message was last edited by the player at 18:49, Mon 17 July 2023.

It was then, that the Princess of Fortune knew concern for the first time in her new rebirth. Possibly a mix of anxiety and fear. For while she could feel that her Hallow was somehow intact, she could no longer directly sense it like she could before. As the Stranger of Goldshire, she WAS the Grove of Golden Apples perhaps more than even a Strange Woman. But she had two bodies, and one essence. But now...it was weird. she felt her essence and her sense of self resided entirely inside the glamored Golden Skeleton. And it felt weird! Like if someone cut off your arm but you knew it was still alive someplace far away.

The time for bringing tribulation to mortals and gods would have to wait. Her number 1 priority right now was to find a way to this overworld place, and this Fount thing. It must be her missing Grove-body. and perhaps, maybe The Keeper of Wisdom - Bazzy - was alive still too in some way shape or form? Or perhaps it had babies.! Oh goodness did she squeal like a girl at the thoughbt of a bunch of baby golden Basilisks running around her Grove so ferocious and cute-like!

She shook her head. she needed more guidance. She recognized traces of the Fool in the Hanged Man who spoke to her, but it was different. She closed her eyes, and attempted to expend some Lore Energy to divine more truths!

Oh Hanged Man...it has been long since I've heard your voice. Tell me, for my power is very limited right now, but how do I find and return to this Fount thing of mine?

Princet of Learning

The will of the world aligned with your whim, and your Glamour shifted.



The men - and one woman, bearing the lantern - paused as they passed the outside of your barrow. "Did you hear a giggle?"

"Aye . . . and the scent, stronger here. Blast this wind coming down the ravine . . . hard to get a fix."

"Something's up. I don't like this. Carys, call upon the Lord's grace."

The woman nodded. "Mighty One! Iron-Shaper, Beast-Tamer! Lord of Man! This humble dustling calls for succor. Bear us through trial and tribulation."

There was a pause. The leader, the man who had driven a pick-axe into the corpse-god before it could rise, gave a nod. "Good. No barrow-ghast will trifle with us. Trust to your iron, though. The Lord's will is done by strength of arm."

The last of the troupe - a shorter man - "These ghasts are weakest on rising. We can't leave this one to gather strength."

"Do you see a dog with us? We can't track the scent. All we know is that the ghast's near."

The woman who spoke the invocation dug in her pockets. "I've got iron-dust. Only one way out of here. We mark the ground and return in the morning, call in a wight-hunter with dogs. It will be stronger, yes, but -"

"Better that then our hides. Right. Do it."

The women knelt, drawing a pouch from her haversack.

Princess of Fortune
Lore: 4/6.5

The Hanged Man speaks to you, Princess of Fortune:

Your fount favors the bold. Rise from the barrows; seek the roots of the mountains, passing through the township. Above the mist, below the peak, lies a fruited path to what you seek.

A vague sense of direction also came to you, heading due west.

Along with the other burial goods, was a large polished bronze mirror. In their hurry to depart, Aled and Efa had left behind a lantern, allowing you to get a good look at yourself.

The Princess of Fortune furrowed her brow at the realizations that came to her. It would seem that she had to wander a bit in order to find her home, similar to how she wandered the land back when she was a Stranger. She also realized that somehow, for a golden skeleton, she managed to stay HOT after all thank the Primordials! And her ass totally was popping in that dress. It was great.

However, that aside...she roughly had an idea of the path she needed to take. Most likely, the town those two grave robbers mentioned was west of her Burrow, and she'd need to pass through it. She had to be careful, for she was vulnerable and the Hanged Man had warned her firmly that she shouldn't mingle too closely with man right now. Thankfully, though, her glamor was strong and she may be able to simply blend in with the crowds and make her way through. But to where? She presumed a cave or tunnel system that was on the other side of the town, near ther base of a mountain would be her nest goal on the path, and from there...follow it up the mountain.

But she considered a moment. She didn't currently seem to have the limitless powers of golden chaos that she once had as a Stranger, but perhaps that was in part because she was a Revenant still and not fully revived. She wondered on her condition...perhaps she was some sort of half-alive semi-divine thing, and needed to find her Geography-body to become whole again? She could ponder this later.

Instead, she pondered what powers she may have had access to. Het power over Fortune felt...weird, but it had many similarities to her Golden Chaos. She wondered if she could at the very least, draw upon this distant fount to help give her some of her former influence over luck and probability?

The Princess of Fortune attempts to create her first spell!

Golden Luck: This spell grants a target a supernatural level of luck, that can have all sorts of effects based on how much the caster focuses it. The base effect of the spell generates a minor amount of unnatural luck on a SINGLE target only (potency based on Will). However, with BOOSTS the effect can be increased and you can gain boosts if you have golden implements (see below)! Boost options are as follows:

*Area: The spell affects all targets you desire in an area, the size based on your Will Stat.
*Potency: The luck is a major amount instead of minor (So potency is based on Will+Charm now), but only for a single topic rather than being broadly applicable.
*Greater Potency: ...and for a second Boost, now the major luck is broadly applicable.
*Subtle: The effect, which is normally unnatural luck and obviously so, becomes more subtle as the universe devises ways to make the effect seem far more natural than it really is.
*Duration: The effect lasts twice as long as normal for your Will Stat.
*Resilient: The effect cannot be dispelled or suppressed, except by the Princess of Fortune or someone who is currently gifted with one of her Apples (which must be used as a focus).

If the caster uses an implement that is either partially made of gold (like a wedding ring that is a twist of gold and silver, for instance, or something that's not pure gold) as a focus then they gain +1 additional boost (note that the Princess of Fortune's golden skeleton means she always at least has +1 boost). If the caster uses an implement made of solid gold, like a golden chalice, they gain +2 additional Boosts. If the caster somehow has one of the Sacred Apples of Eris (which generally means it was a gift or on loan since to steal one invites horrid curses that this magic cannot help against), then they gain +3 additional boosts! You only get the boost modifier of your single best implement - if you have a pile of gold coins you don't get 200 boosts or some such!

The spell can be cast in reverse to sap luck from a target or targets rather than instill it. It still benefits from Golden implements and boost rules as normal.

Princess of Fortune

The spell seemed to flicker, flutter and fail as you drew lines of shimmering energy in the air, pulling them from the ether. Oddly, nothing was lost when the spell failed; the lines, like primoridal gas gathered themselves into floating stars before you, that unspooled threads of light at your touch.

You poured more and more Path into the spell, until the entirety of the pool within your soul was gossamer in the air. Only once you were fully committed did the spell correct itself, shifting into the form of a seven-pointed star that sunk into your apple. At the same time, the substance of you and the substance of the apple melded, the concept of Gold joining the spell and becoming a part of your Glamour.

Chant Emblazoned: AUR TYWYLLWCH CUR
Title Added: EURFORIWR (GOLD FORGER)

AUR TYWYLLWCH CUR
FORTUNE: You create illusory gold, and imbue it with a conditional curse. If the illusory gold is obtained by another by any means other than gifting, the bearer is cursed with misfortune; if the illusory gold is given as a gift, it will grant good fortune until the bearer attempts to spend or sell it.
THE DEVIL: You create illusory gold on the person of a number of people equal to the Song spent on the spell, and imbue it with a curse. The curse only ends if the gold is discarded; if the gold is spent, the curse does not end but instead will transfer to the new owner. Transfer can only occur if the gold is spent or sold; the curse ends if the gold is gifted.
THE TOWER: You imbue true gold with a powerful conditional curse.
THE MOON: You create illusory gold, and imbue it with a naturalistic curse that waxes and wanes over the period of a month. The cursed gold will shine faintly under starlight.
THE STAR: You imbue true, pure luck into true, pure gold. The boon lasts for as long as you will it. A point of PATH must be spent to inscribe the spell into the gold, and the more PATH spent, the stronger the effect. Takes effect once first given as a gift.

May the stars shine for you, Eurforiwr.


The last two points of PATH had sunk into your apple itself, emblazoned now with a seven-pointed star containing the spell in a delicate matrix of whorled lines. You had not intended this effect, which your wits immediately understood as a deliberate action of the distant Fount you were communing with - by forcing it to be an accident, it counted as a gift for the purpose of the Star aspect. As you held the awakened apple that was now part of your Glamour, you felt a little closer to home.

Path: 0/7
Artifact Restored: The Golden Apple
The Golden Apple allows a single instance of the spell AUR TYWYLLWCH CUR to be perpetually sustained by your Glamour rather than by expending Song. Your Glamour is effectively reduced by the same amount as Song would need to be spent to produce the effect. The amount of Glamour that can be spent this way is capped at 2. The apple can be used as the focus for a more powerful casting of AUR TYWYLLWCH CUR, allowing the stronger spell to be partially supported by Glamour rather than Song. The Apple can be left unattended or otherwise given away, and instantly resummoned to your side from wherever it is.
This message was last edited by the GM at 03:47, Tue 18 July 2023.

The spell...definitely didn't get created as she had expected! This Fount business, and really her overall situation, was still quite weird to her and there was a lot she was still figuring out. But the end result of what happened was quite satisfactory to her: she managed to reawaken her Golden Apple, which itself was a boon, while also unlocking several arcana-based ways to use her new Fortune magic! She would go with it, for fortune favored the bold!

She decided to look around her Barrow a bit more, just to make sure she didn't have any other grave goods in there. The large mirror was probably too large for her to take with her, and she was looking for any other goods that were practical for her travels. Only in her Barrow though - she would not desecrate the barrows of her fallen brethren right now.

If there was nothing else of note that she didn't already have, she proceeded to exit the barrow and size up her surroundings before heading west.

The Princet frowned to herself. This wasn't going as planned, and she really really did not like her chances of fighting out here. Doubly so since they seem to possess a rudimentary degree of competence. That prayer felt... off to her. She had assumed magic to be dead and the gods gone, but these people had a deity to offer their words to. She whispered a silent question to her own voice in the sky: is this "Mighty One" the men speak of in any way a threat to me?

Religion is a grave threat to any creature of reason.

The Princet goes cross-eyed. What in the everloving fuck was that supposed to mean?! She doesn't need a mysterious hanged man's voice in the sky to tell her something as rudimentary as that. It was almost a worse deal than if she had received no response at all. It almost spurred her to throw caution to the wind and tear the minds of the mortals before her to psychic ribbons just as an act of protest. Fortunately, she was able to calm herself. She withdraws the gathered spell energies in her hand back into herself and decides on a more... sociable approach.

The Princet extends her glamor the full distance that she is able, casting an illusion upon the mortals' senses. It was like ventriloquism, but with magic. Her life-shape sat upon a rock, exactly as it appeared in life, hair blowing oh-so-radiantly in the wind. It greatly resembled her invisible form, but on the other side of the wight-hunters so as to misdirect any harm directed at her.

"Why are you hunting wights?" the illusionary her asks. Her accent was lilting and melodic, the most alluring and fae of all accents. She smiles and rests her chin coquettishly upon the back of her fingers, pink nails glittering of their own accord.

The Princet of Learning
Lore 3/7

The Hanged Man speaks to you, First Mage:

Man partially constructs, through belief, the reality in which he exists. Your Glamour acts through the vehicle of this belief. The belief that Man holds in his Iron Lord gives power to Iron to disrupt your Glamour. The Iron Lord, by proxy, is both nonexistent and the most present and dire threat to your continued existence.

You extended your glamour outside of the barrow. You could not see the graverobbers through your proxy, but it was a simple matter to dedicate a point of Song to actively borrow from the memory of the leader, allowing you to see yourself through his eyes.

They were instantly enthralled. Influence 2.5/5.5

You were the most beautiful thing that they had ever seen, and your glamour turned the light around you, shifting shadows to create a visage right out of a fairytale.

"We are physical theopologists. We study the remains of the Old Gods to learn more about the history of the world. Unfortunately, the Old Gods have a tendency to wake up as ravenous monsters, so sometimes our subjects require an Iron hand."

He rubbed the back of his head. "It isn't safe around here, milady. There's a ghast about, we think. We're heading back to our base camp to raise the proper wight-hunters, would you like to accompany us?"
This message was last edited by the GM at 07:49, Wed 19 July 2023.

The Princet didn't expect a clarification, but got one regardless that confirms some of the suspicions she had been playing around with in the back of her head. Her misty, questionably-tangible little head. She wonders who or what the Hanged Man actually is, but dares not phrase it as a question lest it pull even more power from her. If it can be trusted, it would seem that while much has changed in Creation belief still quite literally makes the world turn.

Which means this Iron Lord needs to die. Weaker people might have scoffed that it is impossible to wage war on an idea, but she is the Princet of Learning and ideas are her bread and butter. A different spell is prepared, one to wipe the Iron Lord from the three enthralled men before her. Succeed or fail, these poor lambs ought not to be a threat once it has worked through their minds. She cautiously sneaks nearer, nails glimmering with the magical charge and ready to pounce the cleric the moment that circumstances seem to turn against her.

The illusionary her cocks her head, smile widening as the men tell their amusingly transparent little lie. "And if they awaken with their wits intact?" she probes. "Would you still extend them your Iron Hand of war, or an open palm of peace?" A silly question. She has watched them destroy those they rouse indiscriminately and without remorse.

She waves the offer of camp aside with her free hand. "I can't. I have to go home. Woe is me, to have been left in this haunted place..."

Elsewhere in Byd, the realm of man . . .

The vast sea.

An island, where tombs are carved into the cliffs, the soil, cascading in a tumble of masonry into the sea.

The sun, setting. A purple and orange sky, regal.

Era upon era of erosion tips a delicate balance between a ridge of rock - the mouth of a tomb complex - and the ocean.

Delicately, rivulets drift down the tomb; then, in a rush, the whole of the ocean sluices down. THe sea itself lifts in a vast tentril that drives itself into the tomb, a questing appendage of blue-green froth and water.

Deep within the tombs, old Gods are awakening; the Prince-of-the-Sun and the Dreamt Princess.

They cannot be allowed to revive. The Sea is a patient foe. Already it devours the world by inches. The word is yet new, and magic is lost; but the malevolence of the deep is a Fount itself, unmastered and unrivaled.

Deep below the earth, in a maze of tomb-on tomb, a chamber of fresh water is blessed by rays of purple and gold.

Two are interred here; it is the dull rumble of hungry abyss rushing down the tombway that awakens them. The sea is swift but the path is long and twisted.

The Hanged Man speaks to you, Dreamt Princess and Prince-of-the-Sun:

The world is new, but the old war is not done. Brave Archons, you are reborn. Take up your wits and your war-axes. You alone cannot prevail against the Abyss that comes to swallow you. Let the Sun boil the waves, and the Dreamt sweep them away.

May the stars shine upon you, my misbegotten.

The mellow voice leaves you, and you snap into full awareness. Your memories belong to you; your death was moments ago in your memory; Song, Path, and Lore crackle in your blood and inflame your sinew. You must flee, or else make war with the Sea.

The chamber is like a cenote, with sunlight flowing down onto a pool of freshwater that dominates the central chamber. Two passageways lead up and north; one to either side leads east and south-west; and a fifth passage leads down, further into the earth.

It is incredibly cold. The water in this cave is covered in a delicate sheen of ice. An wolf spider leaps away in fright as the Dreamt Princess rises.
This message was last edited by the GM at 08:16, Mon 24 July 2023.

In reply to The Hanged Man (msg # 21):

When she woke from her dream, something was wrong. The ceiling of her tomb was a canopy of silk. It was stretched across each stone wall, glittering with moisture and dust. Below, a shallow pool of water had formed from the cavern flooding, slowly, over time. She remained dry through the ages. Her vast corpse was tangled in the web above it all, long dead. No one who dared enter would even know. Her silver face peered down from a dark corner. The only evidence of her demise was the spider's missing eyes. Eight pin-point sockets were left, forming a circle at the center of her face. Her stripped legs were lifeless and devoid of the precious fluids that kept them from curling. Still, she clutched an egg sack in her pedipalps, shielding it under her fangs for millennia. This corpse, this web, this silence, would be the princess's last moment of comfort for another millennia.

The old war is not done the wind whispered. Take up your wits and your war-axes it demanded - else fall forever into the Abyss it warned.

The abdomen of the spider split open, the violent sound like a cracking egg. The last of her silk was spilled onto the cavern floor, and swaddled within was the body of a woman. She lay crumpled in the shallow water before finally gasping her first, wet breath. The princess sputtered and coughed and lifted her face from the water. Her skin was umber, and her hair the silvery white of a web. The light trickling through the cavern illuminated her naked angles in the purples and blues of the dusk. All she had to cover herself was the loose silk floating on the surface of the water, but it was all she needed. The Princess gathered the strands in her hands and tried to weave herself a more substantial garment. Kneeling in the reflective water, she began to understand the horror of her situation.

---

The Dreamnt Princess attempts to spin spider silk to make a dress.

---

The tomb she awoke in was tainted. The battle where she was slain only happened yesterday. Yet the tole of time and the cruelty of the Old Gods far surpassed her memories. On the walls lay mounds of stillborn egg sacs. She still remembered the toil of laying them, and the the thrill of their unborn potential. But they were destroyed before they were even fertilized. The empty husks were burnt to cinder. The scars of a holy fire stained the walls where the water couldn't wash them away. Teetering like a newborn lamb, the princess managed to reach the petrified eggs melted to the wall just for the chance to touch them one last time. She stayed with them even as the Sea howled outside the cavern. The princess swallowed her tears, knowing what she must do.

She would escape this place. She would save her children. She would avenge them.

The only eggs that survived were far above her, out of reach. To scale the slick walls would be as simple as a transformation, but on her quaking, human knees, she could not summon the power. It wouldn't stop her. She pushed down the cold anxiety lurking in her belly and lifted her hand to the web above. She intended to tether a line of silk to the great structure she could climb. She would not leave without the eggs still hiding under the dead spider's breast.

---

The Dreamnt Princess attempts to use spider silk to scale the walls and reach the egg sac.

---

This message was last edited by the player at 19:59, Mon 24 July 2023.

Elsewhere in Byd, the realm of man . . .

"Too many damn witches this moon," said a gruff voice. "Toss him in a cell."

"We ain't got no cells left. Can't put more'n one to a spot, on account the chief said they might conspire amongst 'emselves . . . "

"Not a single goddamn cell? The whole gaol, full?"

"Well . . . " said a feminine voice.

"I know that tone. What's clever, Cadi?"

"There's the hole . . . the collapsed stairway, used to lead down to a crypt back when this place was full of monks.  Nobody down there. Not a cell per se, but it's a whole, fifteen feet deep, no way back up less someone toss you a rope. Could stash the witch there? For now?"

"Ain't exactly humane. Witch is a witch, but there's law. Don't like the idea of putting a witch down with the dead, either."

There was a huff. "Sorry."

"Well, it'll do for a night. Ebrill, toss this lump in the hole. He'll keep."

Minutes later, a dull thud as a man with a hood over his head is cast down into a pit.

Dust shifts down from the ceiling. In a far corner, hidden in alcove, a skeleton stirs to new life. An ornate mask, one a gilded thing, hides the grinning skull. Loose fingerbones gather together by some force, clutching an weathered spearhead.

The Hanged Man speaks to you, Banished Prince:

You are forgotten, without even a marker for your grave. The world has passed to a new Aeon; seek the Outlands, where a Fount of new magic call to you.

You are as a candle in the dark. Mind the wind, and know that though the dark obscures your vision, it makes such feeble light all the more precious. There is no path set before you. You must make the path, that others may follow.

May the stars shine for you, Banished Prince.

The chamber is a long hallway filled with alcoves; a hole in the ceiling allows a spill of lamplight in the darkness. The base is dry and heavily dusted. Rats make their nests among the bones.

A small altar to the Iron Lord is centered on a pedestal in the alcove before you. An iron bowl, with residue of burned incense made from fragrant sap.

The hooded man sobs, quietly. He was hurt in the fall.
This message was last edited by the GM at 00:32, Tue 25 July 2023.

Hidden away from the world the Prince dreamed a horrific dream, a nightmare really. A horrible slaughter that was disguised as a battle. No matter how hard he fought or what he tried the slaughter continued. A noise disturbed his centuries of slumber, the sound of voices. When his awareness returned he tried to call out, a call to retreat, a call to save themselves. Yet nothing came out of his throat. There was a moment of panic when the Prince found he could not breath at all. He looked down at himself to find that he was nothing more than bones. 'Well, that explains that. No lungs, no mouth, no voice' he noted with frustration after the shock had faded.

Before he could do anything else another voice called to him. Not the voice of men but something far more powerful. The prince recognized the words as truth and despair momentarily filled him. He had failed those who had come to him for guidance, come to him for help. He silently hoped that they found safety from the war but wasted no more time on the past. The Prince needed to focus on the present to return to the lands he had once called home.

He examined his new body, or at least what was left of it. Aside from the remains of his weapon it seemed he had lost almost everything. Fortunately for the Prince his mask had managed to stay with him. Gods had taken nearly everything from him at one point or another but his symbol remained, even if time had taken it's toll. He had no idea how much power remained in the skeleton that was formerly his body but he tried to channel what little magic he had into the mask. Tried to restore it to what it once was.

He dreamt of a sunless sky. He dreamt of a day that would not come, the promise of a tomorrow mere cinders in a charred plane far away. He dreamt of a single ray of sunlight that cut the night and bored a hole through his very being.

Deep within a waterlogged cavern, a statue of warped, melted armor began to glow from within. In the damp, the armor began to leak steam under every plate. They began to shift and separate, revealing smoldering flesh beneath. Portions of the ornate armor began to slough off, where it didn’t melt onto the muscular, burning body beneath. The statue took a step forward.

The Prince of the Sun gasped his first breath in centuries. His lungs burned as they inflated and then he was flooded with blaring sensation. The Prince's vision came into focus. He was alone. A realization more unbearable than the excruciating pain burned the Prince's heart. "I'm... I'm alive. Why am I alive? Why am only I-" but the rest caught in the Prince's throat. He swallowed the question down unfinished. He knew why. His men wouldn't have the privilege of coming back. Tears steamed from the corners of his eyes. He'd have more time to mourn them later. He looked down at his hands. New skin replaced what was once charred away. They were almost exactly how he remembered them. They were the same strong, broad hands they should be, but they lacked the scars and callouses he’d earned from a lifetime of warfare. But that flesh had all burned away and he had been made… new.

"But where... am I?" Had he been stored here for his own protection? Or was this chamber meant for his imprisonment? The Prince took another step forward. He shook off whatever armor and decorations were not firmly melted to him. He pulled the golden battle-mask from his face and strapped it to his belt. An accessory that endured the ages was an obsidian pendant. The glow was faint, but deep within the stone, the Prince could feel an unmistakable, familiar heat. An ember, from the dead Old Sun itself. The same such ember that had revived him and burned inside him. The Prince held the pendant’s warmth to his chest, just for a moment.

There was more there in the subterranean room. An altar, and across it was a heavy-looking halberd. The Prince ran the flat of his palm across its dark blade. It was the same ember-imbued obsidian as the pendant. Inside, the Prince could feel a constellation of embers. It felt like it was made for someone just slightly bigger than even his imposing stature.

In the quiet of the cavern, the Prince could hear the sound of water flowing into the room, but it was so dark, he couldn’t tell from where, or how to escape it. He needed light. He thought about the fire in his chest, the feeling of the limitless light and heat that had charred his flesh from within. He tried to draw that feeling of burning, that fire, out into the world to illuminate the cavern with its golden glow.

---

The Prince of the Sun tries to illuminate the room.

---