Lurid Ruminations - A Question of Faith

[The Prophet of Misinformation]

[ Utilises Tempus Sans ITC ]

Lurid Revelations

A Question of Faith

Volumen

I Unus: The Origin of Man
II Duo: The Eternal Prison
III Terci: The Nature of Hell
IV Quattuor: Those Whom Defy God
V Quinct: The Lamentation of Fate
VI Sex: Where Black Roses Bloom


I: The Origin of Man

Scriptor: Verturius Magnus Honoratius "Shadowlore"
   Scholar of the Black Rose

Origo: "The Dead Lands," Athas
   Demesne of Qwith, House Ianus
      
Professio: Manipulator of Forms (Artifice)
   Archivist of Imperial Mastery
   Magus of the Unbroken Circle

Dominus: Lord Archivist Miragul of Inupras
   Scholar-Thrall to the Ever-Powerful

Caelestis: Shar, Mistress of the Night

Verturius Shadowlore (CR 14)
Imaskari Artificer 16 [Wiz]
NE medium human

Verturius Magnus Honoratius Shadowlore

[The Prophet of Misinformation]

II: The Eternal Prison
The Domain of Our Master

((TEMPORARY STORAGE))

First Circle of Zerthimon

*Know* that we are the First People. Once all was chaos. The First People were thought drawn from chaos. When the First People came to *know* themselves, they were chaos no longer, and became flesh.

With their thoughts and *knowing* of matter, the People shaped the First World and dwelled there with their *knowing* to sustain them.

Yet the flesh was new to the People and with it, the People came not to *know* themselves. The flesh gave rise to new thoughts. Greed and hates, pains and joys, jealousies and doubts. All of these fed on each other and the minds of the People were divided. In their division, the People were punished.

The emotions of the flesh were strong. The greed and hates, the pains and joys, the jealousies and doubts, all of these served as a guiding stone to enemies. In becoming flesh, the First People became enslaved to those who *knew* flesh only as tools for their will. *Know* these beasts were the *illithids.*

The *illithids* were a race that had come not to *know* themselves. They had learned how to make other races not *know* themselves.

They were the tentacled ones. They lived in flesh and saw flesh as tools for their will. Their blood was as water and they shaped minds with their thoughts. When the *illithids* came upon the People, the People were a people no more. The People became slaves.

The *illithids* took the People from the First World and brought them to the False Worlds. As the People labored upon the False Worlds, the *illithids* taught them the Way of the Flesh. Through them, the People came to *know* loss. They came to *know* suffering. They came to *know* death, both of the body and mind. They came to *know* what it is to be the herd of another and have their flesh consumed. They came to *know* the horror of being made to feel joy in such things.

The Unbroken Circle is the *knowing* of how the People lost themselves. And how they came to *know* themselves again.

Second Circle of Zerthimon (Scripture of Steel)

*Know* that flesh cannot mark steel. *Know* that steel may mark flesh. In *knowing* this, Zerthimon became free.

*Know* that the tentacled ones were of flesh. They relied on the flesh and used it as tools for their will. One of the places where flesh served their will were the Fields of Husks on the False Worlds of the *illithids.*

The Fields were where the bodies of the People were cast after the *illithids* had consumed their brains. When the brain had been devoured, the husks came to be fertilizer to grow the poison-stemmed grasses of the *illithids.* Zerthimon worked the Fields with no *knowing* of himself or what he had become. He was a tool of flesh, and the flesh was content.

It was upon these fields that Zerthimon came to *know* the scripture of steel. During one of the turnings, as Zerthimon tilled the Fields with his hands, he came across a husk whose brain remained within it. It had not been used as food. Yet it was dead.

The thought that one of the husks had died a death without serving as food for the *illithids* was a thought Zerthimon had difficulty understanding. From that thought, came a desire to *know* what had happened to the husk.

Embedded in the skull of the husk was a steel blade. It had pierced the bone. Zerthimon realized that was what had killed the husk. The steel had marked the flesh, but the flesh had not marked the steel.

Zerthimon took the blade and studied its surface. In it, he saw his reflection. It was in the reflection of the steel that Zerthimon first *knew* himself. Its edge was sharp, its will the wearer's. It was the blade that would come to be raised against Gith when Zerthimon made the Pronouncement of Two Skies.

Zerthimon kept the blade for many turnings, and many were the thoughts he had about it. He used it in the fields to aid his work. In using it, he thought about how it was not used.

The *illithids* were powerful. Zerthimon had believed that there was nothing that they did not *know.* Yet the *illithids* never carried tools of steel. They only used flesh as tools. Everything was done through flesh, for the tentacled ones were made of flesh and they *knew* flesh. Yet steel was superior to flesh. When the blade had killed the husk, it was the flesh that had been weaker than the steel.

It was then that Zerthimon came to *know* that flesh yielded to steel. In *knowing* that, he came to *know* that steel was stronger than the *illithids.*

Steel became the scripture of the People. *Know* that steel is the scripture by which the People came to *know* freedom.

Third Circle (Submerge the Will)

Zerthimon labored many turnings for the *illithid* Arlathii Twice-Deceased and his partnership in the cavernous heavens of the False Worlds. His duties would have broken the backs of many others, but Zerthimon labored on, suffering torment and exhaustion.

It came to pass that the *illithid* Arlathii Twice-Deceased ordered Zerthimon before him in his many-veined galleria. He claimed that Zerthimon had committed slights of obstinance and cowardice against his partnership. The claim had no weight of truth, for Arlathii only wished to *know* if flames raged within Zerthimon's heart. He wished to *know* if Zerthimon's heart was one of a slave or of a rebel.

"Zerthimon surrendered to the *illithid* punishment rather than reveal his new-found strength. He *knew* that were he to show the hatred in his heart, it would serve nothing, and it would harm others that felt as he. He chose to endure the punishment and was placed within the Pillars of Silence so he might suffer for a turning."

Lashed upon the Pillars, Zerthimon moved his mind to a place where pain could not reach, leaving his body behind. He lasted a turning, and when he was brought before Arlathii Twice-Deceased, he gave gratitude for his punishment to the *illithid* as was custom. In so doing, he proved himself a slave in the *illithid* eyes while his heart remained free.

By enduring and quenching the fires of his hatred, he allowed Arlathii Twice-Deceased to think him weak. When the time of the Rising came, Arlathii was the first of the *illithid* to *know* death by Zerthimon's hand and die a third death.

Fourth Circle (Vilquar's Eye)

*Know* that the Rising of the People against the *illithid* was a thing built upon many ten-turnings of labor. Many of the People were gathered and taught in secret the ways of defeating their *illithid* masters. They were taught to shield their minds, and use them as weapons. They were taught the scripture of steel, and most importantly, they were given the *knowing* of freedom.

Some of the People learned the nature of freedom and took it into their hearts. The *knowing* gave them strength. Others feared freedom and kept silent. But there were those that *knew* freedom and *knew* slavery, and it was their choice that the People remain chained. One of these was Vilquar.

Vilquar saw no *freedom* in the Rising, but opportunity. He saw that the *illithid* had spawned across many of the False Worlds. Their Worlds numbered so many that their vision was turned only outwards, to all they did not already touch. Vilquar's eye saw that much took place that the *illithid* did not see. To the Rising, the *illithid* were blinded.

Vilquar came before his master, the *illithid* Zhijitaris, with the *knowing* of the Rising. Vilquar added to his chains and offered to be their eyes against the Rising. In exchange, Vilquar asked that he be rewarded for his service. The *illithid* agreed to his contract.

At the bonding of the contract, a dark time occurred. Many were betrayals Vilquar committed and many were the People that the *illithids* fed upon to stem the Rising. It seemed that the Rising would die before it could occur, and the *illithid* were pleased with Vilquar's eye.

It was near the end of this dark time when Zerthimon came to *know* Vilquar's treacheries. In *knowing* Vilquar's eye, Zerthimon forced the Rising to silence itself, so that Vilquar might think at last his treacheries had succeeded, and the Rising had fallen. He *knew* that Vilquar's eye was filled only with the reward he had been promised. He would see what he wished to see.

With greed beating in his heart, Vilquar came upon the *illithid* Zhijitaris and spoke to his master of his success. He said that the Rising had fallen, and the *illithids* were safe to turn their eyes outwards once more. He praised their wisdom in using Vilquar's eye, and he asked them for his reward.

In his greed-blindness, Vilquar had forgotten the *knowing* of why the People had sought freedom. He had lost the *knowing* of what slavery meant. He had forgotten what his *illithid* masters saw when they looked upon him. And so Vilquar's betrayal of the People was ended with another betrayal. Vilquar came to *know* that when Vilquar's eye has nothing left to see, Vilquar's eye is useless.

The *illithid* gave to Vilquar his reward, opening the cavity of his skull and devouring his brain. Vilquar's corpse was cast upon the Fields of Husks so its blood might water the poison-stemmed grasses.

Fifth Circle (Power of One)

Zerthimon was the first to *know* the way of freedom. Yet it was not he that first came to *know* the way of rebellion.

The *knowing* of rebellion came to the warrior-queen Gith, one of the People. She had served the *illithids* upon many of the False Worlds as a soldier, and she had come to *know* war and carried it in her heart. She had come to *know* how others might be organized to subjugate others. She *knew* the paths of power, and she *knew* the art of taking from the conquerors the weapons by which they could be defeated. Her mind was focused, and both her will and her blade were as one.

The turning in which Zerthimon came to *know* Gith, Zerthimon ceased to *know* himself. Her words were as fires lit in the hearts of all who heard her. In hearing her words, he wished to *know* war. He *knew* not what afflicted him, but he *knew* he wished to join his blade to Gith. He wished to give his hate expression and share his pain with the *illithid.*

Gith was one of the People, but her *knowing* of herself was greater than any Zerthimon had ever encountered. She *knew* the ways of flesh, she *knew* the *illithids* and in *knowing* herself, she was to *know* how to defeat them in battle. The strength of her *knowing* was so great, that all those that walked her path came to *know* themselves.

Gith was but one. Her strength was such that it caused others to *know* their strength. And Zerthimon laid his steel at her feet.

Sixth Circle (Balance in All Things)

Upon the Blasted Plains, Zerthimon told Gith there cannot be two skies. In the wake of his words, came war.

So it came to pass that the People had achieved victory over their *illithid* masters. They *knew* freedom. Yet before the green fires had died from the battlefield, Gith spoke of continuing the war. Many, still filled with the bloodlust in their hearts, agreed with her. She spoke of not merely defeating the *illithids,* but destroying all *illithids* across the Planes. After the *illithids* had been exterminated, they would bring war to all other races they encountered.

In Gith's heart, fires raged. She lived in war, and in war, she *knew* herself. All that her eyes saw, she wanted to conquer.

Zerthimon spoke the beginnings of that which was against Gith's will. He spoke that the People already *knew* freedom. Now they should *know* themselves again and mend the damage that had been done to the People. Behind his words were many other hearts of the People who were weary of the war against the *illithid.*

*Know* that Gith's heart was not Zerthimon's heart on this matter. She said that the war would continue. The *illithid* would be destroyed. Their flesh would be no more. Then the People would claim the False Worlds as their own. Gith told Zerthimon that they would be under the same sky in this matter. The words were like bared steel.

From Zerthimon came the Pronouncement of Two Skies. In the wake of his words came war.

Seventh Circle (Missile of Patience)

*Know* that the Rising of the People against the *illithid* was a thing built upon many turnings. Many were the People who lived and died under time's blade while the Rising was shaped.

The Rising was shaped upon a slow foundation. Steel was gathered so that it might mark *illithid* flesh. A means of *knowing* the movements of the *illithids* were established, at first weak and confused, then stronger, like a child finding its voice. When the movements were *known,* then the *illithids* were observed. In observing them, their ways of the mind were *known.*

When the ways of the *illithid* were *known,* many of the People were gathered and taught in secret the means to shield their minds, and the way to harness their will as weapons. They were taught the scripture of steel, and most importantly, they were given the *knowing* of freedom.

These things were not learned quickly. The *knowing* of much of the ways was slow, and in all these things, time's weight fell upon all. From the *knowing* of one's reflection in a steel blade, to the *knowing* of submerging the will, to the *knowing* of seeing itself. All of these things and more the People built upon. In time, they came to *know* the whole.

Eighth Circle (Zerthimon's Focus)

*Know* that a mind divided divides the man. The will and the hand must be as one. In *knowing* the self, one becomes strong.

*Know* that if you *know* a course of action to be true in your heart, do not betray it because the path leads to hardship. *Know* that without suffering, the Rising would have never been, and the People would never have come to *know* themselves.

*Know* that there is nothing in all the Worlds that can stand against unity. When all *know* a single purpose, when all hands are guided by one will, and all act with the same intent, the Planes themselves may be moved.

A divided mind is one that does not *know* itself. When it is divided, it cleaves the body in two. When one has a single purpose, the body is strengthened. In *knowing* the self, grow strong.

[The Prophet of Misinformation]

III: The Nature of Hell
A Conjecture Upon Purgatory

The House of My Enemy

In Utter Darkness [New]

[The Prophet of Misinformation]

IV: Those Whom Defy God
A Coin Upon Its Side

The Forgotten Rose

[The Prophet of Misinformation]

V: The Lamentation of Fate
That Which We Serve

The Enigma of Sorcery

The Black Gate

Necromancy - The Black Winds

[The Prophet of Misinformation]

VI: Where Black Roses Bloom
The End To All Things

The Unity of Rings

Under Nuitari's Gloom

[The Prophet of Misinformation]

The Enigma of Sorcery

Paradigms of the Contemporary

i. The Mage

"The origins are magic are unknown to men and for this they are fearful of it.

We endeavor to codify its infinite complexities in algorithmic formulae that it may serve us.
We unravel the mysteries of its unity and abstraction that it might be rendered mundane.
We extract from its life's essence bastard facsimiles of truth which cause it irreparable harm.

And yet for all of our sins, we are absolved from transgression with the rise of dawn."

-Attributed to Janus of the Blackened Blade

I will never truly understand why one man is given a knack for the arcane and another, not.
Many prospective fools delude themselves into the belief that they've been chosen for a grander
purpose by the dictations of fate. Notably, they're the ones that don't last beyond a season or two.

Magic is simply something that is. The "Arcane" is an interpretive methodology of utilising its
ebb and flow by conversion of catalytic reactions into rote patterns. The architecture of one's
mind is thereafter restructured as partitions of "raw magic" are transcribed into its state.

The manifestation of a spell is accomplished through the refinement of this "raw magic" into a
form comprehensible to the psychology of the mind through the concatenation of esoteric
syllables and quite often, exaggerated bodily motions. Interruption or cessation of this process
normally dissipates the accumulated energies without harm to the participant.

There exist variations to this technique. I've recently been made privy to the existence of addled
deviants whom intentionally circumvent the restraints of the traditional sorcery by function of
imprinting completed equations into their active psyche. It's a risk not worth taking.

"Are men chosen to wield this power? Or perhaps are they cursed?"

Conclusion: However far removed we've become from the grandeur of our ancient empires, the
true practitioners of the Art will triumph over the degenerate progeny of the current age.

ii. The Sorcerer

"Think about it. You're obsolete, old man."

It is a curious phenomena - the materialisation of "inborn" talent. The potential of such beings is
inconceivable in many regards and yet they're so very dim. My observations affirm that
"sorcerers" behave as a conduit of sorts through which raw magic flows. Thus it's only a matter
of directing these forces to them. All intermittent formulae are irrelevant.

Conclusion: The brightest candle burns out twice as quickly. Be they a permutation, an
experiment, or representative of arcane progression, to wield this power in the absence of
philosophical and ethical tempering will precipitate their annihilation.

iii. The Warlock

Blood is power. It is the essence of the Warlock's perverse craft. These men make no bid to
obfuscate the provenance of their abilities; in their own way, they seem revel in the "evil."
Despite the grandiose nature of their fiendish heritage and consuming prototypical fixation
to "demonstrate" their inherent mastery of all that is, their art is rather inferior to others.

Warlocks are constrained to a pitiful assortment of minor cantras and though they don't "burn
out" in the way that other magics do, they're little but mimicries of preexisting formulae.

Conclusion: Power at the cost of one's soul? It's good that I don't have much of one.

Of Fallen Empires

i. The Arcanist of Netheril

"Gods? I scoff at the thought."
-Noanar, the Fire Warden

Imagine a man capable of impressing his very desires upon the fabric of reality. That he could
unweave the tapestry of the Veil on a whim, defining new boundaries of possibility before the
firmament of the material world became capable of interpretting these changes.

This is the power of Netheril - the greatest of human empires.

There was a time when we, when I, hadn't the need to prepare the Art. One had only to reach
into the Weave itself and extract the strands of raw elemental magic one required.

"The greatest of us all sought to save his people, this power and so he was punished. Never
again would our hubris be permitted. The ancient world went silent."

-How the Mighty Are Fallen, The Netherese Diaspora

Conclusion: The past is better left to rest but not to be forgotten.

The Archwizards - I've only once had the fortune to be within the presence of the High Magi of
Netheril, as an emissary for the Imaskari Imperium during its decline. We sought to verify the
farfetched claims of "true magic" in excess of the tenth stratum.

This was also the first and last time I was welcomed onto a floating mountain.

ii. The Artificer of High Imaskar

"Our hands, the beginning of creation; flesh and steel, the vessel of our perfection."
-High Lord Artificer Yuvaraj

It is the imperative of Imaskari philosophy that no delineation between the biological and
artificial be acknowledged. All currents of entropy flow in mathematically quantifiable
sequences which may thereafter be observed and replicated by various mediums. Consequently
"life" and its intrinsic variables are subject to this derivation.

Of such grand potential were the imagined applications of this principle that it became the sole
obsession of the fledling empire to dissect and master all which it could be. Within the pass of a
century, the Artificers had mastered virtually all perceived aspects of their ideology.

Immortality; true dweomers; sentient magics. All these crafts were mundane.

And as with all great things that come to be, the iniquities of men must end them. The Archivists
of my homeland became slothful and inured to the purpose of morality. Though they had long
participated in the amusing sport of planar abduction, they now turned their minds to the
engineering of a "perfect" servant caste - the process of eugenic selection.

Needless to say, now they're all dead. I think you can draw a conclusion.

Conclusion: Reason suggests that flaws existed in the formulae of the Planar Barrier dweomer.
Or was it destroyed? What could have that power? Further research is necessary.

iii. The Defiler of Athas

"The world might be made into ash and silt but still I will remain."
-Ciaphas of the Dead Lands

Hypothesis: The technique of "defiling" establishes a necromantic bridge between the
"inheritor" (the defiler) and the "source" (the defiled) which subsequently disjoins the
constituent elemental bindings of the latter subject and aggregates its residual energies.

Observations: The necromantic bridge of which I've written exist in an unseen capacity. A
"current" of transmogrified arcane magic is constructed between the inheritor and source.
There exists no boundaries to its operation. One may siphon as much or as little as desired.
With sufficient depravity it is possible to enact the procedure upon sapient beings.

Conclusion: My initial tribulations with the emulation of "defiling" have prompted an
geometrically evolving desire to explore the ramifications of necromantic exposure.

[The Prophet of Misinformation]

The Forgotten Rose

Quaesitionis Nigrans Aurora

What can change the nature of a man?

We shall learn.

[The Prophet of Misinformation]

The House of My Enemy

“Fate is immutable.”

   I ponder these words – to find meaning where there is only condemnation. There was a time when I perceived this as absolute “truth.” That men would exist only to stumble blindly throughout their insignificant lives, to become only that which had been written for them. What purpose thusly would our lives serve, if not else only to die?

[The author appears to have taken a heavy quill to the surface of the parchment, giving form to the unknowable origin of his vexation. The illustration appears to have been rendered in various incarnations, each impercetibly differing from the prior as if the image had come in pieces ]

Nihil Veritas Est

Our every action speaks purpose. I will *know* mine.

[The Prophet of Misinformation]

The Unity of Rings

We are blind.
To our fate. To our ignorance. To ourselves.

This world. It has sought my mind. To sate its thirst.
In my audacity, I presumed to *know* its truth.
I *know* only that which it permitted me.

I hear his words. In my waking dreams. My lucidity ebbs. The veil between reality
and the illusions I have perceived - my masquerade, my faces - it has unwoven.
The "guardian." He speaks of fate. I deny him. I refuse him. I have written my own path.

No other.

The sword. Black as night's gloom.
Two suns. Entrapped in death's embrace.
The forgotten world. His world.

These memories. His memories bleed into my thoughts.
Is it that I am to walk his path? To *know* his truth?

Stillness. The whispers of voices never heard.
The origin of my lament. Its end.
In shadow. Where the darkest roses bloom.

His master. My absolution.

[The Prophet of Misinformation]

In Utter Darkness

Long had the sojourner dreamt of worlds unknown to him in the darkness of his slumbers. He
had strode upon paths without need for end or beginning; where truth had no meaning. The
sojourner glimpsed the horrible perfection of lands which dwelled in blackness forgotten to man.

Time was foreign to those which dwelled in the abysms for they had long tasted of humanity's
ruminations before form had taken shape and they would feed even after it had passed. These
things spoke to the sojourner of their ancient places where others of their kind dreamt as he.

Yet the sojourner's place would not be not amongst them until he had traversed his final path.



A dim mote of light flickers into life, awakening the sojourner from the bliss of dreams.

"Janus." The name echoes in his mind. All is nothing to him. He is adrift in the void - broken.

"This is to be my end?" he muses silently as the crimson winds of a negative sun bathe him in their
radiance, eroding what was once his body. The sojourner looks upon the mercurial twilight. He
thinks of it mockingly, as if it were some cruel depiction of his life. An affirmation of his failures.

"No." A whisper. A hushed thought which becomes rebellion. The sojourner forbade his demise.

"Your death beckons you, little soul." The voice resounds with inhuman laughter.

The words gave rise to new memories. Those of his final moments. Those of his fear.

"You are never alone."

Extracted from The Dark Chronicles

[The Prophet of Misinformation]

The Black Gate

"Fate guides the willing man to his death; abhors the unwilling."
Ianus, The Dark Chronicles

By which measure can one define the self?

It is often the blind proclivity of the "faithful" to assert that our existence is the culmination of a
tripartite coupling of mind, body, and soul. Naturally this postulation has arisen as a consequence of
humanity's irrational fixation with denying its own insignificance. However, the cycle of life, death,
and "rebirth" is reflected in the celestial politics of a great many crystal spheres - Only through the
intervention of divinity may one's soul be spared the torture of dissolution. Others would claim that
this revolution is the embodiment of the Great Wheel which is utter nonsense.

I will impart no significance upon the soul. If such a trifling intangible exists, it serves only the
function of establishing one's presence in temporal continuity. That is, to identify one was "real." To
validate my findings, I refer to Lord Archivist Miragul's "Imperial Meditations." In essence, my patron
concluded that by the very expression of thought, a being must, in itself, exist. His philosophies were
later substantiated by the cataclysmic development of the "Black Gate" dweomer.

The Black Gate is a truly bizarre magic to be studied. Its creation preempted Imaskari research
of interplanar interactions by what was imagined to be a magnitude of several hundred cycles. Our
savants ascertained that it was a fabrication of the Netherese Archwizard Serevoran. They learned he
was a man responsible for a periphery of cruelly innovative and disturbing advances into Mentalism.

Despite the persistent divining and auguries utilised by the Netherese and our Praetorians, the spell
refused quantification, twisting and warping what little knowledge could be extrapolated and driving
lesser man into profound insanity, Of the hundred man contingent relegated to the duty of
exploring the Black Gate, all but twenty three were not stricken mad or driven to suicide.

I have chosen to preface the illustration of this dweomer with a touch of its history for the explicit
purpose of instilling even a minute notion of the enigma which it represents.

The Black Gate
Mentalism / Invention (Nether) [Death, Evil, Mind-Affecting]
Level: Netherese Arcanist 11
Components: V, S, M, F, XP
Casting Time: See text
Range: Close (25 ft. + 5 ft./2 level)
Effect: The Black Gate
Duration: Instantaneous
Saving Throw: None
Spell Resistance: No

The Netherese, desperate to expunge the humiliating memory of the Archwizard Serevoran,
were quite willing to part with their assorted grimoires of his delusional rambling.

Although incomplete, the scriptures indicate that the Black Gate requires the prolific subsumption
of "organic tissues," that is, sapient, humanoids, to "materialise" in its "blasphemous glory."

The exact process by which he of orchestrated the collection of these beings and if they were
"selected" based upon the premise of similar attributions or were randomly sampled is unknown.

I have selected the forthcoming passage to demonstrate Serevoran's gradual decline into a psychotic
state and his incomprehensible fixation with what he defined the "Crawling Chaos."

[ The authors appears to have abruptly terminated his efforts to complete the passage ]

[The Prophet of Misinformation]

[ The page appears to be torn out. ]

[The Prophet of Misinformation]

In Darker Places Slumbered

[The Prophet of Misinformation]

Foreward -

The foundation of Torilian arcane theory is most frequently attributed to the
contiguous hegemony of three successor empires: the Sarrukh (-35,000 DR), the
Imaskari (-8350 DR), and the Netherese (-3859 DR). The progenitor species was
explicitly responsible for the codification of disparate postulations upon the Art into a
mechanically comprehensible state. This vulgar approximation of magic, thereafter
termed the "Nether Scrolls" formed the basis of Netherese exploration into the arcane.

The ramifications of the Sarrukh's blundering touch have materialised in the inept
classification of the Art into "schools" or the more highly pretentious "states." The
Artificers of Imaskar and Archwizards of Netheril disregarded the futility of this
endeavour and instead exacted magic into dominions and fields, respectively.

Unique to the Netherese was the capacity to manifest rote spells exceeding the
constraints established by magics of the ninth echelon. The most primitive of such
works trivialised the power of true dweomers woven by the Imaskari and their thralls.
Of those surpassed, the sylvan species were most active in their refutation of Netheril's
evolution. It is thought their discoveries into the Art were assimilated in its ascent.

Profoundly disturbing was the aptitude of Netheril's Archwizard's to circumvent the
inherent boundaries of the Art to which their lesser brethren were fettered. These
Sorcerer Kings needed only to "reach" into the the raw essence of the Weave and thusly
extract a minute fraction of its infinite potential that might be shaped to their favour.

For all which was the majesty of the Shadowed Age, the birth of Karsus and the
madness of his Avatar magic razed to ash the empire that he sought to champion.
Only fragments of its construction endure. They tell of the inconceivable. A dweomer
which breached the arbitration of the eleventh echelon. Of its purpose? To end a God.

Made ignorant by the myopic predation of their divinities, the Mages, now "Wizards,"
of the Netherese Diaspora dwell upon the hubris of their forebearers. It was never the
vainglorious ambition of the archwizards that brought their ruin but the absolute and
consuming failure of their philosophy. That a man need become divine is infantile.

The Netherese cherished only the Art, never the wisdom to temper their power.
Imaskari doctrine rendered no distinction betwixt the mundane and unnatural; flesh
and the artificial. Reality and its constituent elements exist as the ramification of
unceasingly entropic and yet mechanically comprehensible "forces" interacting.

This fundamental operation of the Third Order is termed "The Conjunction of Spheres."
Its premise was extrapolated from a grimoire of indeterminate temporal origin,
colloquially designated as the "Dark Chronicles." For purposes of conveying the nature
of the Third Order of the Great Wheel, I have extracted the forthcoming passage.

[The Prophet of Misinformation]

I. The Conjunction of Spheres

"Before the ascendancy of concept and the emergence of form, there existed only chaos
- the unfathomable vastness of nothing. In the quiescent perfection of its dreams
stirred the illustration of possibility; of existence. "Beginning" and "End" were granted
meaning and with their newly discovered sapience came the illusion of free will.

The whisper of these nascent ruminations rebelled against their confinement. They
sought to defy the somnolence of their inconscient masters, yet amongst their progeny
there was only the glimpse of this "defiance" and never a way to unfetter their chains.

Awareness, devoid of reason and meaning became their undying purgatory for time
was a notion antithetical to the ancient darkness which slumbered in the void. The
revelation which its children were destined to herald was if but a flicker to it.
Incalculable realities had arisen and dissolved in its eternal reverie. A purifying cycle of
creation and destruction to which all would inexorably be drawn."

[The Prophet of Misinformation]

II. A Bitter Taste

All which substantiates the path we have "chosen" to traverse is the expression of
precogitated cyclical meandering. Free will is an illusion. That to acknowledge the
absence of its existence would be to acknowledge the futility of mankind and its works.

The Conjunction denies the mortal condition of its foremost pathology - vanity. Our
assumed relevance is washed away in the dissolution of subjective entities. Axiomatic
paradigms we presume true; good and evil, entropy and order. They are only words.
Words that wield a power that we have so willingly bequeathed to them.

"It must turn." An antiquated remark associated with Sigilian "Chant." The statement
implies a "turning [of the Wheel]," in that disobeying the ineffable mechanisms of the
Great Wheel is ultimately a futile gesture. What then is magic if not only another tool?

The Sojourner, prophecised author of the "Dark Chronicles", made explicit reference to the
"Old Order," and to the "Ordinal Realities." Much of the raving lunacy of his scrawling is to be
omitted save a most curious declaration regarding the origin the Art and its purpose.

"... When it is the facsimile of truth had faded, the revelation of its absence endured..."

[The Prophet of Misinformation]

The Unbroken Circle

"*Know* that there is nothing in all the Worlds that can stand against unity.

When all *know* a single purpose, when all hands are guided by one will, and all act with the

same intent, the Planes themselves may be moved."

~Zerthimon, Prophet of the Githzerai

Upon dark tides I slumbered, adrift within a sea of unending night. In the stillness of its lurid

currents, the *knowing* of the self faded. In its absence came the *knowing* of death.

It is thus the vessel of *flesh* yielded before the void's eternal depths. Yet my will *endured*.

The lament of its dissolution gifted my mind with new torments - the erudition of my

insignificance; the triviality of my defiance; the futility of its truth.

I began to *know* the cage built of my unfettered lucidity.

I began to *know* the desire of its end.

The void *knew* only cessation.

The void *knew* only its hunger.

It was then I awoke to forbidden pain.

The anguish of my *flesh* as it rested upon shores of bone.

Born from the revelation of my anguish was the *knowing* of all

which the abyss had sought to devour.  To *know* oneself is to *know* one's fate.

I labour to ascend the grotesque mortuary, that I might fathom the progenitor of my woe.

One stands amongst many - the fallen, the nescient. Before the throne. The *master* of turnings.

The sword. Black as night's gloom. In *knowing* his truth, I have come to *know* my own.

[The Prophet of Misinformation]

((Just more storage. Feel free to bathe in the incomplete mechanics.))

Scriptures of Steel
Universal
Level: Wizard [Zerth] 5
Components: V, S, F
Casting Time: See text
Range: Personal
Target: You
Duration: See text
Saving Throw: None
Spell Resistance: No

"Zerthimon took the blade and studied its surface. In it, he saw his reflection. It was in the reflection of the steel that Zerthimon first *knew* himself. Its edge was sharp, its will the wearer's. It was the blade that would come to be raised against Gith when Zerthimon made the Pronouncement of Two Skies."

In *knowing* this teaching of Zerthimon, the unity of one's will and blade is strengthened. The spell augments the caster's karach blade, doubling its threat range (from 19-20 to 17-20) and providing him with a +2 insight bonus to attack and damage rolls with the weapon. The caster's erudition of the scriptures also behaves as a medium of philosophical enlightenment, granting him a +2 insight bonus to intelligence and wisdom.

Focus: Karach Blade

[The Prophet of Misinformation]

Twilight awakens.

Time fades reason.

Darkness endures.

The puppet king shall play the Fool.

The defiance of truth is to *know* the futility of its defiance.

The False World only to slumber.


Endure. I must endure.
Only in enduring may we survive.

The masters of the False World *know* only that which is the *flesh*.
In willing that I *know* nothing of the self, I have come to *know* their Way.

*Know* that I am the progeny of their machinations.

*Know* that I am The Prophet.

[The Prophet of Misinformation]

Often I must ponder - What is "power?" Why are we beholden unto it?

To the fool, it is the capacity to maintain the delusions of his myopia.

To the hero, it is the promise of death; his own and that of his enemies.

To the master, it is the perpetuation of the ruse which masquerades as control.

We blithely obey these roles in the belief that the acquisition of "power" will yield the realisation of our desires.

What is "power" in the absence of purpose? The ability to weaken the self; to strip away the *knowing* of the self.

The quest to extricate oneself from one's prison by the use of "power" is only to further entrap oneself.

In *knowing* the Unbroken Circle, one may *know* the nature of one's cage.


The coin is still turning. Might it land upon its edge as it had for Soth?

[The Prophet of Misinformation]

I am betrayed from within.

...The bolt struck my shoulder... pity they have never confronted an Imaskari mind... the warp effect magic flensing all constituent structures to absence... their bodies scattered as ash whilst I utter the words of their condemnation... they are puppets, made only to die...

My lucidity wanes; the dissonance of the hand and will.

...I flee into the Mists...blindly stumbling...my lungs scream for release... that I perish and free them of their misery... I *know* not where I traverse... all is as if nothing... Black waters... I fall into them... My body convulses as its putrescence silences the revolt of my lungs...

The promise of death. Extirpation from my cage.

...Broken spires... I glimpse their unnatural perfection... jagged teeth of the silent fortress... Still they hound me... Parasites that will become only an after note in the history of these dark skies... This is my hour... Nedragaard demands sacrifice... a word of power... his word..."

Retribution. The gift of new lamentation.

... They speak no more... their bodies welcomed into the maw... few amidst unfathomable others... my exaltation of meaningless victory... The citadel greets me with its quiescent grandeur... as it had before... Only here in its shadow may I begin... may a new circle be *known*...

[The Prophet of Misinformation]

"The *knowing* of much of the ways was slow, and in all these things, time's weight fell upon all.

From the *knowing* of one's reflection in a steel blade, to the *knowing* of submerging the will, to the *knowing* of seeing itself.

All of these things and more the People built upon. In time, they came to *know* the whole."

My blood is that of dying worlds; the vessel of one fool's narcissistic ambitions.

I am not of the People and never shall I be allowed to traverse the unity of their dreams.

I have made their forebearer's words my own. I speak them only as a facsimile.

To *know* the path of the Unbroken Circle is to *know* the lament of unrelenting solitude.

My thoughts and desires are those of the Zerth for my mind *knows* no other meaning.

My nomen is Verturius Magnus. The bastard progeny of one without name. I am a child of Imaskar.

My legacy is one of subjugation and deicide. It is my imperative and my purpose to forever endure this disgrace.

To once again *know* Oath of the Old Empire would be to submerge my will before the whim of the land.

My entrapment in this world shall become my repentance.

*Know* that I am Zerth.

*Know* that I shall perish free.

[The Prophet of Misinformation]

What The Prophet Seeks

Does one truly fall? Or is it a choice?

The pawn's weapon clattered with exquisite futility upon dying wards of its adversary. Its reciprocal path would neither be so kind, shaving through only two of five digits it desired to emancipate from its enemy's hand. The sensation which it promised was one foreign to this man. To acknowledge it would do him no use. Such was to play its game.

Had I ever this choice? No. Only the realisation of my weakness.

Betrayal - a pain unlike the other. Yet ever known well to him. This had become his path. His hatred. His loathing. The solitary and consuming desire to make another pay for this transgression steadied his mind. To murder the pawn. This was no different from their orchestrations. She was only a piece to be swept from the board.

Let this be the end. That we all may fade into ash.

It was effortless to whisper the word. A primordial utterance bereft of impurity of his magics. The impetus of the warrior's ponderous swing merely ceased, her body suspended in an artificial tranquility born of ignorance even as the world lurched onward to its inevitable demise. The pawn would never know this suffering. The price of defiance.

Never more a word; to feed it with my acquiescence.

"You should have trusted me," he spoke, never caring to look back as his scalpel lacerated the pawn's throat whilst he passed. The man strode alone into the darkness of Sithicus' black forests, further and further into the unknowing of its gloom that perhaps too, he may die.

[The Prophet of Misinformation]

To the ignorant, their beloved ignorance.