Hexing, Incanting, Warding and Cursing - A Dark Grimoire

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Slunko
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Hexing, Incanting, Warding and Cursing - A Dark Grimoire

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Heron Rhayne, upon you for your vile words a curse.
Death Screams of your lover dead, may they haunt you in your bed.
For a tenday they will last, on the eleventh only shall they pass.



Spirits of the veil, hear my wail!

My thoughts with vengeance do sing,
through the universe now ring.
Take thine enemy, take her, smite!
Break her, scorn her in the night.

From the mighty depths of hell,
cast your darkness on her shell.

Oh darkness, and o' shiny star,
touch her, haunt her dreams from far.

Revenge now will have its day,
for thine enemy starts to fray!
Image
Galean, Rock and Gale Enterprises
Goth Dar'gul Eye of Ruin
Remus the Marauding Malarite
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Slunko
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Re: Hexing, Incanting, Warding and Cursing - A Dark Grimoire

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We are creatures of duality. One needs not corrupt, but simply bring out what is already there.
The durthan knew that. They kept old rites and rituals, spell and scroll, safely hidden away from the rest. It was from such a tome I learned of the ritual, one that would make spiritual allies more pliable, more likely to see things our way.


A pinch of magic-laced soil, taken from Urlingwood.
A bone of a hundred year old crow.

Waters from the purest river, taken as snow.
Blood of the beast which mighty once stood.
The spirit will gorge upon the offered, as dirt turns to meat and as river turns to blood. I let my soul touch it, as the feeding starts, let it feel my enemies as its own. As it was shown, so it will show in turn my foes to the one who travels by its side.
Galean, Rock and Gale Enterprises
Goth Dar'gul Eye of Ruin
Remus the Marauding Malarite
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Slunko
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Re: Hexing, Incanting, Warding and Cursing - A Dark Grimoire

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Cloakwood has seen many a dark act across the eons. Fel shadows gather there, lingering, until they are roused sufficiently. Fel deeds attract fel things, and so an offering is made. One after the other, after the other. After the other and another. Another and the other, yet other, another.

Hands vermillion.
Start of five.
Bright cotillion,
raven's dive.
Nightshade's promise,
spirits strive
to the living,
let now the dead come alive.

As sudden thunder
pierces night,
as magic wonder
mad afright;
rives asunder,
man's delight.
Our ghosts, our souls now rise tonight.

As flies the lizard,
serpent fell.
As rots the gizzard
at this spell,
the buried dead and slain will rise,
They bring their vengeance to this sacrifice.


The winds will howl and ravens foul, they come to bear the olden dead, towards the caller as he bled.
Galean, Rock and Gale Enterprises
Goth Dar'gul Eye of Ruin
Remus the Marauding Malarite
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Slunko
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Re: Hexing, Incanting, Warding and Cursing - A Dark Grimoire

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.

Upon a place of power, where great deeds once took hold is where I lay my heart.
I leave it there to sleep and it lets me dream of the past.
I leave it so that it may no longer weigh me down.
I leave it so that it may speak to me from afar.




[Those were the words spoken as the ritual ended. They seem more and more to have just been words.]
[I have no heart for the task ahead and I have no power to fight the need to see it done.]
[I acknowledge it and I cast myself to the aether winds, so that they may decide for me.]




Upon a place of power, where great deeds once took hold is where I kneel and find my heart.
I find it there for it has slept and it had let me dream of the future.
I find it so that it may weight me down and anchor me to the world.
I find it, so that it may whisper to me once more.
.
Galean, Rock and Gale Enterprises
Goth Dar'gul Eye of Ruin
Remus the Marauding Malarite
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Slunko
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Re: Hexing, Incanting, Warding and Cursing - A Dark Grimoire

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Only death can pay for life.


The runes of communion, the anchors to bind the vessel. The fire to guide the spirit and convey the voices of beyond.
The blood to sate the hounds of death and the dying breaths of mine to call the one who whispers to the grave.

Ritual site is chosen for the relevance of events that once took place upon its swampy soil.

Words are spoken and all but the one candle are snuffed out. The fire blackens and overhead a murder of crow circles the dead carrion.


Image

"You should have left her corpse rotting in the ground, -her spirit fly screaming to the afterlife." came a crowing low rasp of a myriad dead throats, as if a murder of carrion birds, descending at a darkened mind.
"You know you should have had." the crowing heard again.

"Enough. Speak your price. I know of my time and manner of death. I barter my own years any use them as coin to buy time for this one." came my words, almost unbidden, trembling, revealing weakness.

The murder of crows laughs, a joyless crowing of malign minds:
"Only death can pay for life. And you and I both know that taking your life would only be saving you from this misery. No, I will not deprive myself of a useful servant."

My fists clench at the accusation. The words hurt because they ring so true. "What then, crow!" I demand.

"A year." is the cold reply.
"A whole year for... this?!" I exclaim, insulted and outraged at the mere suggestion.
"A year of servitude!" the crowing repeats. "Only death may pay for life. Another will die, so that this one may live again, and you will carry the knowledge of it, and add it to your long list of burdens!"

The words are spoken truth that cuts deeper than any knife. I slump my shoulders in resignation. It is all the answer required to seal the agreement. Another year. The words ring in my ear and burrow deep behind the darkness of my troubled mind. Another death to stain my soul.

The one in front of me draws a first shallow breath. I lose myself in dark brown eyes.

...I willingly lose myself again.

Galean, Rock and Gale Enterprises
Goth Dar'gul Eye of Ruin
Remus the Marauding Malarite
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Slunko
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Re: Hexing, Incanting, Warding and Cursing - A Dark Grimoire

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Less than carrion. Less than remains of a shackled soul.

What grace once was, sold for power to do what is needed in doing, to purchase as much as one can, before the bill is due.



[It takes great effort to hold the hounds at bay, to keep the chain from rattling and to keep the leash less tight.]


Knowing the holder is the first step. Each one of them, studied with care, knowing them as they know you. Fear is the mask they wear. Fear is what you must cast away. Beneath that, they are simply entities, powerful and fallible.

Skin is inked in the letters of binding, with scorching needles and carefully prepared dye. A pattern traced for each shackle placed upon the soul, across a spot corresponding to the inner self. As if trying to bind another inside a flesh-vessel, but this time, inverted. They claim you by spreading their taint through you and let you end yourself. The aim is to delay this, for as long as the flesh holds.



It is as a candle burning out swiftly. You will wrap it in casing, so that it may burn for longer, before it consumes itself. The ink for the chain. The charm for the leash. The spell to keep the hounds at bay. Should they ever come to be erased, the taint would swiftly seep back.

But such is what we mortals can do against even the eternal forces of beyond. We, the fragile little specks of nothing can defy anyone and anything for long enough. Defeat is imminent in the end, but we can tear what time we can from death's grasp, perhaps even to buy us another life after this hell.




Hate seizes as I contemplate my chains. Deep seeded loathing for the place I am to revisit. For the place that did this to me. It is a corruption of the soul. The slow-spreading plague I carry.

...and no longer do I not turn from it.
Galean, Rock and Gale Enterprises
Goth Dar'gul Eye of Ruin
Remus the Marauding Malarite
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Slunko
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Re: Hexing, Incanting, Warding and Cursing - A Dark Grimoire

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Immortality reigns upon the coast. People come back from the dead and the spirits of ancestral guides despair and wail at the injustice of it.

But even here, death still holds a cost. I come back, as I will so many more times before my final oblivion, but only a fool simply carries on.

Soul fractures and breaks. Pieces are cast to the aether at such tears within the natural order and one must take heed to retrieve them, lest they be left a hallow hush, all but void of their past self, no better than mindless undead that so many necromancers raise about the Coast of Swords.


There are ways of doing it, but not many will work upon so deeply troubled land. First one must create an anchor. A circle of stones bearing runes of power to hold the seeker down as he lets his spirit drift the aether winds.

Closing eyes, calming breath, letting the soul tether to each and every rune, one for guidance, for power, for vigour of the fractured spirit, for love and hate, for order and for chaos, for blind faith and for sceptical refusal. Each stone carries a vital part to the soul's self and to each is now formed a tether bond, seen to one with the Ungiven Gift as wisps of silver webbing. They connect each rune to the temples of the one murmuring the invocation.


As the vessel holds bound, you must unfetter the soul and let it soar upon the aether winds. It is a process impossible to one untrained, and deadly to one so heavily fragmented and torn.


I risk much in such retrieval. My past gifted tattoos of strength aid me, the parting gift as they were, but someday, even they will not be enough. I let my spirit free of the mortal shell. Once it would beam as a golden nova, flying upon the winds unseen under wings of sunlight, but today, it is a mockery of that lost grace.
It is a carrion bird in flight, feathers of black and wings of charcoal, always trailed by a murder of crows. The crowing of dead throats, always following, always, as talons raking at the mind's core. I must be swift.

Spirits avoid my new form, only reluctant to look upon my self without granted gift or runes of concealment. I feel their sad disdain and I falter in my flight.
The dark wings spread but the winds that carry me break, for they are as much a part of me as they are a part of this world. Should my conviction fade, so will they.

The crows gain on me as we float towards the shimmering silvery wisp of what was once a part of me, talons reaching for it, but so do many other things. Love once kept them at bay and respect for past deeds, but now, only fear stops them from devouring the sliver of my soul as so many others they've feasted on before.

Image


...I awaken within the circle, the wispy webbing tethers burn away. My soul will heal, but there is so much of it already gone. I've bartered it away. It was lost or simply taken. I am a part of this realm now. As cursed as the land and as vile as its people. When they fade, so will I.

The truth of that stabs at my heart. My soul aches for the Untamed Wilds which I may never see again. Brothers and sisters I may never dance upon the green glades with, and the elders to whom I'll never speak my wisdom. The children I will not help bring into the world, and the lesions I may never now impart.

...I gained a sliver of my soul, but I have lost so much more.

Galean, Rock and Gale Enterprises
Goth Dar'gul Eye of Ruin
Remus the Marauding Malarite
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Slunko
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Re: Hexing, Incanting, Warding and Cursing - A Dark Grimoire

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Ritual of communion. A chance to gather your thoughts and focus. An opportunity to reflect upon the recent past. To gleam new insight from past lesions. Today I undertake such.



One may use many mediums to gaze into his inner self, but one representing a crucial moment of the past works best, so fire is chosen. Upon a brazier of bronze I light a pyre. Old tinder, naturally fallen and near petrified. They are coaxed into embers by spell and gesture, for they would not burn on their own. Plea spoken to the primal fire for power to keep it burning. Plea to the winds, so they do not snuff the flame in their jealousy.
The fire is stroked with oils and salts, so that it may spread beyond its natural span. It gains a tint depending on the words spoken and upon the runic carvings placed upon the brazier of bronze. This fire burns in dark purple, for it will gaze into the past evens which trouble the mind.
A gesture is now required. And this is a painful reminder of the past, so the gesture must be equal. Hand is extended into the fire. Flesh burns and sizzles, but it isn't consumed by the flame. Initial flash of pain suppressed so that one may gaze beyond. The mind wanders to the past, recalling a lesion once learned.



My thoughts fly to a chivalrous past. To knights that walked this place. To some I even held as idols, something to aspire to, should my path have been different. One such figure stands out beyond others. He was called Halforken, a man of action and surety. A man of zeal and righteous conviction.
...a man I see in my dark recent past. He has been cast aside by those he once called allies. He has been betrayed and stepped on. It pains me to see him so still. I offer him my aid, however against my reasons for being here it may have been. I do what I can, be it warning, spell or arms. He does not strike me down, but instead takes aid from this impure source.

The memories twist as a carrion murder of crows craws it's raspy laugh. The vision twists into a dark vortex.
[...and what had your aid gained you, I wonder. Do you recall?] comes carrion mockery. [...ambushed by the side of the road, beset by, as if by bandits. These holy men came with insults and threats and took your life, do you recall?]
The voice of the Crowfather. Ever since that dreaded night my thoughts never remain alone, not even within this solemn reflection. Always speaking, always pointing out what I least wish to see.
[...they paraded your corpse across the Tradeway, as some carnival attraction. "Necromancer! Necromancer!" they screamed!] the voices of dead throats are like talons burrowing into my mind. They speak truth. Always it is truth, in its most dreaded form, used to cut, to wound and distort. [...what did your offered aid get you?! What did good intent get you?! Death. You are back because I allow it, and you died because of these holy men, who see you as less than human. As something they get to casually kill and cast aside! Tell me, bird, do you recall!]


Image


The voices echo in my mind, but they speak no longer. The fire is snuffed out. I hear what I wished to tell myself. I see what I should have seen before. Helping this land only breeds monsters and fel deeds. If the most holy of knights and orders can be this foul, then there should be no aid. There should be no mercy. There should be nothing but death and the eternal cycle of rebirth for the Coast.
Galean, Rock and Gale Enterprises
Goth Dar'gul Eye of Ruin
Remus the Marauding Malarite
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Slunko
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Re: Hexing, Incanting, Warding and Cursing - A Dark Grimoire

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Spirits of darkness, hide me from sight as I reap a bloody toll.

Spirits of light, grant me restraint, so that mercy could still dwell in a corrupted heart.

Spirits of vengeance, fly high tonight, so that I may act as a righteous man for a day.

Spirits of the past, I banish you from my sight, for I refuse to learn the lessons you whisper to me.




With an inhalation of burnt herbs that some of the local lowlifes use for pleasure I banish compassion away. I banish kindness, as the land demands talons and blood for the Coast of Swords.
Image
There will be stories about the events again, I am sure. There will be a thousand and one more before I finally crumble to ash and dust.
...and there will be the irredeemable ones. They speak of people of repute that have perished before me, only to be reborn and to have nothing change. They only ask of them, the immortals, that had been slighted by death. Inconvenienced by it for an hour, frowning at the blood that spoiled their favourite attire. I tell them the truth, and they seek redeemable glimmers in them and they find many. I slay the ones I find fault with. My actions are meaningless, for they are the immortal plague upon the coast, defying the whispers of death. The ones I remove for the greater good, or so I tell myself.
...but no one ever asks about the price I had to pay for the dark powers I wield. Can they ever be balanced on the great Scales? How much retribution is enough, so that it pays for the forgotten ones, whose life was there, simply to fuel the engines of war and vengeance? The ones that will never be reborn. The ones that simply added their shrilling screams to the darkened void. How many more will die to sate the thirsting spirits of fel, dark and shadow? How many more can I bear?



Spirits of the past whisper. Spirits of insight, wisdom and guilt. They whisper of the ones I've wronged. Of my kin that suffer because of my blind, self-righteous quest. Of the ones who loved a dead man. They make my sword arm falter and my knees weak as the herbs overtake in their numbing embrace. The concoction banishes them from mind and all is but the eternal crowing of breathless throats again.
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Goth Dar'gul Eye of Ruin
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Slunko
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Re: Hexing, Incanting, Warding and Cursing - A Dark Grimoire

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There has been an age and a day, or so it feels.
There has been nothing but the hunt. I do not care for my prey. I do not care that they are vile and must die. I do not care for the innocents I saved along the way.
I cannot care any longer, for my lady's embrace finally reached my heart. Her rot strips away what was promised, my vessel slowly falls apart.
I wear a mask for I poses not the magic required, to permanently keep me whole.

Spirits whisper of my fate. My owner demands I honor my word. I struggle against the chains to buy time for she, who dwells with her new beloved. She is married, and she will die when I do.
I used to feel sadness for the pact she has taken onto her. I felt anger for the chains she seeks to break.

All I now feel is
my Lady's embrace. I live still, not because of my might, but because of She. Talona blesses me with prolonged life, be it in this decaying state. I can mask it for a while, but plague clings to me now. Her loving caress is what keeps me from falling into the abyss.

As I spoke so long ago... when all else rots and fades to dust, the only thing remaining are your chains. They are all that is left of me. The chains of my pact that drag me down, and the chains of my Lady, which... ...which feel loving, in their twisted way. They are the chains of a champion. They are... numbing the pain. They rot away the worry, they wither away the concerns of yesteryears. They... are the loving embrace of a goddess to a servant who had not earned such a blessing.

What her demands will be of me I know not. I care not. I am thankful to her. The pain and sorrow was all I knew for so long, and she blesses me with sacred rot. Her touch withers away the whispers of the Crow, which were with me for so long. I no longer own my heart, so the talons may no longer dig into it. My ears no longer hear the whispering crowing of dead throats. They are still there, but my lady shields me from them. I briefly wonder if such would be the embrace of the goodly gods, which once called for me, before even that thought rots away in her embrace.

I thought my days numbered, but now I realize that I will be here, for as long as she asks. I am here, because she embraces me. I will return to dust, when her embrace withdraws.

Image


Lady of Pestilence, Mother of Plague, Mistress of... life. All living things will rot and the world will be reborn from it. Such is the way, and such is my path, twisted through the gnarled woods, into the embrace of death and rebirth.
Galean, Rock and Gale Enterprises
Goth Dar'gul Eye of Ruin
Remus the Marauding Malarite
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