PSALM 116:15 (Saints, Kings of the Days, and More)

Joseph Mallord William Turner

 There are numerous powers which observe and rule over the world from on high. The PRIMEUMATON, PROVIDENCE and DENIAL, is the principle of creation and destruction, ruler of all that is and was; to be made by God is to be of God, and to die is to return to it. The Thunder Over the Mountain orders the clouds and rain; its crown is the thunderhead, its sword the lightning. The Flesh of Stone grows hollow organs in the earth; the Blood Stained Dancer reaches her hands into hearts and minds; Apsinthion, the Bitter Star, brings sickness and health; and the sea, godless, is without order. These many deities, from the almighty First and Last to the lowly fallen stars, are united by one principle: heaven does not speak, it acts. Who, then, carries down the word of the gods? Their servants, made for this very purpose. For the PRIMEUMATON, these servants are the Saints.

(Note: Angels are not servants, but tools. To compare Angels to Saints would be like saying a roomba is the same as a butler.)

Although the Gods are distinctly inhuman things, the Saints are people who, by some means or another, have ascended from mortal flesh into immortal spirit without the debasement of undeath. The exact mechanism of this is unknown, as the Saints are either unable or unwilling to to tell; as best as anyone knows, there is always a rise to prominence followed by a notable death, but even this has exceptions. Two theories are most prevalent: the Elect and the Cynosure. Electists state, quite simply, that the Saints are chosen by God for purposes beyond mortal ken. Cynosurists maintain that it is not divine attention which elevates the Saints, but collective mortal perception and memory holding specific souls together after death. If the Electists are wrong, then why would every Saint be at least a nominal servant of the PRIMEUMATON, and why aren't new Saints arising constantly? If the Cynosurists are wrong, how would one explain the existence of lesser tutelary spirits of venerated heroes? The current reconciliation of these schools of thought is that every soul-possessing being is a subdivision of the vast spirit of God, and thus on a societal scale, the actions of people will reflect that of the divine.

After their ascension, the Saints observe the workings of the world from heaven, a vast star-lined hall which invisibly and intangibly girds the earth several times over- mirroring the Great Wall of the Djinn, in a way. They exist here as spiritual bodies, rarely able to physically incarnate unless given a vessel to channel through, which is itself an obscure practice. Instead of acting directly, the Saints deliver messages in dreams and omens; while they are not all-seeing and certainly not all-knowing, the Saints are tireless, experienced, and always busy. Piece-by-piece, person-by-person, they have nudged history in the right direction, albeit not without setbacks. It turns out, no amount of dream-calling can circumvent free will.

So, how do you use them? The dream-calls are plot hooks or ways to call players' attention to something they missed. Always be sparing with these, and keep the dreams dreamlike. The Saints may speak directly, but there's always going to be some kind of imagery going on besides the message to get a point across. In terms of the player-facing, most cities will have shrines for all but the last three Saints, and almost every town will have one for the first three. Pray at one of these shrines to receive a +2 bonus on a roll relating to their Imagery, activated by invoking the Saint's name; this bonus is only lost on a successful roll. Only one such bonus can be held on to at a time, and if you manage to seriously anger the associated Saint, you get no bonus at all.

Here's the template for each Saint's profile:

Icon: How they are represented, both physically and spiritually.

Demeanor: Their behavior and goals.

Imagery: Their associated symbols and motifs.

We returned to our places, these Kingdoms,

But no longer at ease here, in the old dispensation,

With an alien people clutching their gods.

I should be glad of another death.

Early Church

(1000-1100)

WHEEL

Yohannes the Presbyter was a lowly freeman-turned-gravedigger who, when granted the strength of the divine seemingly at random, did not fumble or falter. He raised the dead and killed the wicked; one Wizard who challenged him was turned into an olive tree, which still stands today. Where he spoke, Wizard-Kings fell at his feet or demanded his execution, fearing a sorcerer whose power eclipsed their own, but he taught only three simple truths: the prime mover of the universe was moving still, it was the fate of all who died to return to that motion, and it was the work of the living to be merciful and right-thinking for their rejoining with God. Yohannes only met his end at the hands of the cruel Basileus Katigoros, a mad kritarch obsessed with punishing this affront to all law; the Presbyter was dragged from his house by a team of veteran wizard-killers, having finally exhausted his power at no small cost of human life. In a dark cellar, they burned out his eyes, cut out his tongue, then broke his arms and legs on a wheel and hung him up in the agora for all to see- only for his ruined body to burst into flames at the moment of his death, rising into the sky as the first of the Saints. From here the WHEEL turns, and does not turn back.

Icon: A lean, scarred man strung up on a huge wheel. Although his limbs have been broken and twisted around the spokes, and his eyes and mouth bleed, his expression is one of peace.

Demeanor: Thoughtful, empathetic, and apologetic. The first to offer a kind word and the first to forgive, but the last to forget. The divine will he serves, he cannot–or is forbidden to–directly explain. When he can, he steers the course of history away from brutality.

Imagery: The Rotafix, an image of him broken on the wheel. The Sign of the Wheel, a gesture of placing one's hand on the forehead, shoulder, solar plexus, and other shoulder. Mercy to the helpless. Turning points. Memory, history, and the way which all things must go.

STRENGTH

Petra the Stonecutter was a friend of Yohannes even before he became the first and greatest prophet, so it was only natural that she would be the first convert. Wherever he went, she was his vanguard; when the crowds turned to mobs, she rebuked them; and when he was martyred and the Sickle made the streets run red with blood, she called for peace and forgiveness. As the first Priest of the rising Church, Petra measured out the rights and privileges of the various Wizards and other star-cultists at the Synod of the Small Gods, undaunted by their threats and curses, willing to wrestle down anyone who raised a hand against her flock. She was never a killer, not if she could help it; the living would join with God in their own time, and the dead have very little to learn. As an old woman, she eventually gave her life holding up a falling pillar as the god of the sea lashed out at the land with hurricanes and earthquakes; her body remains where it died, unmoving and imperishable.

Icon: A huge, well-muscled woman with a shaved head dressed in an undyed tunic and a richly-colored purple fillet. She is never idle, always engaged in a feat of strength: wrestling lions, holding up a millstone in one hand, or bearing on her shoulders the pillar that killed her.

Demeanor: Straightforward and simple without being dull, and pacifistic under all threats- in her nearly hundred years of life, she never killed anybody. Petra believes strongly that everybody has potential for greatness, but it takes work, and that work is rarely easy. What she seeks is the empowerment of the weak, an end to war, and the reconciliation of enemies.

Imagery: The purple fillet and undyed chiton. The hammer. The curled bicep, and all feats of strength. Empowerment of one's self and others, bringing people together, and endurance through pain.

DEATH

Little remains of the life of the Sickle; what is known is that it was once a barley-farming serf before it left that life behind to follow Yohannes, shedding not only flesh, but its very self in pieces as time went on. By the time of the Presbyter's martyrdom it was nothing but a weapon, and it avenged his death a hundred times over on Katigoros and his men. From there, it went on stacking the bodies of Wizard-Kings like cordwood, inspiring numerous others who had suffered under the yoke to follow that same path of self-annihilation to varying degrees of severity. It never preached, nor spoke a word at all; it taught through demonstration, filtered through awe- and terror-struck witnesses and survivors of its bloody work. Decades later, after it had been "retired" to a reliquary lined in silk and lead, the Sickle's final self-willed action was to kill the wrathful god of the sea, shattering itself in the greatest act of deicide ever seen.

Icon: An absence of a person holding a razor-edged sickle as dark as the night, sitting astride a crazed horse as pale as bone. It is ringed by beheaded kings.

Demeanor: Silent and inscrutable. It does not speak or write. It is merciless, but not sadistic. What it wants, it demonstrates: the death of the enemies of God, delivered swiftly. 

Imagery: Mortification of the flesh. Bladed weapons. The crescent moon. Beheading of the wicked. Cutting out that which must be removed. Inevitability, necessary loss, and the final fate of all life.

CHARIOT

In the Church's early days, Nechtanebus the Great and his Wheels on Fire were not only their primary military allies, but also their largest set of converts among the djinn as well. Nechtanebus himself was lauded for his skill as a tactician and a warrior alike; it is said that, even when riding his chariot over round ground, he could put an arrow in a man's head from half a mile away. To say he was a hero wouldn't be accurate, because much of the modern image of what a "hero" is was based on him. At the Battle of Lake Mem, his soldiers killed twice their number in war-dead, dragging them out with chains to writhe in the sun; Nechtanebus himself ended the War of the Jackal by putting an arrow through the eye of one of the last living nephilim. His final battle, and only loss, was against the incarnate Dyaus, King of the Second Day, who sought to crush this upstart before he could erode the Kings' power over their subjects; knowing his army would be slaughtered, Nechtanebus sent them away, turned his chariot around, and faced the enemy alone.

Icon: A golden-eyed djinni in gleaming bronze armor, crowned with a deshret, carrying a recurve bow of polished horn. He stands upon a chariot of flaming gold drawn by a pair of terrible lizards with brilliant peacock-feather scales.

Demeanor: Prideful, but not arrogant; analytical, but not detached. He never averts his eyes from whoever he is speaking to, nor do his hands leave his bow. He wants to see hopeless battles won, either by plain valor or clever trickery.

Imagery: The Chariot of Fire. The recurve bow. The arrow-pierced crown. Single combat. Skill in arms and at war. Hard-fought battles, bravery under fire, and victory that even death cannot extinguish.

HIEROPHANT

Hierophant Linus I was the son of Petra, and just as she sought perfection of the body, he sharpened his mind from an early age with every text he could get his hands on. By the time he was ten, he could argue the fine points of the Brontologion with even the most ardent Wizards, and would miraculously animate little clay animals. As the compiler of Trilogia, he was nominated to be the first Hierophant when his mother stepped away from leadership, and he was the one who assembled much of its ritual and organizational structure. Besides the Presbyter himself, almost nobody alive has had a keener understanding of the nature of God, nor a greater share of the First and Last's power; in his own time, he made it his personal project to decode the mysterious language of Angels, and could command them in grand and impossible works as the First and Last itself would. Linus was never martyred, having instead ascended into the sky on a pillar of flame after selecting a successor and setting all of his papers and tablets in order.

Icon: A small, bespectacled man with a large head and a high widow's peak, dressed in a kalimavkion and cassock. In one hand, he holds a book aflame with glyphs; in the other, he holds a burning brass stylus.

Demeanor: Intensely curious, opening every statement with a question. He considers himself a teacher first, then a spiritual leader, but always an authority over the faithful. He knows much of the workings of creation, but not everything; with all the time afforded by immortality, he intends to close that gap.

Imagery: The cassock and kalimavkion, vestments of high priests. The pillar of flame on which he rose. The blazing book and stylus. Religious scholarship, revelation, and comprehension of the numinous.

EMPEROR

No record exists of the name of the Starry-Crowned King, and little more of his kingdom; he sat on the throne of a foreign land, and when a rising priesthood of a monstrous god subverted it at the highest level, he took what subjects he could and sailed to leave a sinking continent behind, pursued by a hateful god. The King and a fleet of terrified refugees landed at the shores of Geseong, fighting off terrible sea creatures all the way to the beach so they could plead for mercy in a language nobody else knew, asking a price nobody could pay. When the Church committed deicide, he was indebted beyond all recompense, but he was also a foreign king in a land that had just suffered a physical and social upheaval. He picked up the pieces to build himself a throne, and in a decade's time, he had made ten disparate city-states into the nation that would one day be the Empire of the Sun and Moon. Much like his life, the King's death was itself shrouded in mystery, but one thing is certain: he was poisoned.

Icon: A constellation in the shape of a man in stately robes, crowned by ten gleaming stars atop his head. In his left hand he holds a scepter of coral with seven branches; in his right, a globe of gold and silver.

Demeanor: Authoritarian, but uninterested in groveling and other obsequious behavior; he considers dignity the highest virtue. The King does not wish for law and order, he demands it; it doesn't need to be his, but men without laws are only animals.

Imagery: The Empire of the Sun and Moon. The Crown of Stars. The seven-branched scepter and the globe. Worldly authority, organizational structure, and control over the self and others.

Jeong Seon

Middle Ages

(1100-1300)

EMPRESS

There are few figures so beloved in the Empire as Chae-yeong de la Mer; her grandfather ruled as a foreigner, nameless save for the ocean he came from, as did his son, but by the third generation those of the sea had become of the land. Chae-yeong had a remarkable connection with plants and animals, such that it is said that flowers would change directions to face her, birds would gift her with song, and even a hungry tiger kneeled before her. This charisma reflected to people, as well; her own father, a subject of suspicion in the Starry-Crowned King's death, abdicated the throne to her as soon as she was able to take it, spending the rest of his years building model ships. Her reign was a period of prosperity and expansion, marked primarily by the not merely successful, but celebrated unification with the Sun Kingdoms of the east. Everything seemed right in the world, and even the barbarians of the cold south paid her homage, but even Chae-yeong knew that this could not last forever. Out of love for her land, she arranged that she would be buried on a hill overlooking the sea, and a young sapling would be planted over her grave; the tree would go on to take the shape of the ascended EMPRESS, and it stands to this day.

Icon: A stout woman wearing a dress of woven flowers, crowned by a ring of songbirds flying over her head. She sits upon a throne of living wood, and offers a pomegranate to a tapir calf. A shield leans by her throne, emblazoned with a red heart.

Demeanor: The EMPRESS loves all and forgives most, but it takes work to teach people right and wrong. If she has to use guilt or shame, so be it; some would teach the same with the sword or the gallows, and nobody likes that. Chae-yeong intends to end all suffering on earth, creating a material heaven until the end of days comes.

Imagery: The Crown of Song. The Heart Gules. Pomegranates. Paradise. Moral law. Motherhood. The natural world, abundance, and the love held for all that lives.

JUSTICE

Ichnaea Bloodytongue was raised into a time of war, as were many of her kind; the ophiokorai were even more hated then and more hateful still, a nation of outlaws fighting for masters dead or dwindling, and the Empire was in a turbulent period following the death of the EMPRESS and the rise of her son, Emperor Seong-Jin I. Ichnaea and her sisters-in-arms fought for one of the last dragons alive at the time, but after she was blinded and gruesomely scarred in a friendly-fire incident, she knew that this could not stand; there had to be more for her kind than hatred of the enemy and fear of the authority. Shuffled back to the auxiliary line, Ichnaea set about fomenting rebellion while the dragon was out at war; it was just as much of a left-behind tool as the ophiokorai, and with the masters gone, why should they be grateful to a monster that turned its wrath on them as often as the enemy? When the dragon returned pursued by Imperial forces, instead of safe refuge in its lair, it found a military tribunal which rapidly escalated into an outright mutiny. Emperor Seong-Jin and his men arrived to find a battle already hard-fought, with the dragon laying dead from a spear through the roof of its mouth; bleeding out in its jaws, Ichnaea called out to negotiate. There were better wars to be fought, and better lives to live; her people were useful, and the Emperor had to agree on that. Her last words were a simple oath: the long war was over.

Icon: A scarred ophiokore in blackened laminar, her skin marked by burns and her eyes covered by a blindfold. In one hand she holds a heavily-dented shield, and in the other she holds up a spear made to serve as the fulcrum of a makeshift scale.

Demeanor: Stern, sober, and uncompromising; years of observation has given JUSTICE a detached perspective from mortal life. Sometimes, it's exactly what you need; other times, it's just callous. Ichnaea is still willing to listen to pleas and arguments, but they had better be good. What she wants is simple: justice, within and outside the law.

Imagery: The Weighing-Spear. The Crooked Shield. Law, obviously, but also oaths and contracts. Blindness. Scars and other war-wounds. Fairness, retribution, and moral convictions worth dying for.

DEVIL

Typhaon was born to a disgraced lineage of djinn, and the moment he could walk and talk, he set about disgracing them further. There was no tradition he would not scorn, no cow too sacred for him to kill; he lived his life on the run, never staying anywhere longer than a night. Yet, there was a certain vile honor to Typhaon, a set of rules he only called the Game; what he stole he gave away freely, and anyone who he killed or cheated knew exactly what they were getting into. Of course, nothing lasts forever, and one day the continent ran dry of hiding places. Lashed nearly to death and facing his imminent beheading, Typhaon was offered a chance to speak, so he explained that while he was not innocent of his crimes, every one of them had either averted a greater evil or had ultimately been a net positive in the world. His rhetoric upgraded his quick beheading to torture by having his limbs pulled off by horses. He only laughed as it happened.

Icon: A rail-thin djinni dressed only in a loincloth, his body nearly torn in four pieces by hideous wounds and held together only by dripping tar. His eyes are black with soot, and wings of smoke sprout from his back. In his hand, he holds a scourge barbed with flakes of obsidian.

Demeanor: Vulgar, cruel, and completely carefree. He tells outrageous lies to make it easier to accept his many half-truths and lies by omission, but there is one thing he will never lie about: he is the DEVIL, and he's a son of a bitch. He likes to entertain himself and make deals, but what he's really interested in is testing just how loyal people are to their morals.

Imagery: The Black Wings. The coiled whip. Crime and punishment. Scorpions. Blackened eyes. Indulgence, selfishness, and necessary evils.

HIGH PRIESTESS

Ceridwen's birth was an extraordinary one, a druidic cabal's generational work to create a prophet of their own that would guide all of giantkind to greatness. Elves danced in circles as the moonchild was born, bone-white mask-faces peering through the darkness behind the standing stones; they seized the child's eyes and set a third in her forehead, pearlescent and unblinking. Not once did young Ceridwen cry out, and from that day on, she had the gift of prophecy. She paid little mind to the present, casting her mind back to the past; she saw Wizard-Kings and serpents that walked like men, and further beyond that, the Mythic Age and the dawn of creation. She spoke to people who were not there, and by all indications, they seemed to speak back. She could find hidden things effortlessly, and tell the outcome of any action, but rarely did she ever look far into the future; to observe it was to lock it in place, and everyone needs some degree of uncertainty. Even Ceridwen could not resist the question of her own death, however, and when she learned it, she knew what she had to do. The giantess walked ten miles on foot to the nearest monastery, and before an audience of confused monks, she spoke of the Saints to come: TEMPERANCE, the guide; JUDGEMENT, the redeemer; and the WORLD to come. She cast her mind far, and like a fishing line, something pulled so hard it snapped. Ceridwen spoke her last words as her head burned from within, smoke pouring from her empty eyes.

Icon: A bony giant in a long red dress, kneeling with her arms held high and her head slouched down. Her hair covers her face, all but her three eyes; the top one is blank white, but the bottom pair are empty, smoking sockets.

Demeanor: Foggy and distant, almost nonsensical until some offhand detail makes all her rambling make sense. Ceridwen has trouble keeping her tenses consistent when speaking, looking forward and back all at once. She wants to reveal hidden things and record them, so that all of history may not be forgotten.

Imagery: The Third Eye. Smoke from the eyes. Prophecy. Insight, hindsight, foresight, and intuition of all things unknown and secret.

FOOL

Dafydd Cartwright was not the oldest son, not the most loved son, and certainly not the best son in his clan of giants, but he compensated for his laziness and general lack of talent with one thing: incredible, blind luck. Of course, this didn't prevent his family from throwing him out, but as he wandered alone in the woods, he stumbled over--in rapid succession--a magical sword which could sing ballads, a crown that fit him just right, and a big sack of money. When he finally reached the road, he came upon some travelers, a local king and his retinue of soldiers. They were surprised to see someone so richly appointed, but Dafydd explained that he was a foreign prince who had been waylaid by bandits, only narrowly escaping with his life and some of his wealth. A prince of where, the baron asked, and Dafydd answered Carabas, a land across the sea. The king had never heard of the place or seen the ocean at all, but the lad seemed to be a good sort, so he took him in; soon, Dafydd had won the heart of the baron's daughter with his gormless charm and he married into the family, making himself heir to the throne. This angered many advisors, who gave Dafydd terrible advice on purpose in an effort to ruin him, but some insane twist of fate always turned things in his favor. King Dafydd lived to be very old, but on the night he died, a strange visitor appeared by his deathbed: an elf, grinning. All his good luck had been a gift, it explained, and now the Bornless Ones had come to collect. He did not answer, so it struck him in anger; his head fell off, and the elf realized that it had been fooled by a crude effigy. The actual Dafydd spent his last night getting drunk in town, telling the story of how a fool became a king.

Icon: A gangly young giant wearing a colorful tunic and a wreath of clovers, carrying a sack of all his belongings on a stick over his shoulder. He spins a golden crown around on his finger, paying it no mind as he walks.

Demeanor: The FOOL is foolish, obviously, but not half as stupid as he might have you think; he believes lies easily, but tells them just as well. While he's nice and often very funny, Dafydd lacks both malice and guilt. He's just in this to see the story, from beginning to end.

Imagery: The bindle. Four-leaf clovers, horseshoes, hares' feet, and all charms for good luck. Middle children. Innocence, trickery, and freedom of all kinds.

TOWER

No man may serve two masters, nor may a tower cut in half stand, but none of this would stop Lambrecht de Witte. Although the Church and the Star-Cults had long since ended their grievances, syncreticism between the First and Last and the gods had never gotten any traction, but Lambrecht objected to this; although he was a Wizard first and foremost, some time spent in a monastery had given him sufficient training to become a Priest, and in his eyes if God was absolute and all-encompassing, surely it could encompass the lesser powers as well with little difficulty. This earned him little popularity with Wizards or Priests, but since when was it in the nature of holy men to cower? Lambrecht put his twin vocations to use; the animated instruments of his tower gazed at the stars for him while he shouted down the clouds and whispered messages on the wind. All his findings were going into a book, a second Brontologion that would expound on the nature of divinity and reconcile all the powers on high. Lambrecht was set to shake the world until, one day, the clouds did not part at his command; a hundred bolts of lightning scattered him and his tower to the winds, destroying his work utterly. His ascension was cold comfort for all he lost.

Icon: A tower frozen mid-explosion, torn apart by lightning from above; in the center, white-lit against the rubble, a bearded man in blue robes catches the lightning on the amber tip of his staff. Electricity burns his skin, but he stands defiant against ruin.

Demeanor: Lambrecht is grim and fatalistic, but determined nonetheless; people die for worse causes all the time, so if you're going through hell, keep going. He's as quick with a warning as he is with a word of encouragement. Risk is what makes things worth doing at all. The TOWER wants the same thing he wanted in life: understanding of things that are dangerous to know, regardless of the cost.

Imagery: The Lightning Rod. Lightning scars. Syncreticism and apostasy. Unavoidable catastrophe. Upheaval, disgrace, and the destruction that change brings.

John Martin

Modernity

(1300-)

LOVERS

Every circumstance seemed as determined to divide Quirijn and Selamawit Praise-God as it was to drive them together. Quirijn was a soldier of the Viervorsten, and deserted his post after frostbite took most of a hand; Selamawit was a princess of the Sun Kings, fleeing an arranged marriage with a man she loathed. They first met resting beneath the same mulberry tree, and although they were of warring nations, each one recognized that the other was fleeing something, and that it would be easier to survive as a pair; Quirijn needed someone with more than seven fingers total, and Selamawit needed someone who knew how to live in the wilderness. They spent years on the run together, fighting and scheming to keep each other's pursuers at bay, sometimes as menials, sometimes as tomb robbers, sometimes as spies. When the war ended and the south fell under the Imperial yoke, the lovers knew that they would have to part again, at least until the heat blew over; they exchanged some cheap rings and swore they would one day meet again under the tree. Quirijn stayed in the wilderness and Selamawit gave up nobility to join the priesthood, but they kept up contact through occasional dove-carried message. All was not right, however, as Selamawit's old suitor still fulminated not over losing a woman, as he had found another anyways, but for being snubbed out of a line of succession- and for some mud-eating barbarian? The suitor intercepted some letters and sided his time, and when the lovers came to unite again, he was there first. He ambushed Quirijn first, leaving him to bleed out in a ditch, then surprised Selamawit with a hand around her neck; as he strangled her, he presented a scrap of bloody cloth, a trophy of his kill, and said if she loved that barbarian so much, she could join him in the grave. So, she did. Selamawit drew a pin dosed with lethal asp venom and stabbed the suitor, and as he died turned it on herself. To complete the tragedy, Quirijn came crawling up to this grisly scene, and the LOVERS expired in each other's arms.

Icon: Under a mulberry tree, a weathered man in chain mail and a ragged tabard embraces a one-eyed woman in a finely-embroidered dress and a golden circlet. Their hands are intertwined; both sport a simple ring, although he is missing almost half of his fingers.

Demeanor: The LOVERS bleed through into one another so thoroughly that they rarely speak between themselves; they speak in each other's voices, and often one finishes the other's sentences. They're blissful and spaced-out in demeanor, but very direct and practical when it comes to interpersonal relationships and communication; Quirijn usually takes the lead on the broad strokes, but Selamawit fills in the finer details. They want--what else--to see true love triumph, and for people to find others that compliment them.

Imagery: Wedding rings, unornamented. Mulberries. Romance, obviously, but also loyalty to and loyalty of. Decision, harmony, and the love that makes people one.

MAGICIAN

The only difference between natural laws and magic is their cause; in spite of lacking any spellcasting ability herself, or perhaps on account of it, Liesbet van Palingstad made it her life's work to recreate the miraculous with the mundane. The same lightning that Wizards proclaimed to be the strength of their god could be recreated with a glass sphere spinning against cloth, given enough time, and it wouldn't take a Priest to give life to any of the automatons she devised. Some might have called it blasphemy, but in Liesbet's eyes, God was a tool-user, the same as its creations, and those very creations could aspire to that same divinity through sufficient mastery of their own tools. Her final, greatest work was a brazen rocket fueled by black powder, the largest and most sophisticated of its kind ever built; upon it, she claimed, she would fly to Heaven and give Yohannes her regards. The rocket flew brilliantly, carrying Liesbet high over the clouds before the eyes of thousands, then exploded into a thousand glittering fragments. They never found her body; the MAGICIAN had reached heaven, even if her creation had not.

Icon: A bespectacled woman in rough working clothes and an apron, holding a heap of burning powder in one hand and a bottle of lightning in the other. Tools, gears, and springs sit scattered on a table in front of her, still between the process of creation or disassembly.

Demeanor: Dynamic and eager to speculate, a living engine of perpetual motion, explaining only as an afterthought. Power could be in the hands of everyone with a little ingenuity, so why hesitate? A failure is simply another method proven not to work. Liesbet wants to see technological marvels and other novelties, especially if they can recreate the effects of spells.

Imagery: The Gear and Spring, made to resemble the sun and lightning. Gunpowder and explosions. Darkened spectacles. Artifice, curiosity, and the will to make ideas into reality.

The Foreign Saints

Besides the debate between the Electists and the Cynosurists, the Church has another major point of contention within itself: while the common orthodoxy holds that Saint WHEEL was the first to ascend, worshipers of the PRIMEUMATON in other lands hold that it was their patron Saints that led the way. Indeed, the calendars aren't consistent, nor do the respecting Saints themselves know, having been busy with their lives and deaths in the days preceding.

The sunmen regard their Saints as a reverse of the orthodox position: they are not mortals ascended to divinity, but emanations of God who were temporarily embodied to work towards God's purposes on the earth. For this reason, they are invoked more often than the aspects of the Godhead; after all, why else would they have been made incarnate?

SUN

Kourosh was marked as extraordinary ever since he was a nymph, when his mother came to feed him some chewed meat only to discover that the little arachnid had fed himself by devouring a snake that had made its way into his crib. He grew up to be bold and tirelessly optimistic, facing the challenge of each day with a keen wit and good humor, and they were challenging days indeed: Surya, King of the Seventh Day intended to conquer the sunmen in an effort to reclaim territory lost in his imprisonment. Through his relentless effort, Kourosh managed to get an audience with his would-be subjugator, who issued him a challenge to retrieve four priceless artifacts so that his people would be spared. In truth, Surya thought the task was impossible and that Kourosh would die trying, but he hadn't accounted for the fact that the lowly tribesman would return a year and a day later with all four treasures in hand, having journeyed across the northern deserts breaking open tombs, slaying monsters, and generally making a legend of himself. In a rage, Surya roared that his people might be spared, but Kourosh would not, and so burned the sunman to ashes with a gout of flame- yet he found that the treasures had burned away as well and, looking up, he saw Kourosh and his spoils ascending on the smoke, dancing all the way.

Icon: A sunman in armor and a leopard-skin cloak standing on a winged solar disk, his four arms outstretched in jubilation. In them, he holds an emerald-studded sword, a gilded grain-flail, a skull goblet full of wine, and a silver coin with an eagle on its face.

Demeanor: Courageous and jolly, so full of energy that he could make even a week-long march through a sewer seem like a grand adventure. Failure simply does not exist to him. He wants to see people live up to their potential and, more widely, live exciting lives.

Imagery: The Winged Sun. The Four Treasures. Song and dance. Confidence, joy, and triumph over the impossible.

MOON

Leluwani was one of Surya's many courtiers, appointed to keep a watch on the Kourosh while he did his labors and kill him if he proved disloyal; she was a gifted hunter of men, and a poisoner with a subtle hand. The first thing Surya hadn't accounted for was that the sunman would actually succeed, but the second was that Leluwani actually grew fond of the barbarian, who was certainly more likeable than the burning tyrant. It's one thing to travel with someone, but risking death on a regular basis builds a strong bond; seeing Surya's betrayal, after all she had gone through, broke something in Leluwani. She left the Great Wall to wander the desert, living among the dead and the carrion-eaters; only dogs, vultures, and screech-owls were counted among her friends. By night, she roamed the wilderness, hunting Surya's men wherever she found them. When they ate or drank, she poisoned them; when they slept, she cut their throats. Whether they deserved it or not didn't matter; had Kourosh deserved it? Eventually she was caught and hauled in chains before Surya to die. He demanded an explanation. She bit down on a false tooth and spit bitter poison in his eyes, blinding him at the cost of her own life. The King of the Day flailed in a rage, but could find nothing to punish; Leluwani had dissolved.

Icon: A djinni clothed in bones and painted with ash, trailed by two dogs. She holds up a torch which has a full moon in place of its flame, and a sling is entwined around her fingers.

Demeanor: Vengeful and bitter, making threats just to see how you react, but anyone who can weather the onslaught earns her begrudging respect. Leluwani knows the power of fear and misdirection, and like any master with their craft, she is eager to share her expertise with those willing to learn. MOON wants people to know fear, and through it know themselves. Or, just because she hates them. 

Imagery: The Moon-Torch. Corpse paint. Wild dogs and other scavenging creatures. Poison. Inner conflict, deception, and the primal terror that makes beasts of men.

STAR

Kourosh had one more companion in his travels: Hakim ibn Haqq, a mendicant exorcist and fortune-teller he met by pure chance along the road. Hakim himself had led quite a life up to that point; he was an orphan, as best as he could tell, and spent his early years being nursed by a wild goat. Although he lived among animals, he had the mind of a scholar, learning much of the natural world through observation alone; he made his own tools, clothed himself, and observed the movements and influences of stars with his own eyes. It took thirty years for him to meet another person. The inexplicably well-composed but incoherent wild man made quite a spectacle of himself seeking new things to learn, but when it came to the subject of God, few seemed to know what he was talking about; the one who moved the sun and the moon was unrecognized by his fellow men, and Hakim found himself alienated again. He was the spiritual advisor, and often defender, to Kourosh and Leluwani in spite of his advanced age, and truthfully he enjoyed the company of them. He didn't weep when Surya killed his friend; Hakim had seen death before, but seeing the ascension of Saint SUN was new. He left the Great Wall, ate and drank all that he could, wrote down and illustrated all his travels, and then went out into the desert to ponder the nature of God until his body expired. 

Icon: A hirsute man dressed in rough hides, gazing contemplatively into some water he has poured from a jar. Above him is a star with eight points; reflected in his water, constellations form the shape of a wheel, a column, and a sickle.

Demeanor: Hakim is a mirror, reflecting the personality of anyone speaking to him so that he might understand them and they may understand him. Rather than expressing or asking one complex thing, he will often break the idea into smaller, simpler parts; there is no such thing as a stupid question, only stupid incuriosity. The STAR wants people to ask questions and find things out for themselves, just as he once did, so that they may be godly even without instruction.

Imagery: The Eight-Pointed Star. Reflection in water. Autodidacticism. Mendicancy. Hope, perception, and inspiration from the base principles. 

On the Isle of Yonah, they do not worship PROVIDENCE or DENIAL, but SACRIFICE, that which gives and takes in one motion. To be born is to be indebted to God, and to die is to return what was given; in the intervening years, all joy is matched by sorrow, all famine with abundance. On paper, everything should be a zero-sum, but things rarely work out that way in practice. Some live life to the fullest, seeking pleasure with the knowledge that death wipes away all debts; others live wretchedly, casting aside all worldly things so they may owe as little as possible. Most dovemen simply hope for good times when things are bad, and prepare for bad times when things are good.

HANGED MAN AND HERMIT

Azrubaal pursued the secrets of life and death from an early age, from apprenticing himself to bonesetters and midwives to digging up bodies himself to see what made them work. To be a mere physician would not be enough, nor a necromancer; what he sought was perfect revival, not the madness of undeath. His studies drove him to dark places under the earth, to the ruins left by those masters of flesh who lived before, and what he found was simpler than he could have imagined: a man with the right knowledge could trade blood for blood, a life for a life. Azrubaal could not kill somebody for his studies, however, so he hatched a cunning experiment: he would hang himself by the leg from a tree, cut an artery, then will himself back from the edge of death with newfound insight. He died, but the Hermit came back. The Hermit did not speak or write, and seemed not to acknowledge the man he once was; it did not take long for him to vanish into the jungle, living in isolation to seek wisdom through his own disembodied spirit. Four hundred years later, when the Empire had landed soldiers to occupy Yohah's shores and slowly burn out the resistance, an old doveman emerged from the trees and walked unacknowledged through lines of infantry into the command tent. There, he raised one hand, said peace upon the earth, and disintegrated. Thus ended the war.

Icon: The HANGED MAN appears as a doveman hanging by one leg from a rope which stretches out of sight, his wings outstretched. His throat has been cut and bleeds honey; his hands, crossed over his chest, hold a rod with a serpent coiled around it and a scalpel. The HERMIT appears as an elderly doveman wearing a funeral mantle for a cloak, leaning on a gnarled limb from an olive tree as he holds up a lantern. Within the lantern, light emanates from a golden symbol of the sun. Both of them have one eye shut, the right and left respectively.

Demeanor: The HANGED MAN is compassionate, but cautious; after all, he understands the steep costs one must pay in pursuit of wisdom. The HERMIT is silent and contemplative, with an air of mourning; to seek him is to have already paid the cost. They are an advisor and a guide, one who tells and one who shows. The HANGED MAN wishes to heal all maladies of the flesh, and the HERMIT seeks to reveal all the mysteries of the soul. Both wish for an end to undue suffering.

Imagery: The Rod of Azrubaal. The Revealing Lantern. The olive branch. Insight within and without; sacrifice and isolation; and the pursuit of wisdom and reflection upon it.

The Mysteries

These were revealed in prophecy by Saint PRIESTESS, in words that burned her like fire from within. These Saints answer no prayers and do not appear in dream-visions. If they did, it would be under very unusual conditions with potentially world-altering ramifications.

TEMPERANCE

A third walked besides the Presbyter, and walks the earth still. Rebis was the youngest disciple, an outcast tag-along who had struggled from an early age for any sense of identity. They could not be a man or a woman, nor one of the holy slaves or eunuch priests, and later on, they could not follow the vital-yet-mortal path of Petra or the self-destruction of the Sickle; surely, in the vastness of the world and the infinity of God, there was more than this or that. To understand God, one must be like God; to be like God, one must use its tools; and to use the tools of God, one must understand the material. Alchemy had existed well before Rebis took it up, but none before or since had ever achieved the final goal of eternal life, because God had stopped them. Mortals were made to be just that. How Rebis ever figured it out is a mystery, but there is one certain fact: they were permitted eternal life, eternal lives, wearing innumerable faces and names in service of the First and Last.

Icon: An androgyne in a long green robe and a featureless golden mask, waves of pigmentation shifting across their skin in currents. In their hands they hold a pair of silver cups, pouring water that turns to wine from one cup to the other. In the flesh, TEMPERANCE may appear as any living thing.

Demeanor: On the rare occasion they are not in-character, TEMPERANCE is surprisingly dry and conservative for a shape-shifting non-binary alchemist, but when you live so many lives, you need a solid baseline to work from. While generally sympathetic, they are difficult to sway, but TEMPERANCE isn't so busy they can't offer advice or a story; while they haven't been there for all of history, one does not live for five centuries without getting some experience. The only questions they won't answer are those of alchemy. Personal discovery is the whole point.

Imagery: While Rebis didn't invent being transgender or non-binary, they're the example most people think of. The Three Primes and Four Elements. The Golden mask and Silver Cups. Balance, patience, and refinement of the body and soul.

Henry John Stock

JUDGEMENT

There was a first, and there shall be a last. At the end of days, when all fires have cooled to ash and all cities have fallen to ruin, a final person shall be born of the dead to put the restless to rest. Every wandering shade, all the hateful war-corpses, each paranoid lich sitting on the thrones of their dead kingdoms shall be cut down with a terrible swift sword. The Kings of the Days will be forgiven at last, permitted the glorious ends they were denied. Every statue will fall, all writing will be erased, and not a single stone shall stand on another. Then, when all is returned to nothing, JUDGEMENT and TEMPERANCE will meet at the very last end of the earth, and from there they will go walking hand-in-hand upon silver stairs to join the Saints in the halls of heaven. The end.

Icon: A skeletal figure wrapped for burial, kneeling to pry open a stone sarcophagus with a blade of rusted, pitted iron. Inside, a shrieking corpse burns in the evening sunlight.

Imagery: The Planted Sword. Sunset. Life after death, absolution, and the end of all things.

WORLD

It is known that there is no life after death; this is one of the certainties the Presbyter revealed, tearing down the metaphysical leverage held by the Wizard-Kings and their posturing gods. Just as the flesh dissolves into the earth, the spirit returns to the Godhead. What, then, will happen after the end, when every soul is united in God? In death, the HIGH PRIESTESS revealed what the WHEEL could not: that infinity could be split, and remain infinite. A new God will be born from everyone who has lived and will ever live, the creator of the next iteration of the world. Perhaps it was the very purpose of all life, the work of the Saints, to instruct and birth the God-to-be: the WORLD. Perhaps this has happened before, and perhaps, if people are righteous enough in this world, the next will not be a heaven on earth but a heaven of earth, and all shall be right and remain right forever. Why, then, would Yohannes obscure this? He knew that if power was there for the taking, someone would seek to take it. People have done worse for less, and just that once, his courage wavered. Still, the great work must go on.

Icon: A golden body of many smaller bodies, curled up in the fetal position with one eye facing out towards the viewer. The eye itself is a globe showing unknown continents.

Imagery: The New World. Sunrise. Promise, perfection, and apotheosis.

The Mythic Age

After God made angels and animals, it set to populating the world, and first among the firstborn were Kerhos and Iš. Many-horned Kerhos, the gatherer, took up all that he could in his hands, and when he could carry no more, made vessels and places to keep his goods. Shimmering Iš, swifter than the eye, made prey of all the animals of the earth, and what she could not hunt with her hands she soon devised weapons to kill. They lived simple lives, instructed by those who came before even the first: The nephilim, crude of body and mind, prototypes somewhere between angels, animals, and men. They could teach little but what they were born to know, too accustomed to the primordial half-existence they had labored over to inherit the product of their work. With knowledge gleaned from their precursors, Kerhos and Iš would recreate their own creation, forming people from the elements of the earth that could beget their own children: the djinn, yakshas, and more obscure beings still. The passage of years would eventually put an end to the Horned Father and Burning Mother, and the nephilim would hide themselves away as the world grew too alien to them, but the firstborn spread across the whole of the earth. This was not an age of good and evil, but of the heroic and monstrous; there were no higher highs or lower lows, every life a saga. Wars raged across the continent, driving all but the djinn to obscure corners of the earth. Of all the mighty men of this age, seven stood above the rest: the Kings of the Days.

The Kings of the Days

They were all great, almost lesser divinities unto themselves with all the secrets passed down from the nephilim. They all acted against the will of God, and for it, they were punished; the nature of their curses varies, but each and every one cannot leave the Great Wall of the Djinn without an elaborate sacrificial ritual to summon them, and they will all live to see the end of the world. Although their authority is great, few worship them; they are only material, after all, so those who are loyal to them serve them as they would serve any earthly monarch. Their gifts are material things: great wealth, positions of authority, magic items, scrolls, and other treasures. If there was any way to gain their power, it would be through emulation- a class I haven't written yet, but it would be rather like a less martial Champion.

Few were more cunning than young Máni, the Prince of Thieves; there existed no treasure-house he could not strip to the foundations, nor any prison he could not leave as soon as the door was shut. If there was anything he did not steal, it was simply because he had neither the want nor the need for it. However, knowing that his riches could not follow him in death, Máni devised one final, audacious heist. He would break into the moon on the back of an enormous bird, having learned from the whispering of elves that it had been built to contain something which could not be allowed out; whether it was a treasure or a threat, Máni could leverage it in a negotiation against God to ensure his own eternal life. He returned a year later from his departure, falling from the sky in a block of indestructible silver, unable to speak or move. Those that still serve him put their ears to his prison and listen for what little he can say; he still knows where much of his loot is hidden, though he dares not speak of the score that ruined him.

Tyrannical Dyaus, the Wheel-Turning King, never kept a palace in one place; his home was on the back of his terrible lizard, in whatever place he was looting, or if he could have his way, the entire earth. His army was like a swarm of locusts made to devour nations, leaving rubble, smoke, and salted earth wherever they went; his country was one of carrion, his economy one of spoils, and there's no other way he would have it. He gave no thought to succession or loyalty. If someone could kill him, they earned it, and there was no shame in a death in battle. After he drove the last of the yakshas underground, Dyaus found that he could never win in battle; his armies would scatter, all his arms and armor were made as soft as tin, and worst of all, he would never find a glorious death. His legacy would be one of eternal humiliation. This has not made him any more merciful; his bitterness has only poisoned any sense of honor he had, leaving no measure he will not stoop to in denying victory to his innumerable enemies.

Wise Wothanaz the Song-Fevered made it his life's work to know everything, for in his eyes, omniscience was no different from omnipotence; to be godlike is to be God. There was no line he would not cross in search of the secrets of the universe. Necromancy was a convenient source of servants, vivisection a simple necessity in the study of life, and there exists no term for what Wothanaz did with souls because to name it would give imitators something to look for. His final great work was to look into creation itself by means of a complex of lenses expansive enough to fill a mountain, enhancing his vision so greatly that he could read the hidden writing of God underlying all of existence. For one brief second, he saw everything, and that was the last thing he ever saw; from that moment on, his eyes were struck blind, and he wept poisonous mercury. His curse has impeded him greatly, given that his fumes cause brain damage, but this has not stopped him. He must look again, whatever the cost. 

Thunaraz the Hammerer was a simple craftsman, and he had a simple goal: to create the strongest weapon in all of existence, then destroy the world with it. As far as he was concerned, it was the natural ending point of all tool-use, and he made a great many useful things in the meantime. The first THREE WORD SWORD was forged by Thunaraz's hands, as were a number of formulaically-named weapons; the first ballista was a crossbow sized to fit his hands, as were a variety of tools for spraying liquid fire; and it was he who first built complex automata to serve him, tired of assistants that weren't fireproof. When he had at last created the sword he thought could end the world, BOUNDARY STONE CHISEL, to the highest mountain peak and raised it over his head to terminate the earth. Then, several hundred iron spikes fell out of orbit impaled him so hard it turned the mountain to a crater. Thunaraz is impaled still in the Great Wall, but he doesn't complain; he hopes God will let him out at the end of the world to finish his work, even if he got the time wrong. Fault the craftsman, not the tools.

If any of the Kings of the Days deserved their curse the least, it would be beautiful Priya, the Hearth-Queen. She was knowledgeable in all the plants of their earth and their applications, from poisons and their remedies to beer, wine, and other intoxicants. Although vain like any of her contemporaries, Priya did not bring about her downfall for herself, but for her descendants. Her favorite son was a bold warrior, and when he was young, she immersed him in a chemic that would make him impervious to all weapons; when Priya learned he had been strangled to death, she only redoubled her war on mortality. Through a combination of poisons, heavy metals, and blood, she created an elixir of life and made herself the first test subject; upon drinking it, she saw the years recede from her face, and when she looked upon her favored daughter, Priya saw her shrivel away as if centuries had passed. Priya would forever mourn her offspring behind a mask of copper, cursed so that she would outlive all of her children.

There is very little good that can be said of Satre the Glutton. He never knew hunger in all his life, nor any deprivation at all, yet he enjoyed nothing because he lacked any. It didn't even take the desperation of a famine to introduce Satre to cannibalism, simply because he had grown bored of normal food. One day, an idea struck him: all predation was the absorption of one life into another, a theft of vitality to live another day. Satre had been eating people for some time and wasn't getting younger, so maybe it required a preexisting similarity in vital energy, and accumulation beforehand; his children were made to eat one another to see who would be his true heir, and he ate the survivor. Instead of youth, Satre found that he was feeling hunger for the first time in his life; as the pains of starvation dropped him to his hands and knees, the earth opened beneath him and chains of lead weighed down his every limb, leaving him to helplessly bellow commands at the bottom of a pit for all eternity.

Who could not recall the pride of noble Surya, the King of Angels? Born blessed with a marvelous pair of wings, Surya made his kingdom of the open sky, building castles in the clouds where he could look down on all the grounded ones below him. He had no thought for God, because as far as he was concerned, he was God's mortal incarnation on this earth, appointed to rule over all other kings. He saw every other King of the Days punished for their hubris, but this never dissuaded him; as a matter of fact, Surya saw that the unworthy were being culled, clearing the way for his birthright. His throne was waiting, and he only had to claim it. He had to fly to the sun. Surya spread his wings and flew high over the tallest clouds, higher and higher until the air grew thin and he could see the world curve beneath him; looking up at his throne, he saw more light than he had ever seen, then felt fire consume his entire body. He rose high and fell further, burning the whole way down and burning still; Surya was the last and most harshly punished, never knowing relief as his wings were burned bare and his skin peeled from raw muscle. The nephilim emerged one last time at God's behest, raising the Great Wall of the Djinn and imprisoning the firstborn within it for thousands of years; in the meantime, the First and Last set about making new people from the beasts of the earth, ending the Mythic Age.

Far from the Sun

The ambling men give religion little mind at all in their underground colonies. Their language has no word for "God", they would tell you, but there are many things they keep hidden fron eyes too accustomed to light. They respect their elders, and venerate their ancestors; the honored dead are hollowed of their innards and set in the walls of vast ossuary vaults, glittering obsidian-black in torchlight. In such labyrinths, the darkness can play tricks on the mind; if a shadow should talk, why not answer? All of this is to say, the ambling men worship their own intelligent undead, seeking guidance from the shades and long-dead husks of those who came before. This is a secret they will kill to keep- if the Church found there was a religion of necromancers living beneath their feet, the resulting crusade would be a massacre at worst, and a complete cultural upheaval at best. If what belongs in the dark stays there, the ambling men will survive, as they always have, travelling to the end of all history the long way: one day at a time. Time enough to contemplate every thought and imagine every fantasy until, at last, the chthonic sages devise a way to close the loop and ensure a place in eternity.

Robert Caney