Mages Bones: a serial fantasy story by Tommy. Chapter 3

Arcane by Sara. http://www.deviantart.com/art/Arcane-Wallpaper-95450208

Chapter 3

Gilarean looked over to the stairs where he had heard the lower door slam, and the sounds of stamping feet were coming up. They were being followed by a quieter faster step, and he was suddenly intrigued. Who would Nicairius bring to the tower? And why the hell would he bring them to his room?

“Nic?” Gilarean started up from his chair. “Is that you?” he inquired, with a polite disarming tone.

“…and who the hell else would get through that bloody door without blowing half the tower up?” came the stern reply.

It was Nicairius.

He rounded the top rail post of the spiral staircase and walked towards Gil.

“Fair point… and who’ve you got with you?” Gil was genuinely puzzled.

“This… is Juno. Apprentice of the 3rd Circle, a promising student with, unfortunately, horse shit where his brains should be…” Nicairius found Gilarean’s discarded wine glass, and sat in the chair he had just that minute vacated.

“Aren’t they all though?” Gil had little contact with most of the apprentices. He found them all a bit too needy.

“This is a special case…” Nic was breathing so heavily he was practically snorting, and Gil knew that he needed to be asked what was wrong, or he would possibly combust.

Juno now stood at the top of the stairs, drip white and shaking almost uncontrollably. The knowledge that Barrilo was currently clearing out his room didn’t give him high hopes for the future.

“Go on then… What’s he done?” Gil poured himself another glass of wine not taking his eyes off the quivering apprentice.

Whatever the perceived circumstances, he took no chances with strangers in his personal chambers, and would have played merry hell with Nicairius for bringing him had the young man not been standing eight feet away. As he had been walking round for the past minute or so, subtle gestures had silently activated no less than seven magical wards intended to render any attack from the young mage ineffective, and also possibly render the young mage…

Nicairius told Gilarean exactly what had happened in the Guild Hall, and Gil tried not to smile. He knew the position Nic had been placed in, that he had to be seen to deal most severely with the matter, but also thought to himself that he would have been the one in Juno’s position had this been thirty years earlier. When Nic finished, Gil turned and cocked his head to one side; “so… what do you want to do with him?”

Juno was close to passing out from the fear; “Please… Masters… don’t kill me; I only wanted to help in the fight against the enemy… I wanted to prove that I was right, and that it could be done. I know I can do it if you just give me a chance…”

Nicairius stood up and walked toward Juno, Gilarean looked at him; “Is he actually any good Nic?” Gil asked

“Apparently so… his tutors notes say that he has aptitude and intuition that is well above average, and his bare faced arrogance almost matches yours…” he turned, and smiled and saw the look on Gil’s face, “Alright, it’s nowhere near yours, but its high for normal folk…

Gil smiled and looked across at Juno, he weighed up some possibilities and potential outcomes in his mind and looked at Nic; “The third?” he asked.

“That’s why I brought him up here. Do you think he would do?” Nic replied.

“Does it matter?” Gil was afraid that he sounded heartless, but was ready for his chair and book back. He suddenly turned and stared straight at Juno, his eyes boring deep into the young mage; “You! Boy! Do you have any idea what a necromantic bind entails? How you have to rip the power from your own soul to even try such a thing?”

“I… I know that to overcome the dark powers we have to accept that they are real, and that they are used against us!” Juno was near to tears.

Gilarean turned back to Nicairius, his face now relaxed and almost smiling; “The third it is!”

Nicairius moved over to the south wall and pulled back one of the rich velvet drapes that hung around the entire room. A huge mirror was attached to the wall behind it; “Apathakra  Labass Rockar Tuarna Ampar” he said, and the mirror began to glow.

Juno knew that he had just heard Nicairius cast a spell of the 5th Circle, all spells began with a prefix or “circle” rune, this denoted which circle of power the spell belonged in, and symbolised the highest circle of rune used within the body of the spell.

All first circle spells began with Ap, second with Apa, third with Apatha; fourth began with Apathak and the most powerful 5th Circle spells began with Apathakra. Most people who knew this fact were inclined to find the nearest large structure, or deep hole and do their best to hide, if they ever heard a mage utter the word “Apathak” let alone “Apathakra” and the fact that Juno stood stock still was a measure of the outright fear he was experiencing at that moment!

The mirror was now gone, and in its place was a glowing tunnel of energy, swirling and spiraling off into some unknown plane of existence. Juno was terrified. “Is this my fate?” he asked, “Are you going to cast me into the weave?”

“What?” It was Gil who replied. “Nic, I thought you said he was good?” he turned to Juno. “That spell was a summoning… wait a moment and you’ll see the foul beast that Grand Master Nicairius has called to deal with you. It dwells in darkness, it has no soul, and it devours the life from those around it. It is hideously ugly, with a face that could sour wine and crack marble. It is…”

“…standing right behind you listening to your libelous remarks. Wondering why I let you talk me into working with this idiots’ orphanage, that is remarkable only for the fact that it fails wholeheartedly to provide anyone with enough of a brain that I might make use of…” the voice was flat, and had no emotion in it.

Gil and Juno turned; Nicairius was walking toward them, and at his side walked an elf. The face was sharp and its skin was pale enough to make Juno believe that it was one of the Elgelloae, the deep elves. But its eyes were black and not the pink that was the giveaway for a Deep Elf. The elf wore the robes of a Master, and also bore a silvered rapier at his side.

“Faethran!!! How are you, you happy bastard!!!” Gil made to shake the elf’s hand but he ignored the gesture and shrugged past him to look at Juno.

“You, boy… what would I get if I mixed orc blood with ground harpy bones and boiled it in a solution of nettle juice?”

Juno was taken aback… “err… with a certain minor enchantment, that would create a flask that if broken would give off a gas, that would… errr… induce instant rigor mortis in anything dead. It would probably not work against a vampire, you would need something stronger than orc blood, but it would definitely stop zombies in their tracks… It would effectively paralyse them…”

“Good!” Faethran said and turned to face Nicairius, ignoring Gilarean completely.

Nicairius looked at Faethran, seemed to consider something for a moment, then he nodded.

“Come with me. I have a use for you.” Faethran turned to Juno, “You will leave this useless academy of dullards…” Gilarean started to object, but Nicairius hushed him “… and join me in my research”

“Which is?” Juno was confused now, but thought he saw what was happening.

Nicairius stepped forward and spoke; “You were quite correct Juno, we DO need to study those weapons that are employed against us if we are to defeat them. We choose to keep this quiet from the Order, as we base our teachings on the laws of the City and the Common Church, who both forbid the practice of Necromancy. Faethran is not a member of the guild, but he is still a Grand Master. He needs… assistance.”

Juno was astounded, “Then he is…” he turned to the elf; “you are…a…”

Faethran’s face displayed no emotion; “A Necromancer? Yes… I am.”

Juno was stuttering with joy, at the knowledge that he was not only not going to die, but that he was about to begin studying the most secret magic of them all… “Then I am to…”

Gilarean interrupted; “You are to calm down and gather your composure. You may have noticed that our dear friend here isn’t the emotive type, and never… ever… try to give him a hug!”

Faethran stepped towards the portal within the mirror’s frame; “Hurry up boy, I don’t like to be kept waiting.” And with that he moved through the mirror and disappeared. Juno looked at Nic, and then Gil who ushered him towards the mirror.

Juno turned one last time before stepping through, “Thank you!” he said.

And then he was gone. The mirror returned to normal, Nicairius returned the drape to its proper position, and they both sat down and Gil poured the wine.

“Well! That’s that sorted out then.” Gil sat down and took a drink.

“Shame really.” Nic said, staring into the fire, he was absent mindedly making sparks dance in a figure eight around the burning log.

“Well, he wanted to help… and Faethran will certainly put him to work.” Gil had finished his goblet already and reached to pour another. “But I agree. It is a shame that he won’t work with anyone who is alive.”

“It’s a trust thing I suspect. He doesn’t like humans and says they work better when he’s scooped their brains out and reanimated them” Nic shrugged, “But it was nice the way you made him think he was going to become an apprentice. At least he died happy.” He thought for a moment; “I wonder what he does with the brains, he always likes them to be clever?”

They looked at each other, and both decided that it was best not to ask…

Mages Bones: a serial fantasy story by Tommy: Chapter 2

Gilarean’s quarters were opulent to say the least. He had always been a show off, and even when there was no one to show off to he still tried. He sat in a plush armchair, sipping from a bottle of 60 year old deep, dark, red wine, which he had paid a band of adventurers handsomely to recover, along with its 35 follows, from the depths of a local baron’s vault. It was past midnight, and he knew that beneath him, both literally and figuratively, the guild would be busy. He shared the topmost levels of the Highest, and broadest, tower of the Guildhouse with Nicairius, his second oldest friend. He was reading a book that he had stolen himself from the intricately locked bedside drawer of the High Priest of Calandex. The fact that Nathaniel would have leant him the book, and also that he would be returning it as soon as he had read it made little difference to Gilarean, sometimes he just couldn’t help himself.

He had started life as a swordsman, but as a half elf he had lacked the bulk and strength to wear the heavy armour that warriors traditionally bore, and quickly learned that the best way to avoid being hurt was not to have the thickest armour possible, and hope to withstand the damage, but to not get hit in the first place. He had learned to fence using lighter and sharper swords, and soon realised he was quite good at it. He had been hired as a scout occasionally, helping out with adventurers and explorers who needed someone with the ability to make sure the path in front of them was safe enough that they could go lumbering down without worrying about trip wires or hidden archers.

It was while doing this work that he realised that the bulk of the treasure that these adventurers were seeking was hidden and secreted in little hidey holes… the sorts of places he was forever finding while checking for traps and alarms. He had spoken to Zane, who was also a scout, but was the more reputable type. Zane knew the land and was like a walking map, who people hired to get them from one place to another if the road didn’t lead directly there. He too had been a warrior, and decided that it was safer and more lucrative to be the one the other warriors needed to keep alive, and this had proved to be the case. When Gilarean and Zane had finished their conversation the Scouts’ Guild had been formed.

The Scouts’ Guild had been successful, people hired scouts for various jobs, and paid the guild, the guild trained the scouts and paid them by the job, the scouts also made whatever they could on whatever job they were on, and that was the key to the financial success of the guild. Gilarean and Zane worked out that the best way to find all the loot and gold and best bits of treasure. It was wisest to have a scout at the front leading the way, and a scout at the back making sure “no one was following”. It was the second scouts’ job to scour rooms, tombs and vaults for all the hidden trinkets, and by using this method they had themselves become quite wealthy in a very short space of time. They put their guild members on trust, and expected a ten percent cut of whatever they skimmed in this manner. The members were receptive to the deal, and things went well. The guild, however, attracted quite a few potential members who believed that it was a front for a Thieves’ Guild, as the two often went hand in hand… After a year of serious prosperity, Gilarean decided that the Thieves Guild idea warranted some further investigation. A year later he was living in an expensive keep, with a small private army guarding it, and was in joint charge of one of the largest and richest organisations on The East Coast.

A year later he had become bored.

He had known Ambrose and Nicairius from his old tavern days at The Mad Mystic, and when he met them in town one day and they decided to have a drink and catch up, it transpired that all were at something of a dead end. Both the wizards had finally achieved Master status, but were never going to gain rank within the Guild of Arcane Lore because they were too free thinking and some might say, “Opinionated”. Gilarean explained to his friends how easy it had been to set up his Guilds, and put forward a proposal.

Simply that, if Nicairius and Ambrose would make him their first student teach him magic, he would pay for the Guild house and set up costs.

It took very little time and effort to convince them, neither wanted to be involved with the College any longer, and when Gil had shown them the number of magical tomes and scrolls he had acquired throughout his career, they were happy to let him spend his money and contribute his artefacts to the Guild. Gil’ had had no idea that the differences in the two types of Guild would be so enormous. The two Guilds he had been in charge of practically ran themselves and involved him counting the money while a couple of administrators did the paperwork and dealt with the clients. The members wanted nothing more than to be out, working… earning!!!

Not the bloody mages though.

Gil had never met a more demanding bunch… They wanted teaching… all the time, they wanted to know more about where this flower came from, or how that crystal worked, or why Dragon Scales were so rare, or why gorgon venom was so dangerous to handle… Nicairius and Ambrose were very good at dealing with the members, and Gil’ was good at dealing with the potential clients. As soon as a Guild Tower had been built in Tasskurr, business started to happen. Local dignitaries had wanted enchantments, and magical trinkets, and adventurers wanted potions of invisibility, and protective scrolls, and all manner of weird and wonderful requests came across his desk almost daily. New members joined daily, and new requests for magical solutions to problems came in thick and fast, it was a busy time, and the heads of The Guild of Arcane Lore in Minsturr weren’t pleased either. There had never been a serious challenge to the monopoly of the Guild in the teaching of the arts to aspirant magi, and while the college had never objected to wizards who took apprentices in their own homes and taught them outside of the Guilds methods, to set up in direct competition was not something they had ever anticipated. They had sent missives to the Tasskurr upstarts, Gil’ had coined the name “The Hermetic Order of The Silver Sphere.” He didn’t really know what it meant but he thought it sounded impressive… They requested that they cease their business dealings forthwith, and hand over all goods and chattels to the Guild.

Gil wrote back to say, “No.”.

The Guild invoked an ancient law they had “discovered” in their archives that stated that the teaching of magic was the provision of those tutored in the ways of the Weave as handed down from the initial teachings of the Gods of Magic and Knowledge.

Gil’ replied that all those doing the teaching had been taught that, and that anyone being taught would indeed be learning those same things, and that he was very sure that the ancient laws didn’t decree under which specific name the teaching took place; and, more importantly, who got paid for the teaching.

The guild tried to belittle the Silver Sphere by joking in public that it was “stupid to have a guild of Hermits” to which Gil replied in a polite letter, after someone explained it to him, that “Hermetic” referred to the old word; “Hermes” which was one of the ancient names of the God of Magic, and if the Masters of the College wished to take a class in “History of the Craft” he could offer them a discount.

The College stopped joking.

An ultimatum was sent through to Tasskurr; a challenge. The College would send one wizard and the Order would send one wizard, and both would do combat using magic. The winner would have the choice over how the two guilds would exist, or not…

Gil accepted, on the condition that the duel be to the death.

The College had sent Jeunir Lockleaf a Master of The Element of Fire to do battle, and Gil had sent himself. He was still only a mage of the 4th Circle of Power and was years away from attaining a Master Rune of his own, but he had something the College wizards didn’t. Years of experience running a thieves Guild, and all the money influence and treasures that had come with that position. For example, Gilarean had years before come into possession of a belt that protected the wearer from fire, he had a ring that did similar, and had bought half a dozen potions of Fire Resistance. He wore a suit of light elven chainmail, which had been fabricated specifically for him on the High Isle of the Elven Triumvirate. Everyone knew that if you carried or wore too much metal, the power of the runes would earth, and spell casting was dangerous. In fact many had exploded from attempting anything beyond a 2nd circle spell while carrying a steel sword in their hand. What “everyone” didn’t know was that certain precious metals not only didn’t have this effect but, in fact, were capable of focussing runic power and making spells either stronger or easier to cast… Gilarean’s armour was made from Star-Stone alloy, and was very much in the precious metal category. His sword had been gifted to him by Falstaff, the High Priestess of the Common Church, years before she had become so. She gave it to him as a reward after he had helped her adventuring group free their friend from an Earth Elementalist, and she had used it to kill an ancient werewolf along the way. The sword was god forged silver carrying a permanent Blessing, and was as near to perfect as any blade he’d ever held.

The whole ensemble had had exactly the effect he had hoped for; Jeunir had taken one look and thought they had sent a mere warrior. They each stood at one end of the large oval arena and Jeunir’s confidence that there was no way a swordsman could reach him to strike before he had all but vapourised him, he began the lengthy tirade as to how, such “a pitiful guild could only put forward such a pitiful specimen of a mage…” and so on. He had got about two words of his planned belittlement out of the way before a lightning bolt tore through him leaving him badly wounded on the floor. He managed to very quickly throw up a force field, and used the time it gave him and began to work on healing himself, while Gilarean began to work on the unravelling of the binding enchantments that held Jeunir’s Fire Elementals in place. Once he had finished the main part of the spell and only needed to utter a final command word, he too threw up a, larger, force field around the pair of them and waited for Jeunir’s protection spell to wear off. The moment it did, a rejuvenated and healed Jeunir set forth his elementals to roast the flesh from Gilarean’s bones. As they were but inches away Gil had simply spoken the word “freedom” and the binding was broken. All of Jeunir’s Elementals were freed and not too happy at the years of imprisonment. They had a few scores to settle before they departed for the Plane of Fire… Gilarean’s belt, ring and potions protected him from the onslaught, and the force field prevented Jeunir from escaping meaning that he had no time at all to protect himself from his own Fire Spirits. When the force field finally faded, and the not inconsiderable amount of smoke had cleared, Gilarean was left standing, completely unscathed with the body of the world’s foremost authority on Fire Magic smouldering away on the floor. From that day on, the College had never contacted him again, and he had never claimed his prize.

It was a sensible arrangement, he thought, that if he left them alone, they would leave him alone.

He had always promised himself to one day tell Nicairius and Ambrose about everything that had happened with the College, but he thought they would only worry and complain, and maybe get angry at him for not telling them sooner, and now, nearly twenty years on, he thought he’d probably just leave things as they were.

Layering and costume

A really good blog piece here by Charlie on the LARP GUIDE site
http://larp.guide/2015/08/clothes-not-costume-layering/

MAGES BONES : A serial fantasy story by Tommy

Chapter 1

It was after midnight in the Mages’ Tower in the city of Tasskurr. This meant that it was busy. No wizard worth his runes conducted business in the cold light of day. Not when the same work could be done under the cover of darkness and present far more of an air of mystery and suspense.

Nicarius had been a Master of the Hermetic Order of the Silver Sphere for over 20 years; in fact he had been one of the three founder members.

Everyone assumed mages’ guilds and orders were part of some ancient and venerable tradition, handing secrets from Master to Apprentice down through the years. Nicarius and his compatriots did nothing to discourage the public image that they were simply the latest in a long line of keepers of the arcane secrets. Few people knew the truth; that they had set up in competition against what they had perceived to be a thoroughly corrupt monopoly on the teaching of The Craft. The Guild of Arcane Lore had been around since sometime shortly after the dawn of time, and may well have been formed through the union of some God of Magic, and a God of Knowledge passing on their secrets to a chosen few mortals who had passed that same knowledge down through the generations; chosen few to chosen few.

Of course these days chosen few was less literal than it had been in the past; these days it was fiscal prudency that allowed both the talented and the wealthy the chance to study for five years to become adept at something that really only needed a year to get right.

Nicairius shared stewardship of the Silver Sphere now with only one of his original partners. Gilarean had long been one of the two people he had ever properly trusted. The other, Ambrose, had died some years ago, so it was just him and Gil to keep things running smoothly.

Of course they never really did run smoothly. Organising The Hermetic Order of the Silver Sphere was like, as Gil often said, juggling angry serpents; even when things went well for a moment or two, all you were ultimately sure of was that something would soon be back to bite you… The Guild of Arcane Lore had been long established in the capital city of Minsturr in the North West, which was the reason the Silver Sphere was based in Tasskurr.

Tasskurr was a busy east coast frontier town with new prospective members arriving every month off the boats from the mainland; all looking to make a name for themselves. Some would join the Order and pay to learn the secrets of the runes; maybe take apprenticeships under the higher ranked members. Many more would avail themselves of the minor magical items and potions the guild members made and sold through the Arcane store at the side of the guild house.

Money was usually tight, particularly with there being a war in the winds, and it was fortunate that Gilarean’s previous line of work had involved him being the head of a very different type of guild. It had always astounded Nicairius that no one seemed to ever associate the “Scouts” guild with the other organisation entirely comprised of sneaky people who specialised in hiding in shadows and moving silently. Running a Thieves’ Guild had made Gil very wealthy of course, and even after he had handed over the running of the Scouts Guild to one of his lieutenants, he still received a regular share of its income.

Nicairius paused at the foot of the staircase. He glanced across the chamber to where two young apprentices were arguing over something.

“It’s not impossible… it just takes skill and courage!” one of them said, a little too loudly.

Nicairius started up the stairs. Then he paused, sighed, and cursed himself under his breath. He shook his head and turned around and walked over to the two young men. He stopped just in front of them, and after the moment or two it took him to realise that they hadn’t noticed him, he coughed and raised his eyebrows at their startled looks as if to say, Go on then? Tell me…”

The first to speak was Barrilo, a rich young fellow, who had mostly bought his way to the second circle of runic knowledge; but was capable enough,

“Grand Master” he began; almost stuttering with surprise at Nicairius’ presence. “Juno and I were debating whether the err… correct way to… errr…”

Juno jumped in, “…we were arguing over whether it’s actually possible to make a necromantic bind that would hold permanently!” his tone almost smacked of defiance; Barrilo closed his eyes and lowered his head into his hands.

“Sorry?” Nicairius sounded almost inquisitive. “I thought for a second you just said that you were discussing the subject of necromantic binding?” He pretended to weigh this up for a moment. Juno stood stock still, trying to maintain an air of strength, though anyone could see the sweat on his brow. He had realised his second mistake that night had been to address Nicairius in such a way.

Nicairius looked around, everyone had stopped what they were doing and were looking over at the three of them.

Damn! Why couldn’t I just walk up the bloody stairs, drink my bloody wine, read my bloody book and go to bloody bed?

The statute of the Order was clear, Necromancy was forbidden; even discussing it in terms of application. He would have to take action, and now, or the rest of the Order would see him fall down on one of the most precious articles upon which it had been founded.

“Now, why would you be discussing something like that,” he began, “when you know that such things are forbidden?” Maybe he could get away with a strong and sarcastic public withering…

That might work…

“You do know that the Fire Elemental that dwells within my very skin is always ravenous, and if I were to release him right now, all that would remain of your foolish little bodies would be a dash of soot, and an inconvenient smell?”

Barrilo winced, but Juno didn’t move.

Nicairius continued; “The reason idiot novices like you aren’t allowed to even discuss such things, is because the grown-ups have decided that it’s safer if you don’t get your souls sucked away by the spirits of the eternally damned. Which is what happens when you think you know better than we do, and go and do something stupid, like trying a bloody permanent binding!!!!!!!” he was worried now that Barrilo might just soil himself; Nicairius didn’t like bad smells.

He hoped the message had sunk in, and that would be the last of it… but instead Juno opened his mouth.

“But Grand Master, we believe that if our enemies are likely to employ necromancy against us, surely we should learn enough about it to perhaps try and counter it!” he said.

There we go!

Nicairius felt himself sag inside. It had happened. Just like deep down he’d known it was about to… Juno had tried to justify it. There was the sudden sound of everyone else in the room hurrying to go about their business again, hopeful of not being caught up in what it assumed was about to happen to the young apprentice.

Nicairius was a Grand Master of the Order; that was his title. He had other titles, such as “Master of the Flame”, and “Archmage”. Essentially, by virtue of setting the Guild up he had achieved the Grand Master title, but the other two he had worked for. A mage took a long time to achieve what Nicairius had; it took a lot of hard work, study, and practical experience to attain even one inner circle title, let alone two. Master of the Flame was a self-ascribed honorific, and was Nicairius’ way of saying “Fire Elementalist” and Archmage was his second inner circle title.

Magic was all about runes. Every rune had a meaning, and a power, and the combination of runes allowed someone who understood, and could manipulate that power, to achieve mastery over the natural magic that existed within the world. The runes were broken down into five circles of power, with the first, or “outer” circle being the basic, weaker, runes; knowledge of which allowed mages to perform minor spell such as shocking enemies with a touch, or creating a protective barrier to act like light armour. It allowed them to create light in darkness, and break and mend minor inanimate objects with a touch. As the circles increased in level, so did their power. By the time a wizard had learned the secrets of the third circle he could cast popular and effective spells such as the perennial favourite, “Fireball” creating a projectile that would fly at enemies and explode, causing varying degrees of pain and scorching. The fourth circle involved fewer runes, but their powers allowed a mage to amplify the effects of the lower ones to create more devastating explosions, more powerful armour, and enchant objects and even people. The fifth circle was the most inaccessible and most powerful of all. It potentially allowed power over time itself, (though that rune had never been successfully combined,) and its runes were almost impossible to master. They were equally difficult to pronounce.

Nicairius had mastered the fifth circle years before, and had gone beyond. He had learned two of the secret Master runes. The Master of Fire, and the Master of Magic. No one knew exactly how many Master runes existed, the ones that were known were; Fire Master, Earth Master, Air Master, Water Master, Archmage, Master Enchanter, Demonolgist and of course; Master Necromancer.

The Elemental Masters, (Nicairius’ Mastery of Fire was complimented to devastating effect by Gilarean’s Mastery of Air) were capable of summoning immensely powerful Elementals who they would engage in a form of spirit combat. If they overcame them, they could bind the Elemental into an object and had access to its powers. They could then control it to do their bidding. Demonologists, (many of whom often complained that the title gave a bad impression of their profession) had a similar relationship with spirits from the outer planes, not all of which were “Demons” in the traditional sense…

Master enchanters were capable of making almost anything with a magical aura. From a mighty sword that could cut through granite, or a dragon’s neck, to a spoon that would stir the porridge itself… and then there were Necromancers. Elementalists and Demonologists, had a slight safety net in their specialty, in that if, for any reason, one of their imprisoned forces ever managed to free itself from its binding, its natural course of action would be to cause a bit of chaos and harm in revenge for being locked up, but to quickly return to its home plane of existence. Necromancy involved many of the same principles of Elementalism; drawing forth the restless spirits of the dead and either binding them in spectral form, or binding them to a corpse. Unfortunately, if the binding were to ever break, the undead creature would be unable to return to the plane of the dead until it was killed again, and would seek to cause as much harm to the living as it could in the meantime. As far as any living mage were aware it had never been possible to create a permanent binding, to allow one to control an other-worldly being without the risk of it ever breaking free. The ramifications of something like that were enormous. It would allow Master Magi to summon and bind beings of such immense power, and use that power. So much so that the balance of nature would be threatened. The greatest risk would be that a clever mage somewhere might come up with a counter spell to undo the binding, in a foolhardy bid to defeat the power of the one creating the binding, and unwittingly unleash creatures capable of enormous devastation upon the world.

Nicairius had a problem now. Everyone had seen and heard Juno’s aspiration. The young apprentice had stepped beyond the What would happen if, that existed in his own head, and had taken the next step toward, I want to see what happens if… by openly debating it.

Ideas were dangerous, and everyone in the Order knew that if someone was focused enough on something so much that that they would openly contradict the Grand Master, in public, then there was every likelihood that if Nicairius just said, cast it from your mind and think no more on it, that Juno would simply go away and work on the idea in private, which was even worse…

He looked around to see the guild members busying themselves and trying not to make eye contact, but he knew they were listening intently to whatever his next words would be. They were; “Come with me Juno. And you, Barrilo… clean out his room.”

Juno’s face went as white as a sheet. Nicairius started up the stairs, and Juno looked around as if hoping someone or something would miraculously show him a quick escape route. It didn’t happen. He screwed his eyes up, raised his left hand to them, wiped away the tears that were forming, and set off after Archmage Nicairius; Master Of the Flame, Grand Master of The Hermetic Order of the Silver Sphere.
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(All rights to text Andrew Tomlinson, images via creative commons)

The Original Scribe

Caroline Stuckey was the editor of the original magazine, we asked her about her experiences and reminiscences of producing the paper version in the 1990's.
The Scribe, let me remind myself about the best bits first; it was once a national magazine that could be found on sale in all major hobby games stores, was known by practically every genre of LRP the early millennium had to offer and at the height of its success there were few Live Role Players who hadn’t heard of it. It was a magazine that provided the foundations of some great triumphs, not just in LRP but in the publishing industry too, but best of all, to this day it still exists, preserved, hidden away, archived in a national vault amongst all the British publications ever to be registered with an ISBN number in the UK.

What made you create The Scribe?

Passion, perhaps persistence, definitely belief, certainly determination, maybe pride, but definitely an incredibly, ‘youthful philosophy’: that anything could be attained, nothing was impossible, everything was achievable, and there is always a way, you just have to find it. It was something that had to be done, and I did, well we did; The Scribe was not, and never could just be me, Caroline Stuckey.

The seed for its conception began at Lepracon, a national LRP convention run by Enigma around January 1998. For two years I’d served as elected editor of “The Adventurer”, a black and white magazine that had received a lot of financial backing for; including sponsorship by one generous supporter who gave something like £1000 that enabled free distribution of an issue in an attempt to increase its circulation, and another benefactor who purchased Quark Xpress, a programme I felt I needed, to bring The Adventurer up to a professional standard that I thought would encourage players to buy it. However, despite all of this investment it just wasn’t enough to bring in the readers or the advertisers. There were too many political ties and too much bad blood that had been created in the history before I’d arrived as editor. There was only one way I was going to be able to achieve what I wanted and what I thought the hobby needed, and that was to break away and start completely from scratch with a new magazine. So, you could say The Scribe was born in July 2008 as a spawn of the Adventurer.

I’d like to say it was a clean break, but given its hostile history, The Adventurer and those who founded it were not going to let me leave so smoothly; I don’t wish to delve on the past, but I think it was an important event that happened as not only did it motivate me even further, but it strengthened the support I needed. The week following my public resignation as editor at an AGM, news soon spread around the hobby of the atrocious public exit I’d been given. Very quickly event organiser, after event organiser began to call, and my rather sad exit as editor of The Adventurer, suddenly became a very fortuitous event in the birth of, The Scribe.

Tell us about some of the low points and the high points.

My biggest low in the beginning was the loss of one of my main contributors, who had stuck by me for the past two years. He was honest, he simply didn’t believe a professional LRP magazine could work, or certainly last beyond the first issue. In truth, I didn’t think he believed in me. It was quite a blow, a dent in the ego. He had always been with me, had always been there at the end of the phone, and had been one of my strongest supporters, (although he hadn’t been able to attend the AGM). When he called me to stay he was staying loyal to The Adventurer, it hurt. But, it was a low point that lasted long enough for me to realise that I had some proving wrong to do, I had to win him back, and to do that the new magazine had to be everything that, The Adventurer wasn’t and everything that The Adventurer could be. I was so determined that I turned to existing professionals. I spent a few weeks with a publishing company called, Hammerville. I had lunch with the founder, spoke extensively to the employees and within a few weeks I had the confidence to set up, Regalle Publishing, and set to work producing the first press release that would woo traders into buying advertising space, and ultimately fund the first edition of The Scribe - or The Scribble as some traders interpreted the font.

It wasn’t long before it became clear that the Traders were excited by the press release. Advertising space was quickly sold, in fact so much revenue was coming in that the magazine didn’t need to borrow any money for the first issue at all. It was exciting hearing from the advertising manager each time he’d made a sale he called, and soon we were up to and beyond our first publishing costs.

I think The Scribe was very lucky, it happened at a time when there was a lot of excitement in the hobby as a lot of changes came about. Gaffa weapons had almost completely been replaced by latex, and then new shining varnishes appeared, and highly detailed shading arrived, and players just couldn’t get enough of the new designs. Suddenly, some Traders who had been making weapons as a hobby were now leaving the dole queue, graduating from university, or even changing their careers having found excitement with new experiments with Isoflex and injection moulds, and what they needed most was somewhere to raise their profile, advertise, sell their wares outside of events. On the other side, some event organisers were going professional too. Chimera Leisure spawned out of Dummnoni Chronicles, Curious Pastimes had broken away from the Lorien Trust, Labyrinth had been bought by a new owner, and even Vampire Masquerade had been hit with a break away group, Camarilla. It was a time when there were a lot of uncertainties, there was new blood, and with it came motivation, competition was high, and everyone wanted to reach out to the players. People looked to The Scribe, they needed something that would provide them with a platform where they could build or rebuild a reputation that was credible. The last two years of the 90’s LRP was buzzing, it was alive with change, everyone I met seemed to be fuelled by excitement the hobby itself was at a high point.

With any highs there will inevitably follow lows, and I didn’t have to wait long. The first issue of The Scribe came off the press in June 1998. It was timed to coincide with the European event, the Benelux Convention. Peter Howe, who back then ran with the title Advertising Manager, had done so well with the advertising and negotiating deals with distributors, convinced me we should reach out to the European market and head over to Belgium. It was all going so superbly well in the UK, why on earth would Europe not love it to! Well, they wouldn’t, and they didn’t. By the end of the first day at Benelux, it was clear that the amount of profit that The Scribe had made from sales and the sheer lack of interest from anyone in advertising space, it was a massive wake up call, it was not going to be the easy ride that the UK had led us to believe. I remember the weekend dragged painfully, and this was the launch, the UK hadn’t even seen it yet. But no one even wanted to buy it. For a whole day I slogged around in my Xena outfit, just creating awareness, raising the profile, but generating zero revenue. That was until, a business owner, who maybe saw me working so hard to get sales, that he wanted to join in, or maybe he just took pity on me. Regardless, he shouted out a deal to his audience, and there were many, “Anyone who buys a Scribe gets a discount on a rare magic card!” It was like a swarm of honey bees, suddenly everyone wanted a copy of The Scribe. They were magic players, they probably had no idea or interest in LRP whatsoever, but at last the European sales were happening! I have no idea how valuable those magic cards were, but it was an event that I would never forget. I returned to the UK quite humbled by it all, Europe was not an easy market, and in truth it was probably not ready yet.

The first UK event I took The Scribe to was at the Leeds University Mountain hut. After the Benelux convention I had become a little somewhat subdued, but here I was about to have my faith restored. I had been warned on the way up that an error had been discovered whereby an advertisement that had been booked had failed to make it into the first edition. That proprietor was James Morris of Kin Cheap, and he was going to be at the event. All I remember is standing outside the building as James so passionately poured out his frustration, his disappointment, the damage it had done to his business because his advert had not appeared; in truth I was being told off, but it was the best telling off I ever had, because this amount of passion was the first feedback that I’d had which helped me to believe that what had been produced was the professional magazine that, well, at least Kin Cheap had been waiting for.

Between 1998 and 2001, there were many other highs, the phone call from an excited reader when they saw The Scribe on sale in, “Orcs Nest” was one; I had no idea where this shop was, but I revelled in his excitement. I think part of me secretly enjoyed the fame, too. There were some events where my presence seemed to create an air of nerves you’d expect celebrities to receive. Being “radio’ed” in at the big events, “Lady from the Scribe is here” and being asked to go to the VIP tent made me chuckle. Another time I was driving around the country visiting all the August Bank Holiday events, so much so that I arrived quite late to the Fools and Heroes event, and awoke in my car to find myself in the middle of a ritual circle, with players already in action! Then there was the Vampire event where the player clasped my arm as I was passing and said, “Level five attraction” or something along those lines, at which point my chaperone replied, “she’s not playing mate, she’s here from The Scribe”, to which he replied, “can I do it anyway”, to which the chaperone said, ”no you can not!”

There were also some great moments with the reactions players had over articles in The Scribe. The magazine could always count on Alex Taggert or John Curry to bring up some controversial issue. Players would ask, “Why do you print their articles?”, and secretly I would smile - they were printed because these articles drove people to respond, engage in discussion, talk about the magazine, and I revelled in hearing people talk about The Scribe. However, perhaps one of the finest hours came, when it became clear that the age old Adventurer magazine, was never going to make another appearance, and then I got my favourite contributor, JB, back.

The Scribe was a full time job where I would spend practically every weekend going up and down the country, making new acquaintances and renewing old. Then during the week it would be developing the 35ml films I’d shot, scanning in the photographs and then writing articles to go with the prints. It didn’t stop when the camping season ended either, it continued with Vampire weekends and Laser Tag, and then LRP moved into youth hostel events and of course the Christmas banquets. It was hard keeping on top of them all, and the trouble was organisers were always seemed eager for me to go to their events, some complained when I didn't, and I wanted to be there, it was hard saying no. When I got to the events it was a great feeling seeing so many eager players wanting their photograph to appear in The Scribe. There were certainly a lot of films to develop back then. Then there were the articles needed to go with them, and the artwork, I worked with some amazing artists who would very quickly produce something every time. The editing was always a challenge. I got very irritated by mistakes, so much so that I remember dismantling my P200 MMX and regularly heading off the final weekend before publication to one of the editorial team. It was a real hard effort to rid the magazine of all typos and gremlins before it got to print. The Scribe had a great team, which I don’t think ever got together as a group, we were perhaps an early version of an online editorial group. They were very patient, I wanted perfection, I didn’t want typos, and I would go to great lengths and travel far, through the streets of London to get it, and they tried so very hard to achieve this aim. I don’t think it was reached until Issue 13, the final edition.

Did you achieve all you wanted?

I probably did, otherwise I’d still be doing it. I don’t think I was business savvy enough to take it to the next step, which was a big one. In the beginning I had successful business advisors behind me, once I was up and running they left me alone. I needed to get into WH Smiths, to do that I needed to appeal to a wider audience, and I had started to widen the content to include Murder Mystery and Re-enactment, but I was a sole trader not a limited company, also I wasn’t VAT registered, but the turnover (not profit) was getting to a point where I would have to be, but I liked my accounts the way there were, simple.

What are your proudest moments?
My proudest moments are what came after The Scribe. When I heard that Jon Hodgson, a regular contributor with his artwork in The Scribe, had turned professional and had crowds lining up for his autograph at Role Play conventions, that made me proud. Cavalry Design, who gave up their jobs and used The Scribe to start their own business, are almost in their sixteenth year of business, that makes me proud. And knowing where I am today and all that I achieved in the years following the magazine, I am very proud of The Scribe, as it opened up so many doors for me. Most importantly though, whenever life gets tough, I can usually pick myself up with some great recollections from my days with The Scribe.

What made you call it a day?

I was offered a full time post at the BBC sometime after Issue 13 came out. A few months earlier I’d gone to a live broadcast for Tomorrow’s World and appeared in the audience on the show with a copy of The Scribe. I met two producers who had bought a copy from the store, Orc’s nest, and somehow I found myself in Newcastle auditioning for the role as presenter. I then became a researcher on the programme and moved to London, with the hope of become the next Phillipa Forrester - of course I never did. You can actually see me in one of the issues in the news section holding a copy of The Scribe whilst on the programme. It hadn’t occurred to me that I would stop producing The Scribe when I accepted the offer at the BBC, I genuinely thought I would be able to do the two jobs. I could never have done both. Thankfully I never tried. The decision was out of my hands when the BBC contract came through, along with a clause forbidding me to carry out any other work whilst in their employment.

Without a doubt, it has probably been the most demanding and time consuming job I have ever had, but it was probably the most satisfying. I recently moved back into the house where the Scribe was first published. In fact, if you open up the loft hatch my desk is still in there along with pictures of The Scribe and post it notes relating to this bygone era. It’s like The Scribe is sitting there in mid production, just like the Marie Celeste, just waiting, waiting for Issue 14.

Special thanks to: Neil McCallum-Deighton, Corin Warr, Steve Barnes, Peter Howe, Matt Kneeshaw, Jon Hodgson, Mark Hadlett, JB, Jim Thomson, James Morris, Mark Gilbert, Jim King, Mark Roberts, James Bloodworth, John Curry, Steven Somerfield, Rob Hopper, Josh Smith, Paescod, Brian Wells, Andy Leach, Kylie Tilford, Steve Emmott, Sam Goldsmith, Mark Dollar and to Liz Cable and to everyone who contributed in any way to made it happen.