Saturday, 8 December 2018

Knight of Extinction

First, this is a mockup;


So this isn't *it*, but expect the Kickstarter to hopefully launch in the next few days.

another mockup


And now back to your regular, and previously promised programming;


NoRulesDM asked for "Avis Infernalis, and elves in mouse-mail". For those who don't know, this is a reference to the Knights of the Eclipse series from 2017. A kind of blogged setting book about an Azathoth-worshipping kingdom of Evil Chivalry.

Starts here.
Races of Men
Orders of Chivalry
Horses for them to Ride
Armour and Feathersmithing
Saints of the Black Church
Three Keeps of the Kingdom
Enemies of the Kingdom
Hermits
And running Adventures there


So as requested, here is a little more, a direct translation from one of the books of the Saints of the Black Church;


THE GOSPEL OF FOGAMAR

CHAPTER EIGHT

1 A Knight He is, without body and without form. A Knight of the second night, when after the sun has set the stars themselves go down, one-by-one, and fall from their blinding diadem to reveal the face of darkness, when men shall grope at noonday as if blind.

2 He keeps, at a time, the deeps of the ocean and tourneys there with leviathan who alone of all mortal things can match the shadow of His power.

3 He haunts the sleep with dreams and great visions. He passes deeply in the sleep-within-sleep that maketh up the secret pillars of the firmament. His breath is fear, and from His step mortal terrors spring as the birds scattereth from the racing horse.

4 His sword is the stoop of the hawk: it cometh on with great speed.

5 His sword is the cry of the bat: that it sees with a sound and hunteth that which neither sees not understands what searches it out, yet is born to fear as the root seeketh dark.

6 His sword is the rage of the father against the wife, the rust of the latch, the twisting of cord, that it fray and its fraying not be seen, the slip and the fall and the bone and the crown of the head, the joint which turneth against itself.

7 His sword is the voice that whispereth from the walls, the line that striketh through and the ink that blotteth out. He maketh the parchment to smear and the quill to cut the page.

8 His armour is as the passing of children before their kin. Its plates are as the lightless centre of the fire which taketh the home, and no exit be found. The joins of His plates where they raspeth in the deeps of the earth or in the flexing and seeking of that which hideth behind the sun as it were a mask, is like the listing of names of those that are lost, though they cometh not, even though their names be called, and their place not found, alive or dead, in any firmament which man may search in all the days that are given; they are with Him and they answereth in the rasping of His mail and the shifting of His aegis, one piece against another and they say unto the caller; nothing shall be found, He cometh on.

9 His pennant is of terrible wonders and His arms are of a strange sign only darkly understood. He stealeth breath from the scream. He freezeth the soul in awe. Before Him there are no souls.

10 His mount is Void, its blackness cannot be measured with the pen or weighed against the deepest of places. The oldest of tombs and mines searched out in the marrow of the earth are as pale as rain and as white as down when balanced in the scale.

11 As Thought and Word are locks upon what-is, they freezeth beneath His gaze and are as still as ice. They melteth before the breath of His mount, even as the snow bows and becomes formless before the flame.

12 His herald is madness; in the babbling of the fool is His title given.

13 In the screams of those who scratch on walls are His victories described.

14 His name is in the gasp of the corpse and in the widows tears.

15 The wise may not know His titles, they are as lists of mirrored code. The sane may not see His victories, they are as the space between sounds or as breathing in an empty room. The upright may not speak His name, it is as an eye that watches unseen, its sounds are as steps behind the traveller in a darkening street, its letters are as the shadow of scales on the belly of the wyrm, they may not be divided, they may not be burnt, dead, yet they live and goeth where they will. To speak of Him is as child without kin holdeth the skin of a great snake and knoweth not what awaits.

16 In the deepness of the air He pursueth the birds. The waves fall silent at His passing as the starling beneath the passing of the hawk. The years paleth and hide themselves as at the shadow of the raptor on the murmuration of time.

17 Time hides itself and curls as doth the snail before the beak of the thrush. As the raptor to the bird, as the thrush to the snail, as the shrike to the innocent mouse so is He to what-is. There can be no hiding for all escapes are spirals unto themselves, as to the snail, and He waiteth beyond the shell.

18 There can be no safety, not in armies nor in wealth, not in knowledge nor in deeds, for as the ants toil in the forest floor and buildeth great things, so the bird passeth above, which they see not, though they look ever up, and they taketh the shadow of the starling for brief passing of night.

2 comments:

  1. I hadn’t read the previous entries, they’re amazing. When I grow up, I want to be as... whatever the fuck You are, as you.

    ReplyDelete