Chapter 1 : Welcome to the Jungle

Mnemon Rhomon, Sorcerer

Realm Year 764, Descending Water

The City of the Steel Lotus, An-Teng, Satrapy of the Realm

“Thank you for the transportation, Captain. I certainly appreciate it.” Rhomon bowed his head respectfully to the rough and tawny man before him. He wore clothes that were of fine but durable make, with a feathered headwrap and thin curved sword on his loose silk belt. 

He was the captain of the ship who had carried him from a port on the Blessed Isle all the way down here to the capital of An-Teng, along with a small load of supplies and provisions. His bearded face stretched into an easy grin and his eyes squinted against the sunlight as he spoke. “Nothing to it, Mr. Rhomon. You paid me well for it, you were polite and respectful, and my boys needed a little rest down here anyways. If you ever need another captain for this route again- ask for Ol’ Galen, alright?”

“I’ll certainly keep you in mind, next time!” Rhomon agreed cheerfully, to which the captain laughed and stuck out a hand to shake. Rhomon took it firmly, shook thrice, then let go. “For now- this is where we part ways, good captain. I wish you and your crew good fortune.”

“And I’ll wish the same for you, goodman! You and your monk friend!” The captain laughed, and waved him off as he departed, hefting his bags and walking down along the docks. The bags were one of the many enchanted trinkets he carried about as daily wear, each one laid with spells of durability and increased capacity.

The very best work that he could manage gave each large travelbag about one fifth additional internal capacity. Carrying two like he was gave him enough room to fit all his thaumaturgical tools, some traveling supplies, and not too much more. 

His other hand was occupied with his staff, a sturdy walking stick with thin steel bands and a hooded lantern built into the top, providing space for a torch or similar flame to be set within. A little fire currently burned in the lantern-staff, merrily crackling in absence of any oil or tender. 

“The City of the Steel Lotus looks to be as I had heard.” A male voice remarked by his side with mild disinterest. A man with his head shaved entirely bald wearing hempen robes, an undyed linen belt, and wooden sandals. A wide brimmed straw hat shadowed his head, hiding most of his eyes and nose, leaving only thin lips and a strong chin to peek out upon casual inspection. 

“Mhn- a great honeyed trap for Dragonblooded expecting to have their every whims attended to, isn’t it?” Rhomon nodded his head in understanding, to which the bald man glanced his direction then briefly inclined his head. 

Immaculate Brahm. A monk of the Immaculate Order, the state religion of the Realm. Stringent adherents to its dogma and well versed in the art of breaking people’s bones. It was a very, very inconvenient escort to have, if he was going to be running around doing things for the greater good that the Immaculate Order wouldn’t like. The only reason Rhomon hadn’t refused the man’s company was that his mother was the one to call upon him, and refusing Mnemon just wasn’t something that was done.

It was good luck that this particular immaculate seemed to be a mortal man, rather than a Dragonblooded. Otherwise Rhomon would need to work very hard to get away from him and subvert his attentions. 

“Have you come to enjoy the pleasures this place offers on your sabbatical?” The monk asked with a raised brow, and judgement carefully removed from his voice. 

“Hm?” He glanced over before shaking his head. “Oh no- nothing in this city interests me much. This is just the first stop to gather supplies, then we’ll be moving on.” He waggled his walking stick back and forth slightly, boots stepping off the wooden docks and hitting stone roads. “We may stay for a night to rest, perhaps.”

“Nothing in this city?” Brahm tilted his head to the side. “No interest in its abundant indulgences?” There was a searching note in his voice, the man bluntly attempting to get a better assessment of him.

“I can certainly appreciate good food, fine wines, and beautiful women- but it’s not what my sabbatical is dedicated to, no.” Rhomon shook his head. “Instead, we’ll be heading inland about thirty miles from here, to the City of Dead Flowers, and engaging in some good old fashioned ghost banishment and treasure retrieval.”

“...I confess, I am not familiar with that city.” The monk turned his head forwards again. “I ask that you clarify your aim, if you would.”

“The City of Dead Flowers was the old, pre-usurpation capital of An-Teng. It was demolished and its canals filled with salted earth long ago, and its entire royal family put to the sword by the crusading dragonblooded, and so on.” Rhomon explained succinctly, glancing around to the minglers in the street and the vendors peddling their foodstuffs. He walked over to one, reaching into his beltpouch and pulling out a jade chip. 

The well-mustached man behind the vendor cart smiled, polite and professional, and quickly worked to fill a pair of folded flatbread discs with smoked and seasoned meat. One whole jade chip was probably overpaying for this by a massive amount, but this was a tourist trap kinda place, so that was expected.

As they were currently speaking in High Realm, the formal high-class tongue of the Realm, it was entirely possible that the food vendor had no idea what they were saying.

“After the battle, a new set of leaders was put in place for this country under the condition they pay homage to the Dragonblooded of that era- a covenant that was renewed when the Scarlet Empress marched her legions over and asked if they would serve her.” Rhomon placed the chip on the little table in front of the man and received a pair of the streetfoods, awkwardly holding them with one hand and holding his walking stick under his elbow. 

“...So you intend to venture into this place and retrieve some treasure within?” Brahm asked.

“Precisely- do you want one?” Rhomon asked, holding up the purchased snack. The monk politely raised his hand and shook his head.

“My vows- I am forbidden from eating red meat or fowl.” Brahm declined. “I will carry one of your bags, if you wish.”

“Ah, thank you.” Rhomon nodded, handing off one of the large bags, the other slung over his shoulder, and finally having enough hands to hold both his walking stick and his new snacks. “When the old royal family was slain, their treasures were left to lay in their old halls, and are now protected by ancient ghosts. The most important of these treasures is the regalia of their ancient queen, which remains in that place to this day.”

He took a large bite of his street food. Sure enough, it was delicious. He made a few small noises of appreciation as he munched, quickly chewing and swallowing.

“And your ambition is to reclaim this regalia?” Brahm asked, watching him eat the street food with a vaguely concerned note in his voice. 

“Mhm-” He held up a single finger, a silent request that the monk be patient. Chew, chew, swallow. He nodded and replied with an empty mouth. “I’m sure that the current rulers, the three princes, will be very happy to see their ancestral regalia returned to them. With any hope, they will permit me a selection of good retainers and supplies for the next legs of my sabbatical.”

He wiggled his staff again. “We’ll stay in An-Teng for some time after- I’d like to visit the Dwelling of Serpents who Walk like Men, the bottom of Thousand Dragons Lake, and the Pinnacle of Mercy as well. Once I’ve done all those things, we’ll set out for The Lap.”

“There’s also matters related to an old manse hidden deep within the Forest of Compassion, and a bow and arrows that could be found within, but I don’t anticipate we’ll find it.” He shook his head and took another large bite of his streetfood. 

“Quite the ambitious travel log, Mr. Rhomon.” 

“I am a mortal, Mr. Brahm. I cannot afford to be modest in my aims, lest I accomplish very little good for the world.”

“A little good is all mortal men are required to do for the world, Mr. Rhomon. Through respect for the hierarchy of all things, and consistent effort in their own spheres, their souls will travel the road to enlightened reincarnation.” The monk shook his head with a reassuring smile. 

“That is indeed Immaculate doctrine.” Rhomon nodded as they walked. “It’s a good one, overall. So long as everyone does what they’re supposed to do, things will be good. Unfortunately there are a great many individuals who are not doing what they’re supposed to do, and good men are going to have to work quite a bit harder to put things right.”

“I see… I was underestimating you, Mr. Rhomon. That is a very noble mindset to have.” The monk nodded shortly. “But- a mortal man has his limits. Even the righteous Exalted have their limits, which is why the Immaculate Dragons teach us to work together in harmony.”

Rhomon considered that for a few moments, then inclined his head shallowly and stared at the monk through the corner of his eyes. “Tell me, Mr. Brahm. What would you do, if you knew the future?”

“I would interrogate the veracity of my source.” The monk tilted his head back with a slightly unimpressed note coming into his voice. “Astrology is hardly perfect in its predictions.”

“Let’s say as a hypothetical- you happen to know the future and you personally believe the source to be accurate. What would you do?”

“...I suppose I would prepare myself for the hardships to come, and anticipate the good patiently.” The monk answered in a calm, measured manner.

“Hardships are going to be plentiful in Creation for a very long time, and good in short supply.” Rhomon answered plainly, turning ahead again and taking another bite of his food, finishing off the first of the flatbread and meat combinations. 

“And your source for this prediction?” The monk asked dryly.

“When joining the Heptagram, students are first made to swear binding oaths against revealing any of its secrets to outsiders. The oaths are backed with magics from the First Age, and unbreakable to any normal student.” Rhomon shook his head. “The Scarlet Empress herself could break this spell, perhaps, but vanishingly few others.”

“Mhm. I had heard of something like that. I didn’t think much of it at the time.” The monk nodded. “Very well, I shall not ask further questions on this, and make matters difficult for you.”

“Thamk yor.” Rhomon replied through a mouthful of bread and meat. Chew, chew, swallow. “This is incredibly tasty.” He commented, nodding in appreciation. “I should eat street food more often.”

“What preparations did you have in mind for venturing into this city?” The monk asked with a tilted head. 

“Ideally, we’d recruit a few strong men and a pair of mules to carry everything we want to bring out.” He wiggled his staff, looking up and around briefly with a frown on his face. He had no idea where he was going. He waved at a passing local briefly, walking up to the surprised looking man and asking briefly in the languages he knew. “High Realm? Low Realm? Old Realm?”

The man, wide eyed, looked back and forth for a moment. “Ah… Little Low Realm. Little bit.” He bowed his head apologetically.

“Directions to guide?” Rhomon asked

“Ah… At docks- Stand with Dragon. With Dragon.” The man bowed his head and pointed down the street, back the way they came from. Rhomon followed the pointed finger all the way down, blinking once.

“...Oh.” He replied lamely. “Well I feel a bit foolish now.” He muttered, scratching the side of his head with his staff and looking down. “Thank you.” He nodded gratefully to the local, who smiled awkwardly and nodded, rapidly walking away. 

“...Back the way we came then?” Brahm asked dryly. 

“You’re very sassy for a monk, did you know that?”

“My apologies, Mr. Rhomon, If I came across that way.”

“Other than those men and mules, some more trail rations is all we really need.” He shook his hand as they walked back towards the docks and the alleged local guides. “I’ve already prepared the warding talismans and prayer-strips on the way over.”

“...Warding talismans and prayer strips?”

“For all the ghosts, naturally. The City of Dead Flowers is a shadowland.”

—

“Now, a refresher is warranted before we cross the border.” Rhomon declared to the small group, two days later. The small group being the monk Brahm, a local guide, a strong youthful man, and a single donkey. All of them save Brahm looked rather nervous at the city that stretched into the distance behind them along a long-dry riverbed. “The City of Dead Flowers is a shadowland- does everyone know what that means?”

This time he was speaking in Low Realm, as it was the language that the guide and strong young man knew, both of whom were natives of An-Teng. Both of them had dark hair, golden skin, and dark eyes- but the guide was somewhat older and thinner and the other was more youthful and stockier.

“A place where mass death and pain has weakened the borders between the world and the underworld.” Brahm answered dutifully, scowling at the various altars that circled the city outskirts, forming intangible walls of faith to hold back the darkness within. Rhomon guessed that he was scowling because those altars were clearly to a local deity and not one of the Immaculate Dragons, on account of the depiction of a pale ghoulish woman eating ghosts.

“Correct! Which means that the shadowland will be filled with tangible ghosts, which will need to be accounted for.” Rhomon nodded, reaching into his bags and pulling out a number of necklaces. “The ghosts will be able to travel out of the shadowland and into creation during the day, but not during the night. Which is why all of us will be wearing one of these, and only myself and Brahm here will actually be crossing the borders.”

“Thank the Golden Lord.” The young man sighed quietly, taking the offered necklace. The guide glanced at him with a reproachful expression, rapidly and subtly gesturing towards the unhappy monk. The young man coughed. “So what do these necklaces do, mister?”

“They are warding talismans against ghosts. They should protect you against most common spirits- further, take this bag of salt and make a circle of it, and wait for us within the bounds of that circle. Ghosts cannot cross lines of salt without exceptional circumstances getting involved.” He pulled out a one pound bag of material from his bags and handed it over, making the guide blink and heft it slightly.

“Now, you’ll still have to worry about random bandits, but so long as you don’t start a fire or have anything valuable to steal, you should be fine.” Rhomon waved off. “Worst comes to worst- offer them a deal to ambush us when we return and take the valuables for themselves, and we’ll deal with it.”

“I- uh- are you sure?” The guide asked with grave apprehension in his voice. 

“I’m sure. Now Brahm-” He pulled out an empty bag from his full bag, closed the full bag, and handed it over to the young man. “As this is a shadowland full of ghosts, you should take a handful of salt and hold it while you strike them. The salted canals inside will also help us- if we get attacked by something we can’t deal with, we’ll be retreating past one of those.”

“Sensible.” The monk replied, taking a bag of salt under one arm and securing the talisman around his neck. 

“We’ll only be able to enter and leave the shadowland during the day. If we try to exit the shadowland after the sun has set, we’ll exit out into the underworld instead and will need to survive another twelve hours or so before we can escape.” Rhomon secured the last talisman around his own neck, making it sit next to his other necklace- a good luck charm of his best work. “That gives us until sunset to enter, fight our way to the royal palace, find the regalia, and then escape. If it looks like we’re not going to have enough time to leave after finding them- we’ll just leave immediately and try again the next day.”

“You have given this much thought, Mr. Rhomon.” Left unspoken but clear in his tone were the words ‘this is still a bad idea’.

“The strength of a sorcerer is how long he has to prepare.” Rhomon replied, securing four vials of fluid to his belt for easy reach, and handing two over to the monk. “An antivenom and anti-infection agent. Drink the first one if you suspect poison, and pour the second one onto the wound if you get jabbed by something.”

“Ah, thank you.”

“Now stand back, I need to perform great and powerful magics.” Rhomon waved his hand a little, then slammed his staff into the earth so that it would stand without his hand on it. He took a deep breath, slowly brought his hands together, and reached out to the world around him.

All things were essence. A sorcerer learns to gather and shape the essence around him. He slowly waved his hands, bringing them around in a wide circular motion and brushing against his diaphragm.

Essence gathered, compressed, and settled onto his skin. A rich bronze hue grew, emphasizing his existing tan into a flawless, almost shiny shade. As the color grew, so did his weight, and his boots began to sink into the softer earth as the spell progressed. 

Invulnerable Skin of Bronze. The spell he was most familiar with. The effect of the spell was rather simple.

For the next twenty four hours, he was a hundred pounds heavier, and his skin was harder than steel. He opened his eye, exhaling as the spell completed and taking up his staff and empty bag again. 

Before them, the ruins of an ancient city loomed, the sky above a dim shade even during the bright morning, and not a single healthy shrub in sight.

“Let’s go.”

This wasn’t technically tomb-robbery, but it was close enough that he made a pre-emptive mental apology. Archaeology was like that sometimes.