Principia Infecta

Weeping Flowers of the Blue Philtre Tomes of Amaxathroth > Ink, Blood and Parchment

Oh sage of intellect - you who has correctly mispronounced the third protrusion of the Tongued Ward placed upon these iron-bound parchments - I, Amaxathroth the Wanderer, greet you. I might hope that the earnest endeavors of those lesser scholars who preceeded you will not be mourned; in truth, I value this most ancient ward of the first spire of Magak for its disregard of wear and years - not for its lust for the bones and marrow of the unlettered. By means of recompense, let me tell you of the source of the Blue Philtre - but do not thank me, for it will bring a doom upon many.

Blue Philtre is rare upon rare about the Meddin Sea; it comes from the lands of jade and tallow, of opulant citadels and sultry, olive-skinned women, far beyond the wastes where only demons and the outcast wander. No trader brings thin vials of Blue Philtre from afar - it travels by the trickery and rot of this age of men; from thief to murderer; from scheming witch to demon-blooded outcast; from roguish catamite to a King who rules over filth. None would trade Blue Philtre, yet many die to unwittingly bring it ten steps closer to its true owner - a fattened sensate who will sigh for the year of endless pleasure it will bring.

Of all men to touch upon Blue Philtre, only the black-clad Amaram of the rock deserts retain any semblance of strength, for they have sorcerously forsaken pleasure in service to an unnamed God. Vials the robed Amaram women gracefully pluck from bloodied bodies of the wicked are a ransom and surity against petty avarice of the Ten Oasis Kings, and jealousies of priests of Jerlasum upon the high mount. So are the Amaram temples, carved from the most remote wind-shaped rock, sustained and preserved.

Upon the forsaken road of the Vision Desert, marked by great pylons of a past aeon of man, I learned the secret of the Blue Philtre from a dying Amaram and his five loyal women; they told the tale in turn, a word apiece until his final breath. Whereupon, each woman took a different path into the wilderness, and his body was left for the sand vermin that clean bones whilst no man watches.

Beyond the demon wastes, where the gorg and hrale-eaters prowl, are steamy jungles of yet stranger beasts, thorn-vined and deadly. Beyond the jungles lie jade mines where starved slaves suffer under whip and knife to better please the concubines of plump overseers. Narrow-eyed Lords and their advisors stroke the jade carvings of crippled artisans, who work from birth to death caged amidst offal at the base of tall, many-layered citadels. The mists flow across terraced hills, and men die by the order of other men - so it is in every cruel land of this age, and so will it always be, until the void claims this world.

Beyond all these lands are the Hamal Yan mountains that touch the sky, and fierce, hag-toothed yellow men who wear only the furred skins of demons they have slain. Beyond the mountains lie lesser peaks, wild hills, fields of weeping flowers and Khaarnul, the fallen city of the Athgands - it is there you must go to find the source of the Blue Philtre.

The weeping flowers came from the stars in an age of sorcery, brought by fools who fled the coming of the Undergods. The vales of Athgand bloom with a strange glimmering in summer sun or winter storm, and each blue-tinted petal sheds silvery tears that poison the earth.

Athgand kings were once mighty, building both thick-walled towers and great hoards of precious stones. From rugged lands often conquered but never ruled, swarthy tribes turned back both armies and mighty sorcerors. Beauteous Athgandi women were in some ages warriors, in others a portion of the hoard, chained atop beds of rubies and emeralds in latticework prisons and fought over by bearded men bearing sharp, curved swords. Each Athgandi is descended from the blood of kings, and knows himself a prince in his heart - but in this age they are filth and vermin, fit only to be cursed and spat upon by demon hunters of the Hamal Yan mountains. In this, a wise traveler might see workings of baleful sorcery and weeping flowers.

Once-great Khaarnul is broken and ruined amidst the flower fields, mere huts of time-worn stone pulled from mosaic roadways built within the pillared halls of a past age - but men come yet in this age upon the Ten Mountain Roads, just as stinging night-moths to the flame. They are drawn by the Blue Philtre, for here the Ten Magasi gathered and made the great sorcery that draws pleasure from petals that have wept all they can. Long and hard did the Magasi labor in an age when the men of Khaarnul stood strong, but a traveler may buy the knowledge for rotted crusts of bread - for there is no food in Khaarnul.

Three kinds of men are found under the gaze of the fallen statue of the last Athgandi king. The first come in strength to steal or trade rot with the starving; a few leave while yet strong, with vials of Blue Philtre, destined for death at the hands of the next owner. The second are ensnared by the pleasure that flows from the petal, and is borne by the air from the great fields; these caged men grow thinner and more bestial with each passing moon. No forbidden act is taboo in Khaarnul, and all have debased themselves for but one drop of the sorcery of weeping flowers. The third are scarce men at all - the petal has consumed them. They slump against the pillars of Khaarnul, and are herded to pull blooms from the fields by those who yet seek their fate.

A well-prepared man may risk the fields of musk and silver tears, he might resist the call of pleasure for a time to gather petals, but the vile dromch that hide amidst the flowers will feast upon his flesh. The wall-paintings of Khaarnul once showed the hideous aspect of the dromch, but have long been pulled down by men driven mad by pleasure; no man might say what consumes the languid petal-gatherers. All that is seen are the rippling of tall flowers and sprays of blood; all that is to be heard are short screams and the crunch of bone. For this reason, those who live for the Blue Philter tie rope to the mindless they herd into the fields; lives are worth naught in comparison to sacks of silver-blue petals. Loud is the cursing when the stench of dromch venom and worthless blood spoils but one bloom!

Seek out Khaarnul, oh sage of great intellect - but scribe all that you feel you must in a lifetime before you set forth. Many are the men who have envisioned such a journey, and few indeed are those who survive the very first step.

[ Posted by Reason on November 9, 2006 ]