The following story was written as an introduction to mine and Austin Carrigan’s army for Blues City Brawl (The one I’ve been working on for the Kings of Hobby Challenge). It was meant as a one-off, intended to give some background as to how these forces came to be. A few people enjoyed it at the event, so I thought I’d go ahead and share it here. If you like it, please leave a comment or let me know if you’d like to see me do more of this type of thing. I have another idea percolating in the ole noggin. Enjoy!
In the flickering candlelight of a monk’s cell, Brother Rob sat scrawling away at a sheet of vellum. He wore the garb of his order: a robe of simple make and dyed grey. Though young, Brother Rob was adept at copying the ancient tomes into newer, less dilapidated vellum. He took great pride in his work, and although he spent many hours each day toiling at his labors, it brought him great joy knowing that his legacy would live on for many hundreds of years in the form of small decorations along the edges of the pages of these holy books.
While transcribing a particularly interesting text on the various monasteries spread across Basilea, the young monk found something that stood out to him. Being the bookworm that he was, he was already intimately familiar with maps of Basilea. Despite not having been all over the country, his knowledge of each monastery was such that one might believe he had been to every one. That’s why when he read the name of Tristram Abbey, his brow furrowed.
“Why have I not heard of Tristram Abbey?” the monk wondered to himself, “I’ve studied every map in the abbey, and read nearly every history book in our library, though I have never seen this name.” Excited, the monk hastily gathered the book and ran down the corridor to seek the consult of the abbess.
The sound of his simple, leather sandals slapping against cobblestones echoed through the bare stone halls as he ran towards Abbess Andrastae’s quarters. Out of breath and still feeling the gittery sensation of discovering something he thought had been lost, he rapped on the heavy, oak door. He waited impatiently for several seconds until the door creaked open. Andrastae stood before him. She was an abbess of very high station in the Hegemony. Her wizened face, framed by a perfectly set habit, still radiated a matronly warmth. Though clearly the eldest of any at this monastery, she stood tall and proud with a great bit of dignity. She smiled, the skin about her eyes creasing ever so slightly.
“Brother Rob,” she said with a hint of surprise in her voice, “What brings you to my quarters? Have you finished your latest transcription?”
“No, Mother Superior,” Rob stammered, “it’s about–well–I believe I’ve discovered something strange in the text that I am currently working on. May I..”
“Oh of course, my child, please come in.” Andrastae bade him into her quarters. Though still as plain as his cell, the mother superior’s had a warmth about it, besides the cozy fire in her small hearth. She pulled a chair for the monk and sat him down at a small table and brought a pair of candles over so they could better see the old tome.
“Well, Mother Superior,” he started, “You see, I’ve studied every map in the abbey and read nearly every book of history on Basilea, but I’ve never heard of such a place as–” He pointed at the page where written in flowing script were the words, “Tristram Abbey.”
At once, Andrastae’s warm expression left her face. She went pale, and without speaking lifted the book from the table, looking at the page carefully. Her eyes flitted back and forth across the page as she paced the small chamber.
“How much of this have you read?” the abbess asked.
“I read the full entry on Tristram: it’s location, last known Mother Superior: Abbess Andariel…” he trailed off, “Mother Superior, what’s wrong?”
Andrastae at once shut the leather-bound volume and tossed it into the burning hearth. The monk shouted in anguish, before the abbess hushed him.
“You are never to speak of that place. It is a den of evil.”
“But Mother Superior, what is Tristram? Why is it so maligned by you?”
“I need your word, Brother Rob. Swear on the Shining Ones that you will never speak of that place. Keep its secrets out of your tomes. Don’t let your curiosity or your rebellious nature overtake you”
“But…”
“Swear it!”
“I swear, Mother Superior, on the Shining Ones that I will never speak of that place again.”
Upon hearing this, Andrastae’s face lightened a bit. Some of her matronly warmth returned. A Cathedral bell chimed in the distance. “Now, Brother, ‘tis nearly time for supper. Go now.”
Weeks went by and Brother Rob, despite his promise to Andrastae, couldn’t get the thought of the forgotten abbey from his mind. What secrets did it hold? Why was it abandoned. Deciding to ignore better judgement, he resolved to seek out Tristram Abbey. He packed provisions and maps in secret and left at night to avoid detection.
Following what he remembered from the now pile of ash at the bottom of Mother Superior’s hearth, he headed out into the wild parts of the Hegemony. After weeks of travel, guided by his research and the stars, Brother Rob found himself approaching a neat cobblestone path leading into a forest of dark pines and spruces. He followed it until he could see the white stone steeples of a massive complex. “Tristram Abbey,” he whispered to himself.
As he approached the abbey, two abbesses walked toward him. “Greetings, brother. We see you wear the cloth, what brings you to our abbey?”
Stunned, he expected the abbey to be abandoned. Why else would Mother Superior forbid speaking of it? “Greetings, sisters,” Rob replied, “I am the primary transcriptionist for my abbey in the Golden Horn, and read of this place. I simply wished to see it for myself.”
“Come in then. We are sure that you are weary from your long journey.”
Still confused that the abbey still seemed fully populated and in good repair, despite its isolation, Rob followed the abbesses into the monastery. It seemed much the same as his abbey: plain stone walls, periodic sconces of utilitarian design, tapestries depicting the Shining Ones and the great Abyss War, and abbots and abbesses busily working at their normal labors.
It seemed they had been walking for a great while when Rob noticed the stonework seemed to be in more disrepair the further they walked. The iron braziers were no longer lit, and rusted and dilapidated.
“Sisters,” Rob started politely, “Where are we headed?”
“To meet our Mother Superior,” they replied in eerie unison, “Andariel. She loves to meet travelers.”
Perhaps this is just what monastic life in isolation is like. He had spent his years surrounded by one of the largest cities in Mantica. Perhaps he was simply not used to rural communities. He pressed on.
As the trio walked through the labyrinthine halls, Rob noticed a faint musk in the air. Pungent and moist. The stones seemed to be dripping water constantly, and he felt cold. It was completely dark, save for two slim tapers carried by the abbesses. Rob would catch glimpses of carvings and tapestries of an eldritch nature. Depictions of abyssals and other nightmares. He began to sweat. “Surely a trick of the light,” he thought, “I am very weary from travel and the light must be playing tricks on me.”
Suddenly, the hall opened into a large open space. At once, a thousand candles flickered to life. After his eyes adjusted to the sudden flash of light, he could see the ruined remnants of a grand cathedral. Rotten wooden pews were scattered about the room. Shards of stained glass littered the floor alongside great fallen pillars and cracked cobblestones. His mouth agape, he felt a rat scamper across his feet as he fell backwards in disbelief. The abbess guides turned back to look upon the monk. A sneer curled on both of their visages.
He did not strike the floor, however, he was caught by something. He turned around and saw a humongous man. At least he believed it to be a man. His muscles and sinews seemed to be stretching his skin so tightly, that they were close to bursting. The creature wore a mask of leather, not unlike that of an executioner, his eyes burning red beneath the cowl. Draped across his robeless form was a massive chain with two great hooks at the end. In the candlelight, Rob couldn’t tell if it was rusted or caked in something else…
Backing away horrified, he noticed the abbesses that had guided him to the cathedral. In a single fluid motion, they removed their habits and disrobed. Beneath their holy cloth, the abbesses wore black leather boots and masks not unlike those of the hulking beast behind him. The abbesses were nude from the neck down, though their skin was pale and lifeless.
Brother Rob froze. He tried screaming, but no voice came from his lips. The hulking beast behind him grabbed him with an unholy strength and wrapped him tightly in the bulky chain, dragging the monk to the pulpit.
Fear now fully taking over the monk was panicking. Sweat poured down his face. As they approached the altar, the monk noticed the figure of a woman, though massive. She stood wearing the same white robes as did the abbesses, though standing nearly as tall as a house. At her side, stood a hunched, decrepit figure guiding a gigantic maggot on a leash. “Archfiend Andariel,” the hunched thing croaked, “may I take him for my legions?”
“No, Cain,” the great woman boomed, disrobing, “I believe I have use for his…talents.” As her white robe and habit fell to the floor, her twisted form was revealed. Her body was covered in lacerations and all manner of barbs, chains, and pins pierced her pale flesh. As she walked toward the monk, a second set of arms unfolded from behind her back. The flickering candles danced across her shiny, black horns as a long, black tendril reached from behind her, lifting the small abbott.
Rob, regaining his voice, stammered, “What is it you want with me, demon!” He could see the twisted, decaying forms of other humans wandering in the gloom. He smelled rotting flesh. The giant lifted him to meet her eye.
“What can you tell me about the Golden Horn?”
