RE:Shuffle

“No. This can’t be.” Lazarra sussured, grave and unbelieving. “I won’t accept it.”

Baethen didn’t quite understand why the priestess was so stricken. He attempted to put both hands on her shoulders but she recoiled from his touch as if leper.

That did not help his confusion.

Seemingly to come awake from herself, Lazarra shook her head one last time and then spoke, slowly and carefully. “Lad, did you enter Babylon in your dreams?”

“No?”

“No gnostic-glyphs or the like? No hearkening from the Deific-Tarot? Did you choose a set-of-three to form an arcanum?”

Baethen shook his head in the negative.

“Steel yourself, Baethen Locke, and read the words within your soul.”

With that ominous warning and curious as to what card that Lazarra had given him, Baethen called upon Babylon, Sixteenth-of-the-Major-Arcana, the Broken-God.

({Archetype}: [Prime]) Selected; {Player}’s ({Hand}: [2//3]) {Drawn} as follows:

[Strike-While-the-Iron-is-Hot] ★ ({Three-Card-Set} - {Unlinked})

[Empty-Slot]

[Empty-Slot]

That was strange. He was sure that he’d slotted the card into his hand—there should only be one empty slot from [Celestial-Dew] having been discarded entirely. He felt a burden within his being; which was counter-intuitive seeing as he had played a three-star card and thrown it into the ether. He was supposed to be light as a feather, metaphysically-speaking.

It was only in re-reading his Hand that he realised that his [Strike-While-the-Iron-is-Hot] now had three cards instead of two.

[Strike-While-the-Iron-is-Hot] ★ ({Three-Card-Set} - {Unlinked})

[Slag-and-Scale] ★★ ({Single-Card} - {Linked} [Lesser-Wormhide] ★★)

[Flawed-Steelheart] ★ ({Single-Card} - {Linked} [Lesser-Wormhide] ★★)

[Run-Like-the-Wind] ★ ({Single-Card} - {Unlinked})

Card Given: [Flawed-Steelheart] ★

Draw: [Of-a-Kind]

Drawback: [Irrevocable-Binding]

Arcana: [Iron], [Consumption], [One-of-Hearts]

Number: [XV//XXI]

Suit: [Face]

Portfolio Φ: [‘Iron must be bent, broken, and burnt to become steel’. This {Card} grants the {Player} {Major-Dominion} over the {Arcana-of-the-Crucible}, {Metamorphosing} their {Heart} into a {Living-Font-of-Iron} and {Imbuing} their {Blood} with the {Arcana-of-Amalgam}. {Player} must {Consume} {Metallic-Fonts} to {Sustain} the {Living-Font-of-Iron}. This {Card} is {Always-In-Play} and cannot be {Discarded} from the {Player}’s {Hand} or {Archive}; should this {Card}, through {Exemption}, be {Discarded}, the {Player} incurs {Brand-of-Death}.]

Face cards were always in play by their very nature, the opposite of aces, sleights, and, especially, back-pockets—they weren’t necessarily binding-cards so long as they did not have [Flawed-Steelheart]’s drawback.

Bound cards of low star-parity were known as deadcards for their inability to be removed from one’s hand or were otherwise unplayable for some stringent bring-into-play clause or somesuch—the latter usually fell under the back-pocket suite of Baethen’s Lynchpin. Though outlawed in Woeden, there were kingdoms that employed binding cards as spiritual shackles for bondsmen, be they a criminal with a blood-price or a debtor whose wages did not meet the arbitrary fine print, hence the name—bondsmen.

Woeden had Blacklisted such cards for they were considered progeny of the Devil. The arcana of chains and the arcana of subjugation fell under purview of strife, suffering, and terror; and thus, the tools of warlocks and fell sorcerers. The Twenty-One Churches were always on the lookout for lords employing such cards for their propensity of engendering rancour, resentment, and despair—emotions that, once accumulated, could provoke Gehennic-conjunctions or manifest wholesale heart-dæmons of all kinds. Soul-devourers could spell the doom of an entire city and were walking calamities of terror-made-flesh.

Baethen shivered at the thought, lost in the many stories of spiritual leeches eating away at a society from the inside-out until all that remained were empty husks, domiciles devoid of humanity and strangely, eerily silent in the wake of the conjunction.

With a shake of his head, Baethen reoriented to the card at hand.

[Flawed-Steelheart] was known as a metamorphosis or flesh-warping card as well. These were oft banned for their propensity for changing one’s nature, usually for the worst. Where bound cards could spawn devils from the spirit, flesh cards did so by moulding a person into the shape thereof. There were cards that could make men into beasts and now, as Baethen read the meld’s portfolio, he understood how a card could make a man into a monster.

Card-Meld Linked: [Lesser-Wormhide] ★★

Draw: [Twofold]

Drawback: [The-Beast-Within]

Arcana: [The-Worm], [Strength], [Night]

Number: [XV//I]

Suit: [Triumph]

Portfolio Φ: [‘Men since time immemorial have assumed the mantle of the Beast. They realise the depths of their folly only once they can’t take off skin that has become theirs’. This {Meld} grants the {Player} {Major-Dominion} over the {Arcana-of-Worms}, allowing them to {Metamorphose} their {Skin} into {Wormscale} which {Resists} the bite of {Blades} and the licks of {Fire}. Once this {Meld} is {Brought-Into-Play}, the {Player} incurs a {Brand-of-Wrath} which {Empowers} {Fiery-Arcana} but {Enrages} them until the next {Hand} is {Redrawn}.]

That much power within a two-star card was unheard of.

Unheard of, that is, from any card not on the Blacklist.

This was one step removed from Scaduphomet Herself—one step from Gehenna and eternal damnation from the cycle of souls as one of the Forsworn. Unlike most other cards, this one’s script was ashen; not quite the black of something marred with soot but no longer the purest white of Babylon either. Somewhere in between the Seven-Heavens and the Twelve-Hels.

Baethen met Lazarra’s waiting gaze with his own wide-open and terror-stricken eyes.

Slowly, he explained the meld and how he had no recollection of forming such a thing or choosing an arcanum at all. Perhaps it had been chosen for him as with his [Lynchpin].

“It has to be that.” He told himself, assuring his conscience that this wasn’t him, wasn’t his choice.

Seeing as Lazarra already knew of a dire secret that could spell Baethen’s demise, he spilt another one. He told her of his carte-blanche ceremony and the strange circumstances that surrounded it. How the card had only one arcana, how it had just three words in its portfolio, how he hadn’t had time to choose—it was happening again, his agency taken away by forces beyond his ken.

If she hadn’t already gone pale, Lazarra would’ve gone on to the other side of the pale as she bore witness to Baethen’s confession.

With the utter calm that only the deadmen-walking could assume, she brought out a divination tablet of black-alabaster from her robes and handed it to Baethen without a word.

Knowing what to do, he barely touched the surface before Lazarra swiped the tablet from his hands and scoured over it with her maddened eyes. She was somehow more terrified than Baethen which only made him more terrified.

Honestly, Baethen began to wish he’d just died in the belly of that beast. At least then, his soul would re-enter the cycle to be reborn. Now, Nagalfaram the Merchant-of-Death would do worse than reject his death-obol. Instead of simply having to brave the waters of Hypnagogia that lay around the shores of Babylon and lose all his memories like most common folk, Baethen would be consigned to the depths where the Amygdala slept; leviathans one and all, they waited for lost souls to steal away into the Inverted-Spire-of-Gehenna, to the Damnation-of-the-Twelve-Hels.

Scaduphomet had been cast out for having slain Babylon, having taken with Her the Broken-God’s shadow so that She might make for Herself a refuge of terror where the darkest fears dwelt—hence, Inverted-Spire, for Gehenna was the black reflection of Heaven, of the Broken-House-of-the-Gods.

Baethen hadn’t felt this much panic from being inside the stomach of a Gods-be-damned monster. It was too much. It was far too much. The walls were closing in, his world was ending, the Devil had Her roots in his soul—

“Breathe, lad. Breathe. Slowly. In and out. In and out. Out and in.”

Lazarra put the tablet down by the mender’s table and led Baethen through the fear, each inhale like that of a drowning man having broken the surface of the waters and each exhale like a dead man’s last.

Once Baethen had recovered his wits enough that he wasn’t a prisoner to the darkness of his own mind, Lazarra handed him the ladle and bade him to drink.

“I won’t lie, lad. This isn’t good but it isn’t a done deal or anything of the sort. Not nearly enough for Gehenna to claim you, fully. Be careful with what cards you accept in your soul from now on.”

Lazarra unbound and unsealed Baethen’s now-hale-and-hearty limbs as he told her of his inheritance and the circumstances that surrounded it. Of course, the worm-touched arm was left hidden beneath the linen wraps. Best that he not announce his allegiance to the Devil like a leper’s spots.

“When you return to the City, lad, you better apologise to your parents. That card saved your rump. Without it, you’d’ve been a cripple for the rest of your life.”

He’d need some way to hide the metaphysical taint of [The-Worm] arcana before even thinking of crossing Reordran’s threshold. The inquisitors would sniff him out rather quick and though he’d survive the stake, Baethen had yet to devise a way to outlast the gallows.

A few more chidings later and Baethen was off. How strange it was, to be whole after being so thoroughly broken. He wanted to limp or to stoop, stepping about gingerly but no pain came. His flesh might have mended but he could feel that his spirit would not so easily forget.

There was a dread-seed planted within his very being and if Baethen wasn’t careful, it would bloom into an accursed husk-tree. He’d become one of the Forsworn, a hollow shell puppeted to strike terror and strife upon mankind.

It wasn’t long after, ten or so hugs later from his bedfellows and comrades, that Miro returned from the wilds, questing after Baethen as soon as he’d heard the news of his awakening.

Baethen had slept for three days, near-half of a seven-day notch. Ahedmir ‘Whisper-Blade’ Jazeeram had been by his bedside for the first day but had been quickly shooed away by Lazarra—down a hunter already, they’d starve without several someones bringing a steady supply of game.

Still a little out of his wits about him, Baethen hadn’t caught glimpse of Miro before the nine-turn-older man wrapped those tree-trunk biceps around him. Baethen, not one to surrender so easily, did much the same, straining at his muscles as if Miro would disappear if he let go.

“Y’know if you don’t loosen that grip of yours I might end up burning a hole in my breeches.”

Miro laughed and sobbed at the same time as he did as he was bid, not quite crying but not quite full of breath either. It was that disbelieving sort of feeling, one of bewilderment.

“Yer cock’s far too easily awoken.”

“Older men are my weakness.”

Miro slapped the nape of Baethen’s neck, friendly-like and promising.

“I’m glad yer alright, lad—was the one that found ye. Thought ye were dead then, every single bone broken or near to it. Gods.”

Miro wasn’t one for sentimentality but Baethen could taste the horror in the ensuing silence.

“Did’ya find the huronth?”

“The what?”

“Let me start from the beginning…”

A good ten licks or so later, of both the clock and the tongue, and Baethen had described what monster had waylaid him. He didn’t know it himself but Miro did, his grey complexion all pale about him.

“That was a sky-gorger, Baethe. Yer lucky to be alive. They’re all, at least, four stars. They take down high-star prey and use them to lure in others before devouring them whole. By them words of yer’s, I reckon it was a juvenile, not an adult or, Gods’-forbid an elder. Thems are a type of worm, above wyverns and drakes and the like. The devil-blood in them is near-pure enough to be considered a dragon proper rather than a draconid.”

Apparently, there was no trace of hide nor hair of either the huronth or the sky-gorger. The wormling had absconded with the behemoth-spawn’s carcass after that, having left Baethen behind as it considered him not worth it as prey—too difficult for too little reward.

“Wait a lick, lad, did ya check yer archive yet?”

Baethen shook his head, confused as to what Miro was getting at.

“Call it an old man’s intuition, but call upon Babylon and see what the Gods ordain.”

He didn’t like it when Miro called himself old, only when he did it for him.

“Oh stop that, you’ve nary a wrinkle on that smackable face o’ yours. Or rump for that matter…”

Hearken, the [Dealer-of-Fate] stirs awake at the {Player}’s {Victory} over an {Implacable-Foe}! As {Eldest}, [Fata-Morgana] takes {Rearhand} as {Dealer}.

Scouring [Akashic-Archive] for compatible {Cards} […]

Compatible {Cards} found; shuffling probabilities set to base one over mean […]

Shuffle complete, {Card: [Gullet-of-the-Sky-Gorger] ★★★} {Drawn} and {Dealt} to {Player}; {Card} put into {Player}’s {Archive} .

{Player}’s ({Archive}: [3//6]) {Read} as:

[Leaden-Stomach] ★ ({Single-Card} - {Unlinked})

[Bloodfly-Husk] ★ ({Single-Card} - {Unlinked})

[Gullet-of-the-Sky-Gorger] ★★★ ({Single-Card} - {Unlinked})

[Empty-Slot]

[Empty-Slot]

[Empty-Slot]

Card Won: [Gullet-of-the-Sky-Gorger] ★★★

Draw: [Seven-of-a-Kind]

Drawback: [Brought-Low]

Arcana: [Air], [The-Sky], [Consumption]

Number: [XVII//XXI]

Suit: [Triumph]

Portfolio Φ: [‘Leviathans swim not only beneath the lowest tides but also atop the highest skies’. This {Card} grants the {Player} {Utter-Dominion} over the {Arcana-of-the-Sky}, allowing them to {Metamorphose} {Once} per {Hand} their {Throat} into that of a {Blue-Worm}; {Metamorphosis} allows {Player} to {Manifest} a {Font-of-Akasha} within their {Mouth} through {Breath-of-Lung}. For this {Card} to be {Brought-Into-Play}, the {Player} must not be in {Touch} with the {Earth} below; should the {Player} {Touch} the {Earth} below whilst this {Card} is in {Play}, the {Player}’s {Metamorphosis} and {Dominion} over the {Arcana-of-the-Sky} is {Dispelled} until the next {Hand} is {Redrawn}.]

Baethen was heavily conflicted about winning the card. An achievement such as this warranted a death-obol of remembrance that would allow Baethen to keep not just a single memory into his next life but a whole chain of them; the rest would shed from him during the swim within the waters of Hypnagogia. Accolades were difficult to come by given their very nature—an achievement is something achieved with great difficulty by few people.

The draw of a card was its rarity to be drawn from the {Akashic-Archive}, the Library-of-the-Gods within Babylon. This was where the memories of the unworthy dead were stored, the gnostic-glyphs—Babylon-script—within mortal souls repurposed so that new cards could be drawn from humanity’s collective conscience or some such theological nonsense.

If you couldn’t tell, Baethe had never quite been a fan of metaphysics.

Softly, Baethen told Miro his card’s portfolio, each word seeming more quiet than the last and twice as grave.

“Sybil’s alabaster arse-cheeks, that’s a card if I’ve ever heard one.”

As far as arcana went, akasha had no equal within the auspices of the Tower—a prime manifestation of Babylon, akasha embodied the aspect of manifestation itself; akash means ‘to be’ in Godspeak, the first word spoken in all of Creation that bore the sky from the formless All-Nothing. Whenever a player manifested a font by playing a card, they drew upon this aspect albeit indirectly.

The crux of the card lay in that it was related to the worm arcana—not directly, mind, but he imagined that the Twenty-One Churches wouldn’t see it that way. And Baethen already walked the knife’s edge with the [Lesser-Wormhide] meld. It didn’t matter if the Lady-o-Luck favoured him with such a card by surviving a sky-gorger; if it risked consigning his very soul to Gehenna, then it couldn’t be worth it, right?

Power always came at a price and absolute power demanded an absolute sacrifice.

Was a life of luxury and prestige worth an afterlife of torment?

Miro could not answer that for Baethen and neither could Baethen ask. He could trust the man with the intimacy of his body but not that of his immortal soul.

Baethen would soon learn that he couldn’t trust himself in that last regard either.