#There are also many other possibilities for the song in the context of Malevolent though

[arthur-lesters-glabella]

The more I let the thought cook the more desperately I crave a Malevolent animatic to Eat Your Young

[itsbenedict]

Two-Faced Jewel: Session 3

A half-elf conwoman (and the moth tasked with keeping her out of trouble) travel the Jewel in search of, uh, whatever a fashionable accessory is pointing them at. [Campaign log]

Saelhen and Looseleaf, having acquired a band of allies to keep them safe on their entirely bogus quest to fulfill "Lady Noeru's" succession rite on behalf of the college, set out on Suika Highway towards the jungles of Thunderbrush. On the road, they face two extremely deadly combat encounters.

After checking in on the writhing hellpit they opened in Yoshimimoto Plaza (it's under control, they threw some nets over it), the party heads out onto the highway. Customs by the overland roads couldn't give less of a damn what they're bringing out of the city, so there's no scrutiny and they're well on their way.

A good thirty miles or so into the grassland, and the party has to make a perception check. Looseleaf is the one to nail it- her antennae pick up on a suspicious rustling in the tall grass by the side of the road. And even those with slightly worse rolls notice...

There's a green dragon circling lazily in the sky above them. This is bad, because dragons are... well, chromatic dragons like this green one are malevolent and extremely deadly giant monsters, is the main reason, but the other reason is that dragons are... cursed, is what the common understanding is.

To speak with a dragon is to be condemned to some sort of great misfortune, brought about by your own hand. You know the Simurgh from Worm? Listen to its song for too long, and you become sort of a sleeper agent of self-destructive carnage? It's like a diet version of that. Whatever path your conversation with the dragon puts you on, it's invariably bad for you, somehow. The metallic dragons, who're ostensibly "good", will still ruin your life in some way just by talking to you, even if your immolation does some good for the world on the way out. Nobody wants to talk to a dragon.

Luckily, they don't have to- this one seems content to circle way up in the sky, not saying a word to them. Instead, they just get attacked by a direwolf and several horrible monsters.

The whole party botches their Arcana rolls to determine what the heck these things are.

Benedict I. (GM): None of you have any idea what these things are. They're small, roughly humanoid, and... they look sort of like they're made of mud and tangled grass. They're wielding knives, some multiple knives to a hand, and they look vaguely ethereal, not quite real- possibly animated by something. The dire wolf is, of course, charging you- and the other monsters are following suit. They screech and hiss with obvious hostile intent. Roll initiative!

The party dismounts from their giraffes, since they're not trained for combat and the party isn't trained in mounted combat.

Saelhen du Fishercrown: "Ruffians," she mutters, with the approximate tone a non-elf might use to say "fuckers."

The party's two new melee combatants take up position in the front, while Vayen... stands behind the giraffes, doing nothing. The direwolf lunges, closes in, and... misses entirely, as Oyobi dodges gracefully out of the way. Razzafrazzin' elves...

Then it's Orluthe's turn, and he...

Benedict I. (GM): Orluthe looks around nervously- not at the wolves, but at the party. "Don't... tell anyone about this," he says, and pulls something from his pack. It's a warball helmet. Custom-forged. Looseleaf: Uh. Okay? Is what Looseleaf thinks, in response to this. Benedict I. (GM): I... don't think either of you two would have the context to know what this means, but Oyobi's jaw is on the floor. Looseleaf:Didn't realize that playing warball was apparently something to be ashamed of! Saelhen du Fishercrown: "Your weird secret is safe with me," whispers Saelhen, in the bushes. Benedict I. (GM): Orluthe dons the helmet, and as he does so, he seems to grow larger. There's a shift in his stance, and you hear a growl from beneath the helmet. He howls- and Zero, you're in control of his combat actions here. So what's he do?

Hm.

Orluthe(?) goes ahead and attacks with his halberd, and- being a paladin- opts to SMITE. He impales the thing and burns its wound with divine magic for more than half its health- and then Oyobi's turn comes up and she slices the thing open with her longsword. The party's choice of allies specialized in melee fight seems to be paying off!

Of course, now the other monsters get to take their turn, being unfortunately still alive. One charges at Orluthe and whiffs, but the other... uses some sort of crude slingshot, and hurls some sort of crackling ball of energy at Looseleaf.

Benedict I. (GM): Being hit by this thing suddenly makes you seize up. You remember... Looseleaf, tell me about a time you wanted some physical object very very badly, but didn't get it. Something it hurt you to not have. Looseleaf: Once, when Looseleaf was young, there was a traveling caravan that brought into town a collection of what looked like books for sale. Looseleaf being herself, she of course wanted to buy some of them- but nobody in town would let her go near the vendor! Something about 'inappropriate for young childrens' eyes' and 'mature content warnings'. To this day she's still more than a bit resentful of that, and also she has no idea that the traveling caravan vendor was actually selling basically porn mags. Her memories are interspliced with imaginary counterfactual ideas of what might have been in those books, which are almost certainly not at all what the books actually contained. Benedict I. (GM):You remember that incident, vividly. All that emotional pain, compressed into a single instant of agonizing desire. It leaves you momentarily short of breath, and you take three psychic damage.

Looseleaf attempts to retaliate, but scores, um... a critical failure.

Luckily, that's the last thing these monsters have go right for them- the next few turns are a barrage of successful attacks and AoOs from the party's heavy hitters. Orluthe cuts one in half, provoking a disturbingly human-sounding ghostly wail as it dies. Saelhen throws a dagger from her hiding place in the grass, and...

Benedict I. (GM): Nice! The second dagger takes off this thing's head. It hits the ground with a squelch, and there's another human cry of agony. farnham: "HAH," goes what must be a very large and triumphant and majestic bird in the brush.

As soon as the combat is over, Orluthe returns to normal, and the dragon circling overhead... just flies away, apparently losing interest. Wonder what that's about.

Looseleaf attempts to Soul Read the corpses to learn more about why they were attacked, but unfortunately... the wolf corpse doesn't remember anything unusual that stood out to the spirits of its decaying body parts, and the spirits of the mud and grass left behind by the other monsters only recall being uprooted from the ground and forced to attack people- the spirits animating them seem to be gone.

They are able to figure out what those things were, though- they were Greed Echoes- some sort of evil spirits that echo strong emotions they encountered, and form homunculus bodies with which to act on those emotions. Greed Echoes like these were probably leftover from highwaymen and bandits who've attacked travelers on this road before- playing out their ugliest intentions.

It's weird, though- these are the grasslands, not the mountains. Monsters like these tend to come up out from below mountains, so it's not too common to see so many of them this far from where they spawn.

-

Moving on, the party reaches a point where the wild grasses suddenly stop, replaced by a uniform tall green grass- corn, apparently. Cornfields mean farmers, and farmers mean civilization.

Saelhen du Fishercrown: "How delightfully rustic." Benedict I. (GM): It's not much longer before you see buildings down the road- it looks like the center of a farming village. There's a sign, as you enter the town- "WELCOME TO CORN". Saelhen du Fishercrown: "...how rustic."

They roll into town and notice not much of interest- it's a pretty standard farming village, with a Temple of Diamode (the hypertraditionalist family-values goddess Orluthe claims to be a cleric of), an inn (apparently very busy, with a lot of people going between it and the temple), and a branch of the Deathseekers' Guild (the adventurers' guild, which is very up-front about how dangerous it is to fight monsters as a career).

Orluthe looks a little nervous around the temple, so they head first to the inn. They enter, and they're immediately met with a riot of colors. The inn is packed with halflings in fancy outfits. Not like, rich people fancy, but down-home farmer fancy. Lots of flower patterns and the like. There's a band playing music in the back, and a bunch of halflings dancing while others chug whiskey and hoot and holler. The human innkeeper is struggling to keep up with all the mugs that need washing.

Discounts are in the cards, though- the bearded guy with the whiskey steins is happy to see out-of-towners joining the celebrations- a very proud father, he is, as his son Merrick was just married. This is the wedding reception, and in his mind, the more the merrier.

He puts forth something of a challenge: his son claims that city folk can't dance, see, and he, a dissenting opinion, wants to demonstrate otherwise. So, if the party can defeat his son and daughter-in-law in a dance-off... he'll pay for the night's stay!

How does a dance-fight work? Exactly the same as a normal combat, except the hit points are made up and the actual stats don't matter. You substitute your performance modifier on your rolls! Maybe you have a battleaxe, so you roll to attack with your battleaxe, and what that really means is you're doing a wild swinging dance move that really wows the crowd.

Enemies, meanwhile, know different "dance styles", inspired by CR-appropriate monsters I picked out of the monster manual to non-literally fight in a nonlethal dance battle. The happy couple are a pair of Duergar warriors, squaring off against the party's two squishies.

(3:06)

The combat is- well, there's not much to it, just a bunch of back-and-forth attack rolls, ultimately decided by clever use of flanking and attacks of opportunity. Looseleaf tries her best, but her Performance modifier isn't nearly as high as Saelhen's, as she's not the daughter of Kanzentokai's Dance Emperor. She does do a cool thing where she leaps into the air and does a wing-assisted pirouette thing, but all that accomplishes is taking her out of the fight for a bit- and concentrating fire on Saelhen.

Their rolls are pretty bad for a while, but things turn around once they outmaneuver their foes and pull off some attacks of opportunity.

Benedict I. (GM): So, you two- describe your combo dance move that totally floors these two. With musical accompaniment, s'il vous plait Looseleaf: okay you know how in ballet there's a move that's, like, one dancer picks up the other dancer and hoists them in the air turns out that move is a lot more effective if the lifting dancer literally has wings. Saelhen du Fishercrown: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QRoWiTcO7dk Saelhen gladly lifts Looseleaf, and for good measure gives her a little acrobatic toss and flips her in midair, catching her on the drop. Looseleaf: just to add insult to injury, looseleaf uses a whole conjunction of her fancy-schmancy special effects spells- minor illusion to create the effect of golden butterflies flapping around themselves, druidcraft alongside her wingbeat to scatter a bunch of her seeds and have them bloom into flower instantly Saelhen du Fishercrown: She's breathing heavily but... actually enjoying herself, despite the obvious competitive streak motivating all this. Looseleaf: it's a lot of visual spectacle on top of the move itself, and that's what puts the icing on the cake. Benedict I. (GM): There's raucous applause from the audience, and Aridrey is beginning to flag. She laughs, and- it's all she can do to keep up with Merrick, who's himself starting to have trouble keeping up.

(Meaning, while she's still his dance partner, she's "out", and no longer a battlefield presence.) Merrick, wifeless, tries to counterattack, and...

...makes the mistake of trying to copy their moves.

Benedict I. (GM): He hoists Aridrey above his head, and tries to spin her around the same way, and... they've been dancing all day, they're tired, and this is their first real attempt to improvise. "Wh- Merrick, wait-" Saelhen du Fishercrown: MERRICK I'M SO SORRY Benedict I. (GM): And she collapses on top of him, to laughter from everyone, particularly his dad. Saelhen du Fishercrown: (saelhen stifles giggles extremely well because a noble lady would never)

The battle seems more or less over, but Merrick is determined to see this through- breaking into a furious solo jig that puts the floor in grave danger of scuffing. None of his efforts land attacks, though- ultimately, Saelhen finishes the fight by delivering the ultimate humiliation- successfully copying his moves, a storm of fancy footwork. When the dust clears, the jig... is up.

Benedict I. (GM): His father laughs. "What'd I tell you, son? Don't get a big head, aye?" He slaps five gold pieces down on the counter. "Get 'em some rooms, Jonnem!" Merrick... he's been thoroughly humiliated, and doesn't take Saelhen's hand at first. Then Aridrey comes over and pulls him to his feet. "C'mon, honey. Grace, right?" Merrick vibrates for a moment, then lets out a sigh. He goes to shake your hand. "...Ffffffffine dancing," he says. Looseleaf: "That was a lot of fun!" Looseleaf is vibrating like crazy. Just hopping all over the place, like she hasn't quite gotten the dance bug out of her system yet.

Saelhen du Fishercrown: ("For what it's worth, man," she whispers, letting her gracious victor's smile collapse into a slightly shit-eating kind of grin. "That could've gone either way.") Benedict I. (GM): Meanwhile, Oyobi and Orluthe... I was going to say the outcome of their match would match yours, and I guess I'll stick to that, but Orluthe does not know how to dance, and Oyobi is drunk as hell. Orluthe may not know how to dance, but he knows how to hold on for dear life, and keep Oyobi vaguely upright as she flails around wildly. It's probably for the best that Saelhen's attention was elsewhere, because she would not have been able to keep a straight face at Oyobi's scandalous dance moves. Whatever's going on over there, the crowd is loving it- so all together, that's another 400 XP divided four ways.

With that victory, the party gets to stay the night for free. The next morning, they report the Greed Echo encounter and the dragon to the local Deathseekers' Guild (getting 10gp for their trouble, and turning a profit on this pit stop.) And with that... it's back on the road to Thunderbrush, next time!

[sobujmollahblog]

Astral projection (or astral travel) is a term used in esotericism to describe an intentional out-of-body experience (OBE)[1][2] that assumes the existence of a soul or consciousness called an "astral body" that is separate from the physical body and capable of travelling outside it throughout the universe.[3][4][5]

The idea of astral travel is ancient and occurs in multiple cultures. The modern terminology of 'astral projection' was coined and promoted by 19th century Theosophists.[3] It is sometimes reported in association with dreams, and forms of meditation.[6] Some individuals have reported perceptions similar to descriptions of astral projection that were induced through various hallucinogenic and hypnotic means (including self-hypnosis). There is no scientific evidence that there is a consciousness or soul which is separate from normal neural activity or that one can consciously leave the body and make observations,[7] and astral projection has been characterized as a pseudoscience.

Western

According to classical, medieval and renaissance Hermeticism, Neoplatonism, and later Theosophist and Rosicrucian thought the astral body is an intermediate body of light linking the rational soul to the physical body while the astral plane is an intermediate world of light between Heaven and Earth, composed of the spheres of the planets and stars. These astral spheres were held to be populated by angels, demons and spirits.[15][16]

The subtle bodies, and their associated planes of existence, form an essential part of the esoteric systems that deal with astral phenomena. In the neo-platonism of Plotinus, for example, the individual is a microcosm ("small world") of the universe (the macrocosm or "great world"). "The rational soul...is akin to the great Soul of the World" while "the material universe, like the body, is made as a faded image of the Intelligible". Each succeeding plane of manifestation is causal to the next, a world-view known as emanationism; "from the One proceeds Intellect, from Intellect Soul, and from Soul - in its lower phase, or that of Nature - the material universe".[17]

Often these bodies and their planes of existence are depicted as a series of concentric circles or nested spheres, with a separate body traversing each realm.[18] The idea of the astral figured prominently in the work of the nineteenth-century French occultist Eliphas Levi, whence it was adopted and developed further by Theosophy, and used afterwards by other esoteric movements.

BiblicalEdit

Carrington, Muldoon, Peterson, and Williams claim that the subtle body is attached to the physical body by means of a psychic silver cord.[19][20] The final chapter of the Book of Ecclesiastes is often cited in this respect: "Before the silver cord be loosed, or the golden bowl be broken, or the pitcher be shattered at the fountain, or the wheel be broken at the cistern."[21] Scherman, however, contends that the context points to this being merely a metaphor, comparing the body to a machine, with the silver cord referring to the spine.[22]

Paul's Second Epistle to the Corinthians is more generally agreed to refer to the astral planes:[23] "I know a man in Christ who fourteen years ago was caught up to the third heaven. Whether it was in the body or out of the body I do not know—God knows."[24] This statement gave rise to the Visio Pauli, a tract that offers a vision of heaven and hell, a forerunner of visions attributed to Adomnan and Tnugdalus as well as of Dante's Divine Comdy

Ancient Egyptian

The ba hovering above the body. This image is based on an original found in The Book of the Dead.

Similar concepts of soul travel appear in various other religious traditions. For example, ancient Egyptian teachings present the soul (ba) as having the ability to hover outside the physical body via the ka, or subtle body.

China

Taoist alchemical practice involves creation of an energy body by breathing meditations, drawing energy into a 'pearl' that is then "circulated".[26] "Xiangzi ... with a drum as his pillow fell fast asleep, snoring and motionless. His primordial spirit, however, went straight into the banquet room and said, "My lords, here I am again." When Tuizhi walked with the officials to take a look, there really was a Taoist sleeping on the ground and snoring like thunder. Yet inside, in the side room, there was another Taoist beating a fisher drum and singing Taoist songs. The officials all said, "Although there are two different people, their faces and clothes are exactly alike. Clearly he is a divine immortal who can divide his body and appear in several places at once. ..." At that moment, the Taoist in the side room came walking out, and the Taoist sleeping on the ground woke up. The two merged into one.

Hinduism

Similar ideas such as the Liṅga Śarīra are found in ancient Hindu scriptures such as, the YogaVashishta-Maharamayana of Valmiki.[25] Modern Indians who have vouched for astral projection include Paramahansa Yogananda who witnessed Swami Pranabananda doing a miracle through a possible astral projection.[28]

The Indian spiritual teacher Meher Baba described one's use of astral projection:

In the advancing stages leading to the beginning of the path, the aspirant becomes spiritually prepared for being entrusted with free use of the forces of the inner world of the astral bodies. He may then undertake astral journeys in his astral body, leaving the physical body in sleep or wakefulness. The astral journeys that are taken unconsciously are much less important than those undertaken with full consciousness and as a result of deliberate volition. This implies conscious use of the astral body. Conscious separation of the astral body from the outer vehicle of the gross body has its own value in making the soul feel its distinction from the gross body and in arriving at fuller control of the gross body. One can, at will, put on and take off the external gross body as if it were a cloak, and use the astral body for experiencing the inner world of the astral and for undertaking journeys through it, if and when necessary....The ability to undertake astral journeys therefore involves considerable expansion of one’s scope for experience. It brings opportunities for promoting one’s own spiritual advancement, which begins with the involution of consciousness. Astral projection is one of the Siddhis considered achievable by yoga practitioners through self-disciplined practice. In the epic The Mahabharata, Drona leaves his physical body to see if his son is alive.

Japan

The 'ikiryō' as illustrated by Toriyama Sekien.

In Japanese mythology, an ikiryō (生霊) (also read shōryō, seirei, or ikisudama) is a manifestation of the soul of a living person separately from their body.[30] Traditionally, if someone holds a sufficient grudge against another person, it is believed that a part or the whole of their soul can temporarily leave their body and appear before the target of their hate in order to curse or otherwise harm them, similar to an evil eye. Souls are also believed to leave a living body when the body is extremely sick or comatose; such ikiryō are not malevolent.

Inuit Nunangat

In some Inuit groups, people with special capabilities are said to travel to (mythological) remote places, and report their experiences and things important to their fellows or the entire community; how to stop bad luck in hunting, cure a sick person etc.,[33][34] things unavailable to people with normal capabilities.

Amazon

The yaskomo of the Waiwai is believed to be able to perform a "soul flight" that can serve several functions such as healing, flying to the sky to consult cosmological beings (the moon or the brother of the moon) to get a name for a new-born baby, flying to the cave of peccaries' mountains to ask the father of peccaries for abundance of game or flying deep down in a river to get the help of other beings.

The expression "astral projection" came to be used in two different ways. For the Golden Dawn[37] and some Theosophists[38] it retained the classical and medieval philosophers' meaning of journeying to other worlds, heavens, hells, the astrological spheres and other imaginal[39] landscapes, but outside these circles the term was increasingly applied to non-physical travel around the physical world.[40]

Though this usage continues to be widespread, the term, "etheric travel", used by some later Theosophists, offers a useful distinction. Some experients say they visit different times and/or places:[41] "etheric", then, is used to represent the sense of being "out of the body" in the physical world, whereas "astral" may connote some alteration in time-perception. Robert Monroe describes the former type of projection as "Locale I" or the "Here-Now", involving people and places that actually exist:[42] Robert Bruce calls it the "Real Time Zone" (RTZ) and describes it as the non-physical dimension-level closest to the physical.[43] This etheric body is usually, though not always, invisible but is often perceived by the experient as connected to the physical body during separation by a "silver cord". Some link "falling" dreams with projection.[44]

According to Max Heindel, the etheric "double" serves as a medium between the astral and physical realms. In his system the ether, also called prana, is the "vital force" that empowers the physical forms to change. From his descriptions it can be inferred that, to him, when one views the physical during an out-of-body experience, one is not technically "in" the astral realm at all.[45]

Other experients may describe a domain that has no parallel to any known physical setting. Environments may be populated or unpopulated, artificial, natural or abstract, and the experience may be beatific, horrific or neutral. A common Theosophical belief is that one may access a compendium of mystical knowledge called the Akashic records. In many accounts the experiencer correlates the astral world with the world of dreams. Some even report seeing other dreamers enacting dream scenarios unaware of their wider environment.[46]

The astral environment may also be divided into levels or sub-planes by theorists, but there are many different views in various traditions concerning the overall structure of the astral planes: they may include heavens and hells and other after-death spheres, transcendent environments, or other less-easily characterized states.

Astral projection according to Carrington and Muldoon, 1929

Emanuel Swedenborg was one of the first practitioners to write extensively about the out-of-body experience, in his Spiritual Diary (1747–65). French philosopher and novelist Honoré de Balzac's fictional work "Louis Lambert" suggests he may have had some astral or out-of-body experiences.[47]

There are many twentieth-century publications on astral projection,[48] although only a few authors remain widely cited. These include Robert Monroe,[49] Oliver Fox,[50] Sylvan Muldoon, and Hereward Carrington,[51] and Yram.[52]

Robert Monroe's accounts of journeys to other realms (1971–1994) popularized the term "OBE" and were translated into a large number of languages. Though his books themselves only placed secondary importance on descriptions of method, Monroe also founded an institute dedicated to research, exploration and non-profit dissemination of auditory technology for assisting others in achieving projection and related altered states of consciousness.

Robert Bruce,[53] William Buhlman,[54] Marilynn Hughes,[55] and Albert Taylor[56] have discussed their theories and findings on the syndicated show Coast to Coast AM several times. Michael Crichton gives lengthy and detailed explanations and experience of astral projection in his non-fiction book Travels.

In her book, My Religion, Helen Keller tells of her beliefs in Swedenborgianism and how she once "traveled" to Athens:

"I have been far away all this time, and I haven't left the room...It was clear to me that it was because I was a spirit that I had so vividly 'seen' and felt a place a thousand miles away. Space was nothing to spirit!"[57]

The soul's ability to leave the body at will or while sleeping and visit the various planes of heaven is also known as "soul travel". The practice is taught in Surat Shabd Yoga, where the experience is achieved mostly by meditation techniques and mantra repetition. All Sant Mat Gurus widely spoke about this kind of out of body experience, such as Kirpal Singh.[58]

Eckankar describes Soul Travel broadly as movement of the true, spiritual self (Soul) closer to the heart of God. While the contemplative may perceive the experience as travel, Soul itself is said not to move but to "come into an agreement with fixed states and conditions that already exist in some world of time and space".[59] American Harold Klemp, the current Spiritual Leader of Eckankar[60] practices and teaches Soul Travel, as did his predecessors,[61] through contemplative techniques known as the Spiritual Exercises of ECK (Divine Spirit).[62] Edgar Cayce from the USA, was popularly known as the “Sleeping Prophet”. He had been practicing astral travel at Washington DC for many years.

In occult traditions, practices range from inducing trance states to the mental construction of a second body, called the Body of Light in Aleister Crowley's writings, through visualization and controlled breathing, followed by the transfer of consciousness to the secondary body by a mental act of will.[

There is no known scientific evidence that astral projection as an objective phenomenon exists.[7][8][9]

There are cases of patients having experiences suggestive of astral projection from brain stimulation treatments and hallucinogenic drugs, such as ketamine, phencyclidine, and DMT.[9]

Robert Todd Carroll writes that the main evidence to support claims of astral travel is anecdotal and comes "in the form of testimonials of those who claim to have experienced being out of their bodies when they may have been out of their minds."[64] Subjects in parapsychological experiments have attempted to project their astral bodies to distant rooms and see what was happening. However, such experiments haven't produced clear results.[65]

According to Bob Bruce of the Queensland Skeptics Association, astral projection is "just imagining", or "a dream state". Bruce writes that the existence of an astral plane is contrary to the limits of science. "We know how many possibilities there are for dimensions and we know what the dimensions do. None of it correlates with things like astral projection." Bruce attributes astral experiences such as "meetings" alleged by practitioners to confirmation bias and coincidences.[66]

Psychologist Donovan Rawcliffe has written that astral projection can be explained by delusion, hallucination and vivid dreams.[67]

Arthur W. Wiggins, writing in Quantum Leaps in the Wrong Direction: Where Real Science Ends...and Pseudoscience Begins, said that purported evidence of the ability to astral travel great distances and give descriptions of places visited is predominantly anecdotal. In 1978, Ingo Swann provided a test of his alleged ability to astral travel to Jupiter and observe details of the planet. Actual findings and information were later compared to Swann's claimed observations; according to an evaluation by James Randi, Swann's accuracy was "unconvincing and unimpressive" with an overall score of 37 percent. Wiggins considers astral travel an illusion, and looks to neuroanatomy, human belief, imagination and prior knowledge to provide prosaic explanations for those claiming to experience it.

[verosmoonshine-blog]

Forsaken by War

(Takes place during Siege of Lordaeron) Recap/Context

It was few and far between that Veros traveled to the Undercity, or Tirisfal Glades for that matter. In his initial introduction to the Horde, he chatted with the folks that lived in the area, getting acquainted with his rather strange new allies. While most of his kin both feared and despised the living arrangements of the undead, Veros couldn’t help but find himself oddly fond of the place.

But with Alliance forces swarming Brill, Veros had no time for sentiment. If he wanted his hands on that damn artifact, he had to find Sullivan fast.

The Arcanist’s form shimmers, the walls of the Vault warping until his surroundings became that of the Mage Quarters within the Undercity. The musty air and smell assaults his senses as he manifests there, and he quickly takes a glance at the address given to him. Sally Anne Sullivan, Flesh Tailor and self-proclaimed archivist. He recalls he and Fifi’s discussion about the woman, her doubts and skepticism over Sullivan. A few days prior, Veros had sent Fifi out to acquire intel on Sullivan’s lifestyle and connections, and from what she brought back to him, it seemed likely Sullivan had something related to his visions. She has ties in the Plaguelands, and regularly trades with travelers, taking in as many trinkets as she possibly could and storing them away. It only encouraged him further to seek her out, in spite of the unfavorable conditions. He only wished she just allowed him to schedule the meeting earlier.

He walks through the streets, watching as Horde forces scattered about prepare themselves for the oncoming battle, readying their armor and weapons with heavy hearts. They don’t look up at him as he hurries through the city, and in spite of how many people had gathered into the Undercity today, the streets were silent, filled only with hushed whispers. He arrives at the address, looking over the battered home that belonged to the Forsaken. It’s just as gritty as the rest of the city, and a sign swings and creaks over the door with the symbol of a needle and thread. Just outside the door is the gangly undead herself, bright and cheery, awaiting his arrival.

“Mister Veros!” She says with a wide, cracked grin, expanding her thin arms in a broad gesture, silver clouded eyes squinting in joy. “It is good to see you, come in come in!”

Veros forces a smile, bowing in return. He opens his mouth to speak, but finds the tiny undead shambling towards him, grasping at his arms and tugging him inside eagerly.

Now, Fifi’s intel also warned Sullivan looked more of a hoarder than an archivist. Veros thought the comment only to be a part of Fifi’s general discontent for people, but stepping inside to see a plethora of goods and miscellaneous junk occupying every single shelf, desk, drawer and table in sight, save for what appeared to be her work space that bore incense sticks courtesy of the living, he understands now that Fifi was not exaggerating. At least the incense was a nice gesture.

“I'm glad you were able to come over!” The short, lanky undead woman says, a genuine smile creaking over her rotting features. “Oh, it's good to have visitors that aren't just here to get a limb sewn back on. Not that I mind that line of work, don’t get me wrong, it's just tiring sometimes!”

Veros smiles and nods, stepping over the tipped over sacks of statues and figurines. Sally disappears in the corridor of the room, shortly followed by a loud clatter of metal and stone. Veros jumps at the sound, watching Sally stumble back out into view, latching bony fingers tightly around Veros’ wrist and tugging him along to follow.

“Woah, okay, ma’am, I can walk around on my own--”

“Three knights you said? I have heard the story countless times!” Sally chats, letting go of his wrist and feebly pushing him to guide him to stand in the center of the room. The room is illuminated only by candles, and statues of mangled faces, coffins propped against the wall, effigies and relics all littered the room, the walls bearing books, tomes and grimoires piled horrendously high. “It’s a story moms tell their kids to scare them into behaving. Still remember the voices mum did for that tale. Little ol’ legends, ha! Can you imagine me as anything but old, let alone a little girl? Well it’s true!”

Veros watches her climb her mountain of collectables, a hand cupped over his face and pinching his cheeks in stress. “Well, in fairness, you can't be that old, really…”

Sally shoves aside a metallic coffin off the wall, the massive container teetering over with the harsh movement. She whips around, firing a tendril of shadow to lasso around the coffin and attempt to catch and hoist it up, only for it to crash on to the floor with a hollow bang. Sally shrieks at the sound in alarm, her voice then twisting into a hearty laugh. “Deary me, my coffin! Ack! Well I suppose you’re right, I mean, you’re like, a hundred-thousand years old or so.”

Veros snorts, stooping down beside the Forsaken, to help her hoist the coffin upright. “Good Stars no -- I mean, I hope I don’t look that old. It’s just ten-thousand.”

“Bah, that's still too big a number to stomach,” She says, waving a dismissive hand after the coffin was back into place. She dusts her hands off, whirling back to the wall she had begun to uncover. “Anywho! Three knights sought glory and adventure. They’d go across any land and venture. But when they finally found the truth, their minds something something uncouth!”

She reveals a massive safe hidden behind all of her belongings, a sight which the nightborne takes in with curiosity in his features. She enters the combination, struggling to open the rusty containment before finally turning and revealing the beautiful, intact statues and relics left inside.

“Something something they ended their lives, their blades with their blood sent to their wives,” Sally continues, her voice echoing as she digs through her tiny vault of relics. “Uhm… something something… uh, I think, absconded their holiness, thus came the three wives, built on… um… Oh, there it is!”

Gently, the Forsaken backs up, a massive object -- compared to the tiny woman, at least -- covered in a black cloth weighs down in her bony arms, and she struggles a moment to carry the stone in her arms. Veros makes haste to assist her, only for her to shoo him and slam what sounded like metal onto the desk. She hums happily, swiping open a drawer and throwing on a thick pair of goggles.

“Soooooome time ago I came across a cute fella with big cheeks on a caravan lugging something off from an excavation sight. At least, I think he was cute...” Sally explains, flipping the adjustments to her goggles to allow her to see. “I chatted him up, we sat down, exchanged some stories, I stared into the beautiful blurry orbs of his eyes, our hands brushed, the conversation turns just me and him, oh, I could have felt alive again!”

Veros clears his throat, snapping the undead out of her haze. She giggles helplessly, wiggling a finger. “Don’t distract me Mister Veros, you made me get off topic! Anyways, back to the point -- they found some weird effigies in the ruins of some place. They intended to sell most of the stuff they found onto the black market, but the kind young men handling the dealings let me purchase a few!” She giggles, turning her gaze to Veros with a suddenly serious expression. “But this one, oh, this one matches the story!”

With a dramatic flair, she rips the cloth off of the statue, unveiling the effigy to the Archivist. She grins wide, ignoring the distant rumble emanating from the surface to focus instead on the near glittery surface of the statue. Before them rests a figurine of three elven women carved into the metallic stone, striking poses of magical casting. The woman in the center held her hands outwards, a broad gesture that Veros recognized as a priest’s movement. The other two women beside her hold their hands thrust in the air, an ancient arcane casting technique, Veros assumed.

“Good Stars…” Veros murmurs, reaching a hand out to touch the statue. It looked to him as though it were made of cobalt, and when he turns the statue to face him better, the dark stone seems to glimmer in the light. Carved into the center woman’s abdomen, trailing down to the stone-carved robes are intricate runes, some Veros recognized to be ley-sigils, others, he was wholly unfamiliar with. As he turns the effigy to face him, his runic tattoos shift to a pitch black hue, only glowing in pulse with his heartbeat. “What --”

“Ohoho, and here I thought you were just a magi!” Sally exclaims, taking his arm and trailing her bony finger over the tattoos on his forearms. Veros snatches his arm away from her, looking down at his darkened runes. “You know, I thought I sensed a bit of Shadow in ya, Mister Veros, but this is a little unexpected!”

“This artifact,” Veros says, gesturing to the effigy. His ears pin back as he hears another rumble from the surface, and he swallows hard. “It is of Void origin, correct?”

“It hosts Shadow and Void qualities if that’s what you’re asking,” Sally says, nodding her head. “But this was definitely sculpted by someone mortal, I mean, come on, look at that detail!” She grips the effigy, pointing at the crevices between the caster’s shoulders and the stone. “Someone got real inspired by that tale.”

Veros turns at the sounds of soldiers rushing past outside, his face paling quick and hands jittery. “Right right, yes -- but I mentioned three knights--”

“Didn’t you hear me mention wives?” Sally clicks her tongue. “The story doesn’t end with the knights’ deaths. Their poor little widows grieved their fall, and put together their magic to become malevolent beings that snatched up anyone outside too late at night!”

Sally looks away, tapping a finger to her prosthetic chin. “Hmm… Well, that’s what moms would say. Either way, these ladies became like, warlocks or something. Used to be a little song or what not passed along by other human towns. The story inspired a lot of folks to make art and music and all that, so this is probably one of them!”

Another rumble sounds off, but this time, the ground shook with it. Veros whirls around, looking to the front door, ignoring the rest of Sally’s ramblings as he heard shouting. This deal was taking too long, he had to get out of here now.

“Err, right right right! Ah, Sullivan, how much do you want for it?”

“-- probably like a bunch of centuries old or something, I don’t know. I used to think they were humans, not elves when I was little, so it could be older--”

“Sullivan!”

Sally snaps up, snatching her hands away from the statue. “Ah! Oh, um, this thing’s worth a lot Mister Veros, you know! I worried about whether you’d be able to afford it--”

The grounds shake again, and Veros slams his hands onto the table. “Price, Sullivan! There’s hardly any time!”

Sally grimaces, yanking the goggles off her head. “Twelve-thousand gold.”

Veros sneers, digging into his satchel for his money. There’s a screech outside, and a loud banging on the front door, causing Veros to fumble with anxiety until he finally tossed the sack of gold onto the table. Sally quirks a brow, peeking open the bag and smiling at the sight of the gold. She holds a hand out to Veros to shake, undisturbed by the rumbling or the banging on the door.

“You’ve made yourself a deal, Mister Veros!”

Veros takes her hand, surprised by the steely grip of her rotting fingers. She releases him, gently trotting over towards the door, patting a small sheep that Veros hadn’t noticed was sleeping in the main room. With some struggle, Veros lifts the artifact, turning it to watch the metallic surface sparkle again. The carved face of the woman in the center keeps his gaze, and he wonders idly what more of the story he was missing. The sound of an orcish soldier at the door snaps his attention back, and he summons his arcane, opening a small rift into the Vault and sends the effigy to float in. Icy, rocky hands that belonged to his trusted elemental, Laekus, gently takes the artifact in hand, hovering away as the rift closes. Veros sighs in relief, turning to leave.

Sally spoke with the deathguard and grunt that stood at her front door, and she points feebly to her belongings as she mutters something in Gutterspeak. The orc flicks his gaze to Veros, and roughly points outside.

“By order of the Warchief and High Overlord, all citizens within the Undercity are to be evacuated. Now!”

Veros pales, nodding in return. “Oh Stars -- Right away, I was just leaving--”

“Mister Veros!” Sally cries, turning to him. “They want to make me leave my home! I can’t leave! Tell them I can’t leave!”

Veros’ hands fly up in surrender, and he glances to the guard and grunt, silently pleading them for help. “Sullivan, if they’re saying we have to evacuate, then we must, I can’t convince them otherwise.”

“But all my stuff!” Sally shouts. “You see all this stuff? Tell them I’m not leaving!”

“Portals to Orgrimmar are just outside,” The deathguard says in a coarse voice. “The Alliance are already here, ma’am. Spies have been spotted within the city. No one’s getting left behind down here.”

“Sullivan, I’m really sorry this is what it’s come to -- it’s this reason why I tried to reschedule our meeting!” Veros says, bowing his head and making his way to the door. “Please, I have to go, I hope all of this can get sorted out for you--”

The grunt lays a hand on Veros’ shoulder, startling him. Veros turns to look up at the orc, cautiously smiling at him.

“Nightborne can cast can’t they?” The orc says plainly. “We can’t stall here, we have our orders. I see those Horde symbols on your hands, so do the right thing. Help this woman evacuate, spread the word if you can. The battle awaits us.”

Veros wilts, watching the two nod and hurry away, leaving Veros alone with the frail woman. Sally squeals, wrapping her arms around his torso and hugging tightly, the little sheep at her feet bleating happily.

“You’re such a good man, Mister Veros!” She exclaims. Veros rubs his face, trembling at each rumble he heard up above. He was going to die here, and it was going to be at the hands of this undead rather than the Alliance.

“Okay, okay let’s figure this out…” He looks up at the disaster of a home, his ears drooping as he tries to figure out how fast he can take everything. Hauling it all through a portal wouldn’t be easy. Teleporting each one individually could drain his mana too quick. The both of them yelp as they hear something crash up above, shaking the both of them. This was a terrible idea, a horrible, terrible idea. He grasps at the lightning bolt jewelry piece that dangled from his necklace, kissing it and squeezing it in his hand. Seilune had gifted it to him, enchanted to allow them to communicate to each other. He ponders if he should page her now, tell her what’s going on, but he fears that if he does, she may try to meet him there. She doesn’t need to worry, he figures. He’s going to get out of here in time to see her again, and maybe they can have a laugh about the whimsical Sally Anne Sullivan.

He feels his heart drop, his chest heavy as he looks over the room. What if he doesn’t? What if he can’t? He shoves the thoughts away, shutting his eyes tight. No, he won’t let it. He’s going to go home and have some wine, he’ll drop by Aubade and shower her in flowers. They’ll stargaze and jest, they’ll stand proudly with the Agents in spite of the gloom of the war. They will, and he will, he tells himself. He wants it, and he’ll make it happen.

His eyes trailover a massive painting hung on the wall, its oils too destroyed to form any sensible picture. An idea strikes his mind. Polymorphing and illusion -- something his old master capitalized on. He grasps Sally by the shoulders in excitement, startling the tiny woman.

“Sullivan I know just the thing to do!” He says, quickly scrambling over to remove the painting from the wall. Sally blinks, whirling around to watch him.

“Uh, Mister Veros--”

The frame and painting begin to glow vividly in the dark, violet washing over it and runes floating around its edges. The painting floats in the center of the room, a rift tearing at the center of the painting before expanding to fill the frame. Veros grins, leaping over to all the artifacts in the room, and begins hauling each one into the frame. Sally twiddles her fingers nervously, watching him move her belongings and float the painting around to swallow up the furniture in her room. After a moment of staring, she starts to join in, scrambling around her house to throw her stuff into it.

“I can’t teleport everything at once, Sullivan, but perhaps I can make your home a little more… transportable,” Veros says, using his magic to help lift the heavier items through the frame. “You’ll need to ask a mage for help to get them out of the painting after all is said and done, though. But I can help you with that.”

“Wh-What do you mean?”

Veros wipes the sweat off his brow, forcing more magic through himself, and splits his visage into three mirror images, each one aiding the effort to haul her stuff in. Idly, he wonders why he stuck around instead of just ditching and rushing back to the Headquarters. He turns to watch the frail woman timidly bring her box of knick knacks and journals into the painting, and his expression wilts. No, he’d feel far too awful just abandoning her.

Another crash hits, and screams are heard outside of her home. He wavers, his spell shutting off, the frame clattering to the ground. The Archivist struggles to catch his breath, and he seals the arcane, watching the painting that had once been a myriad of frayed colors sploshed together take the image of every item stored into the frame, as if all of her belongings placed away were just a painting. Sally’s eyes widen as she steps over to the frame, peering down at how it had all been condensed away behind an extensive illusion.

“Oh wow…” She says in awe, gingerly lifting the frame into her arms. “I mean, it wasn’t everything, b-but--”

“Sullivan we’re out of time, we have to go now!” He says, helping her take a better grip of the painting and begins ushering her out the door. “Let’s go find you a portal and get you out of here, alright? Come on now time is of the essence!”

As they head out of the door, a massive, armored worgen leaps into view his eyes locked onto the little undead with the intention to maim her. Sally screams as the cage of teeth opens wide, but Veros’ instincts had been sharpened by his line of work; before he even had the chance to think over his action, his hands were out, raw arcane lurching out of his hands and crashing into the worgen’s body, sending the soldier crashing into the floor, the light snuffed from his eyes. Sally whimpers, rooted in place by fear, moving only when the Archivist keeps a hand on her back and urges her to keep moving forward. Horde and Alliance soldiers clashed on the streets around them, and Veros throws a hand up to conjure a barrier, blocking the arrow that had come straight for his neck.

“Don’t stop moving Sullivan, do you see the portals?”

“I can’t see anything without my goggles, Mister Veros!”

Veros bites his lip. Right. The damn woman was near blind. He looks around frantically, searching for where the portals were. Up ahead, he sees a tauren woman guiding other Undercity civilians in a line, and Veros pushes Sally up ahead.

“Make haste, come on--”

“I-I can’t run too well this thing is too bulky!” She cries helplessly. Veros grimaces, throwing the painting out of her arms and floating it beside them with arcane. In one swift motion, he scoops her up into his arms and begins to sprint, keeping the both of them shrouded by a force field. He felt himself becoming more and more drained as he kept up his spells, but he pressed on, finally setting Sally down by the evacuees and handing the painting back.

“Contact me again when you’re ready to take your stuff out of that painting!” Veros says, turning around to hold the barrier up to protect the civilians. The Alliance were up ahead, fighting with a fierceness he hadn’t seen since Suramar. Blood paints the streets, dripping into the blighted streams of green to the side. He swallows hard, forcing his fear to take a backseat, but he turns around when he realizes Sally still stood there.

“Sullivan, I-I said--”

“Mister Veros,” Sally calls out, holding her painting tightly as she strains to look at the nightborne. “Thank you for everything. Please be safe, okay?”

Veros purses his lips, something in the pit of his stomach turning at her wish. The other evacuees rush past her as she stands timidly, lip quivering as she glances to the barrier and the Alliance on the other side. He offers her a reassuring smile, nodding his head to her.

“I will. Now go, quick!”

Sally nods, hurrying along with the others and disappearing into the crowd. The civilians get to safety, and Veros breathes a sigh of relief, turning toe to follow behind them, fumbling with the communicator on his ear. The Agents, maybe they were here, maybe he could at least meet with them, find them, tell someone of what’s happened down here.

A faint shimmer disrupts his vision in front of him, and he skids to a halt, boots squeaking against the ground. He squints, surveying his surroundings closely, realizing the ripples in the air he saw were hiding figures in the shadows, sneaking through the streets.

And they were aiming to ambush the Horde troops beside them.

There’s a moment of hesitation where Veros actually wagers whether he should jump into the fray, or if he should use his moment to escape. And he almost opts for the latter, his fear begging him to turn away and run, but when he looks up again at the Horde forces, he knows that the sneak attack would decimate them. Veros backs up, breathing in as he taps into his mana, his invisibility spell fluttering off as he conjures a massive arcane barrier, separating the stealthed troops and the Horde defenders. He clenches his fists, bringing the barrier forward to crash into the enemies, blowing their cover and igniting them in a flurry of arcane explosions. The Horde defenders turn to see the thwarted attackers, their soldiers splitting accordingly to take on the new threat while the civilians nearby break into a wild stampede down to the portals.

He grits his teeth, circles of arcane solidifying around him as he fires missiles at the druids tearing through the deathguards. Night elves, humans and worgen flooded the place, and he realizes as he conjures a barrier to save a grunt that they bore the uniform of the SI:7, a revelation that only further sours his mood.

He glances back behind him to see the escape routes, breathing heavy as he managed the various barriers he held out. He finds an opening, dropping his spells and sprinting towards the escape route, his heart beating against his chest like a war drum. He skids to a halt as another squad of Alliance rushes towards him, just barely dodging the knife hurled towards his face. He whirls around, faced off with four kal’dorei, each of them bearing faces painted with rage and grief.

Veros holds out his hands, trying to appear non-threatening. “Please, I don't--”

One of them, a rogue, charges towards him, daggers out and aiming straight for his neck. Veros throws his hands in front of him, his mana crystallizing and forming armor around his forearms in time to block the attack. The crystalline armor cracks on impact, and Veros stumbles back as he blocks each blade. A druid in their bear form lunges for him, the arcanist quickly dropping to the ground and rolling to avoid the attack, given no time to rest as a flurry of strikes rains on him. Barrier after barrier is conjured and shattered, and he feels his head become light with the overuse of his power. The leylines here were not strong enough to fuel him, and the escape routes were beginning to close. In a desperate attempt, he crosses his arms, thrusting his hands outwards to produce a crackling arcane explosion, blasting the elves off of him.

He stumbles to his feet, his form shimmering as he blinks forward towards escape, only for him to manifest right into the hands of a kal’dorei warrior, who seizes Veros by the neck, slamming him into the ground, his communicator popping off his ear and meeting its demise beneath another warrior’s foot. The kal’dorei holds him in an iron grip, allowing the arcanist no space to move, no opening to escape. He fumbles, trying to pry her hands off of him, watching with fear as the kal’dorei unsheathes her glaive, readying to end him. He huffs, straining in her grip, and looking into her eyes, seeing nothing but a pool of rage and pain, a loss and suffering so great it captivated him for a moment. The horrifying image of Teldrassil’s demise replays in his head, and he stops struggling, keeping his gaze locked on hers.

Without thinking, he reaches out at her, grasping a hand on her shoulder, the blade of her weapon dangerously close to him, and yet, he still tries, recalling his texts, and speaking to her in Darnassian.

“Forgive us, she has lost her way,” He chokes out, staring into her eyes. “Please forgive -- Elune has not forgotten you. Elune has not abandoned you.”

The woman grits her teeth, her glaive still pointed at him, but she hesitates, searching his eyes. He can see the still healing scorch marks on her collarbone now, the necklaces of mismatched jewelry hanging from her neck, the pain in her eyes striking him to the core. She sneers, opening her mouth to speak, only for a massive axe behind her to crash into her form, sending the night elf a ways away from him, freeing him from her grip. Veros cries out in anguish, yanked up like a ragdoll by the orc that had cleaved through the kal’dorei. Veros staggers on his feet, his eyes glued to the woman’s bloody body, the Horde troops continuing forward through the center of the city. The orc shoves Veros roughly to make him move.

“Are you a soldier, nightborne?” The orc asks, looking Veros up and down. “All troops are to get to the surface, now!”

Veros tears his gaze away, looking at the female orc that addressed him. “I-I’m a civilian, I was trying to get to the portals --”

“Bullshit!” A voice cries out. They turn to the voice, belonging to a sin’dorei magister whos forehead had a steady stream of blood. “I recognize him, he’s with one of the military divisions in Suramar.”

Veros’ ears flatten back, and the orc shoves him forward, giving the nightborne no choice but to continue running in the direction of the soldiers. At least his cloth attire was relatively reinforced, but it was still not his armor, he still lacked Ley-Gripper, or his enchanted crystals. The dryness in his throat only further reminds him of the lack of mana he had for any sort of encounter like this. At best, he could muster a few spells and barriers before being picked away like a carcass to vultures. Fear floods the arcanist as the troops move with haste past him, like a series of waves crashing down upon him, forcing him to run faster with their pace or be trampled. He could hear commanders barking orders, still hear the Alliance spies inside clashing with the defenders. Ahead of him, the portal to the surface remains open, and he can feel the careless telemancy tug at his arcane senses.

He wants to run. He needs to run. He needs to get the fel out of this place and never look back. As he walks through the portal and feels the hot air wrap around his form, ash and smoke filling his lungs with the smell of siege fire, and the sounds of explosions and rubble deafening his ears, he feels dread, his hands and face dead cold as the world spins around him. Arcane wraps around his weary form as he tries to form a portal, tries to teleport himself home, but his trembling hands and wavering mind don’t allow him a moment to concentrate on a safe enough spell for such. The Agents cross his mind again, and for the first time he felt himself wishing that the barrier never came down. He wonders, though, if maybe he could teleport to Suramar, to Aubade, and ask his Lady to run away with him. To venture off somewhere far and escape Azeroth, perhaps to Outland, and just live there away from the wars and grow old in peace. He can't be here.

“Mages and casters to the front lines!” A rough voice commands. Veros feels his pulse in his throat as he attempts to teleport again, to no avail. This is it, then. This was his fate -- perhaps the Stars intended for this to happen to him, perhaps this was meant to be. An explosion rattles the army, his ears ringing as he hurries alongside the other troops to the other side of the wall.

The sight is devastating.

The zeppelin tower is completely askew, the dead grass entirely destroyed and unveiling the dirt and earth as far as the eye could see. Massive siege towers he had never seen before fire away, and the army, good Stars, the army -- never before had Veros seen the full might of either faction together like this. He had seen them fight at the Nighthold when they aided his people to overthrow Elisande, but this was something else entirely. There's so many, their armor glinting in the unusually sunny day, the sounds of battle permanently recorded into the arcanist’s brain. He certainly did not have nearly enough mana to stand his ground against them.

This battle is lost.

Regardless, he is here now. No armor, no weapons, no mana -- just a man at the wrong place at the wrong time. But there wasn't any going back. He moves with the other mages by him, taking on the forces to the right of the wall. Arcane lightning erupts at his fingertips, and he thrusts his hands forth, striking the glaive throwers as the other mages conjured their own crafty assaults. Every explosion rattles him to his bones, and the smell of death and blood is something he will never shake off.

The sin’dorei mage beside him is suddenly shot, her blood splattering on his cheek as she crumples to the dirt, her arcane missiles dispersing from the field. Out of instinct, Veros reaches out for her, conjuring a barrier before him in just barely enough time to block the bullets that would have ended him as well. He staggers back, falling onto his rear at the sight. A bolt of fire hurtles towards him, and he blinks, his form shimmering and manifesting several yards away. He's struggling to get back on his feet, but by the time he's up, the siege tower in the distance fires, the artillery shot hissing in the air and crashing into the walls of Lordaeron behind him. The stones crack and shatter, slabs coming undone and raining off of its proper place, the debris coming down to the ground in an avalanche. The nightborne can only helplessly watch as the rubble crashes down upon him as well.

For a long moment, Veros sees nothing, feels nothing. Everything around him, from the pain to the stones that pinned the Archivist to the bloody dirt did not feel real. He felt as though his own existence were not even real. The world is deafened to him, and in his mind, all he can see are the faces of those he loved and cared for throughout his long life float by him in complete silence. In the strangest way, he feels as though he is watching himself in his memories, watching him make the decisions that both made and broke him as a man. The Agents flood into his mind, his friends, his coworkers, his love -- they had become his family. Everything he did now was for them. He lived and breathed for them. He wonders now, his mind sluggish and hazy, is he dead now?

The sounds slowly return to him, the horrible screech of battle and war. Pain floods through every nerve in his body, and his strangled scream is lost in the sounds of war. He’s pinned awkwardly to the ground, belly down with only his left arm out and free. Something pierces his leg horribly, and his right arm is most certainly broken in ways he doesn’t even want to know. His eyes focus and adjust with difficulty watching as both Horde and Alliance troops scream in helpless terror. A figure atop the wall wraps in shadow, the catapults atop firing barrels of something painfully green, and soon, he watches as the green smoke floods towards him. He tastes acid and blood in his throat the moment he gets a waft of the blight, and all he can do is weep. Tears flood his cheeks as he tries to claw out, pain shooting through him with every movement until he drops limply, painful sobs escaping him. Is it wrong to mourn your own death?

They lost, they all lost. There's nothing more to be done now than die. He had so much, his life finally had semblance of meaning after all these years, and it was all over now. He didn't say goodbye. They told him not to go, and here he is now, helpless, useless, and he didn’t get to say goodbye.

The necklace, he remembers. He lifts himself again, only his head managing to come up enough. With his free hand, he tries to pull out his necklace, but he feels the little lightning bolt pressed against his chest tightly. His fingers cannot reach enough to dig it out, and he cannot move enough to free it. He could not even tell his love goodbye.

“I'm sorry…” He chokes out in his native tongue, watching the green fog approach him. “I'm sorry to everyone. Elune, I beg forgiveness, I beg your guidance. Elun, Belorah, falah-dor ishae…”

He shuts his eyes tight, and waits, waits for his death, waits for it to end. He can hear everything, feel everything, and though he waited, though he felt the burn of pain, the pit of his chest, his heart, his mind, it sets aflame with the desire to live. He doesn’t want to die, not like this. Not here. Not like this.

He reaches a hand out, hearing the sounds of horses pound through the battlefield. As his face begins to run cold, he hears the voice of the little girl he raised thousands of years ago. Kalana. A phantom touch, her little hand upon his cheek soothes him. He only lived to continue her memory, and then to serve the Agents -- was this really his goodbye?

His limbs run cold, his consciousness begins to slip away. Just when he feels himself begin to depart, a hand grasps at his, solid and real, holding him tight as he feels a weight lifted from him, and soon, he knew no more.

[topmixtrends]

THERE’S AN ANCIENT Hindu fable that dates back to at least 300 BCE, about a childless couple who decide to adopt a mongoose. They raise the creature as if it were a son, feeding it, letting it live among them in their house. Eventually they also have a child, and the mongoose becomes its faithful protector, even as the couple begins to quietly distrust the animal. One day, returning home, they find the house in disarray, the crib overturned, the baby missing, and the mongoose’s mouth stained with blood. Horrified, they kill the mongoose. Only later do they realize what had happened: a snake had entered the house, intent on eating the child, and the mongoose fought it to the death. The blood on its mouth was the snake’s blood; underneath the upturned crib they find their child, unharmed.

The fable warns against rash action, of course, but also against greed and hubris. The couple in the story have tried to have both a human child and this other child, and by bringing a wild creature into their household they have upended the domestic order. It’s a lesson James Irving and his family learned firsthand. In 1916, Irving and his family moved to a remote farmstead on the Isle of Man known as Doarlish Cashen, about a mile from the tiny village of Dalby. There he lived with his wife Margaret and young daughter Voirrey until the early 1930s, when a talking mongoose named Gef appeared and took over their family.

In an exhaustive chronicle running close to 400 pages, the paranormal researcher Christopher Josiffe has attempted to chronicle the story of Gef and the Irvings, as well as make sense of just what happened on Doarlish Cashen. Gef!: The Strange Tale of an Extra-Special Talking Mongoose is, as the artist B. Catling writes in his introduction, “the definitive account of a story that refuses to become definitive,” a mystery whose possible explanations only invite more questions.

Gef (pronounced “Jeff”) first appeared in September 1931, when the Irvings began hearing tappings and knockings that they initially assumed was a mouse, and subsequently thought to be a small weasel or stoat trapped in the walls of their farmhouse. On October 20, James and Voirrey finally got a glimpse of the creature, a yellow and brown “ratlike” animal with a long, bushy tail. The animal lingered, continuing to make noise, but by December these noises had become distinctly less animal in nature; they sounded, the Irvings later told the Isle of Man Examiner, “similar to a baby child beginning to talk,” and before long the family “heard definite words issuing from the walls.” More curious than frightened, they tried to teach their strange new visitor nursery rhymes, which within a week he could repeat back to them. Soon he could speak fluently and conversationally. “From that time on,” the Examiner reported, “this queer body has repeated parts of their conversations, has discussed their private lives with them, and has retailed gossip gleaned from the outside.” A quick study, Gef not only spoke English, but in time also picked up other languages, including bits of French, German, Yiddish, Flemish, Spanish, and Hebrew. He enjoyed singing songs and telling jokes, could change shape, and appeared to be clairvoyant.

It was not clear to the Irvings or anyone else what exactly Gef was: a ghost, a cryptid, a hallucination? James Irving (who did most of the talking on behalf of the family) would often offer conflicting assessments. “I never said that he was a mongoose,” he writes in one letter. “I don’t think he is an animal. I think he is a spirit in animal form.” In another letter, however, he contradicted this statement, writing, “Undoubtedly, he is a species of mongoose, but whether a hybrid or not, I cannot say.” Gef himself would later claim that he was an Indian mongoose, and that he had been born 80 years earlier, on June 7, 1852, and had come from Delhi. He was initially known as “the Dalby spook,” a name Josiffe prefers over “talking mongoose,” in that the former “is more ambiguous. It does not restrict Gef to being identified as a mongoose. ‘Spook’ suggests something uncanny or supernatural, and places Gef within the context of Manx myth, legend, and fairy tale.”

Gef was initially hostile toward the Irvings, terrorizing them at night, insulting and threatening them, even throwing rocks at the family. Within a year, though, they had struck a truce with Gef, who subsequently became a part of the family. He ate the food they left out for them, and would catch and kill rabbits that he would leave on the doorstep (he was apparently prodigious enough at this that the Irvings sold surplus rabbits in Darby). He would stick up for them, offering to slaughter the livestock of any of Irving’s enemies, and he was particularly protective of young Voirrey.

While a singing, joke-telling mongoose seems delightfully absurd and comical, like something out of a children’s cartoon, there are dark elements to the story. Gef had a mean streak bordering on violence; Irving reports that he once told him, “If you are kind to me, I will bring you good luck. If you are not kind, I will kill all your poultry. I can get them wherever you put them.” On another occasion, he was even more threatening: “You don’t know what damage or harm I might do if I were roused. I could kill you all if I liked but I won’t.”

¤

As word got out about Gef, James Irving became something of a local celebrity. Several paranormal investigators, spiritualists, and skeptics made the pilgrimage out to the remote farmstead to figure out what exactly was happening. Among those who traveled to the Irvings’ homestead looking for evidence of Gef was the spiritualist book publicist Norah Nicholls (she would later be press secretary to Virginia Woolf, who described her as a “flashy underworld flibbertigibbet”). Nicholls concluded that the local “general attitude is of outward scepticism but inward nervousness — there is Something there; but how can an animal talk? People in the village won’t go near the place […] no one will go there at night.”

The conclusion gradually becomes inescapable, as one reads Josiffe’s book, that Gef was a creation of Voirrey, or perhaps Voirrey and Margaret in concert. (It’s possible that the entire family was involved in some kind of ruse, but James Irving’s steadfast earnestness about the whole Gef affair has led many to conclude that he was innocent of any plot.) There were numerous signs that the daughter was behind the strange occurrences, and Josiffe peppers them throughout his narrative, strongly implying that Gef was Voirrey’s creation without ever outright saying so. From the beginning, there were rumors that Voirrey was the origin of Gef’s voice: “Does the solution of the mystery of the ‘man-weasel’ of Doarlish Cashen lie in the dual personality of the 13 year-old girl, Voirrey Irving?” the Dispatch asked the day after first reporting on the phenomenon. Early on, Josiffe quotes a local man remembering his late mother-in-law’s comment that the Irvings “always had a mongoose to catch & eat the cockroaches, & it was at tea time Voirrey would throw her voice as if the mongoose was talking…”

Why would Voirrey invent such a strange creature? Living alone with her parents in a remote part of a remote island, Voirrey’s intellect and curiosity may have been stifled, and Gef may have been one by-product of her curious and lonely existence. As one of the principal investigators of the Darby mystery, Richard Stanton Lambert, commented to several of his colleagues, “You must admit that Voirrey has had an unnatural upbringing for a child. She is very lonely, has only her parents for company, and they are so much older. No young people around. We wanted to talk to Voirrey ourselves, but she is close and very reserved…” Additionally, Gef’s propensity to look out for Voirrey seems suspect: Harold Dennis, of London’s National Laboratory of Psychical Research, had been trying to get definitive proof of the Darby Spook when he was told by James Irving that Gef “had been talking that morning, and had promised to speak to me in the evening providing that I made a promise to give Voirrey a camera, or gramophone!”

Sensing that Voirrey held the key to the whole mystery, Lambert and his colleague Harry Price proposed to take her on a boat tour of the Isle of Man, hoping to get her away from her father in order to learn more about the true nature of Gef. Voirrey, intelligent but largely sheltered, quickly agreed, but James stymied their plan by accompanying them and monopolizing the conversation (as Price and Lambert had feared he would). A subsequent attempt to get her to come to London unaccompanied was similarly rebuffed. Despite strong evidence that Voirrey was behind the entire mystery — or at least knew the truth of what was happening — no one could get past James Irving’s loquacious defenses, meaning any hypothesis about Gef remained provisional.

A teenage girl’s prank causes mayhem among rural simpletons: that might seem to be the end of the story. But there are problems with the Voirrey hypothesis that make the case of Gef that much harder to dismiss. The main issues involve motive. Some have argued that Voirrey, unhappy to find herself on a remote part of a remote island, conjured the haunting to convince her father to move the family back to the mainland. If Doarlish Cashen was haunted by a malevolent spirit, perhaps, then Voirrey could have lobbied for a move to somewhere less isolated. But if this was the strategy, it backfired; the Irvings didn’t leave until James Irving died in 1945, after the Gef sightings had died down. Nor could it have been the case that the Irvings were only doing this for money; as James himself confessed, the farm’s reputation as a home for ghostly visitors decreased its value to less than half of what he paid for it.

Add to this the odd habit James Irving had of seemingly revealing the various ways in which his daughter was behind the trick. Take, for example, Gef’s famous ability to catch rabbits; since they were sold in town, these were some of the few tangible items of proof that something was happening. But as Josiffe notes, Irving himself was “quite open about Voirrey’s own rabbit-hunting skills — he could have concealed this (for fear that it offered a simple explanation for the source of the rabbits) — but chose not to.” As Lambert recalled being told by Irving,

Voirrey and Mona (the dog) had developed a method of catching the rabbits. Voirrey would tell Mona to point a rabbit, who became mesmerised, and Voirrey would creep round behind the rabbit, and knock on the head with a stick or something, and thus kill it. The rabbit would be too mesmerised to move.

When James Irving was asked to provide physical proof of Gef, he sent Harry Price some supposed fur samples, but laboratory analysis quickly determined that the fur came from a dog, likely Mona. Why would Irving offer such an easily debunked piece of evidence — and, if he wasn’t in on it, why would Voirrey let him? Not only are the usual motives for fraud inapplicable here, but if it was all a hoax, the Irvings seemed to be recklessly unconcerned with maintaining it.

Nor was it that easy to write off the Irvings as delusional or mentally unstable. From the beginning, witnesses focused on Irving and his family’s sanity and sensibility; one of the earliest stories on the Darby spook, in the Isle of Man Examiner, concludes: “Our story may leave the reader unconvinced, it may be unconvincing, but it is backed by the assurance of as sane a man as one could ever meet, and at that we must leave it.” Another reporter from mainland England noted that “the people who claim it was the voice of the strange weasel seem sane, honest, and responsible folk and not likely to indulge in a difficult, long drawn-out, and unprofitable practical joke to make themselves the talk of the world.” Even the more devoted investigators who spent a prolonged period with the Irvings saw them as basically trustworthy, despite the incredulous tale and minimal proof. Harold Dennis, writing to Harry Price, confessed: “I don’t quite know what I really think, as the attitude of the Irvings has rather defeated me. Mr Irving appears to be a perfectly genuine man, and quite above the Manx farming class.”

Could the Irvings, then, have been telling the truth? This is the conclusion of many who’ve contemplated the Darby Spook, and at times it seems to be Josiffe’s as well. “Despite the clear evidence of hoaxing, it should be emphasised that an acknowledgement of fraud having been perpetrated in certain instances does not necessitate the entire opus of phenomena being fraudulent,” he warns.

The annals of psychical research are full of cases of Spiritualist mediums whose paranormal ability was only intermittent, causing them to fabricate or simulate on those occasions when they were committed to giving a public performance but unable to produce genuine phenomena.

Statements like this reflect the curious logic of the occultist’s Occam’s razor. First, an exceptional story is proposed: a talking mongoose with supernatural powers lives with a family. Second, debunkers propose a series of obvious explanations: fraud, delusion, et cetera. Third, the believer responds by casting doubt on these provisional hypotheses, and finally claims that the original implausible hypothesis, however unlikely, must be true. Because no definitive debunking has been proved, the occultist can claim victory. Visitation by a supernatural mongoose is thus considered more plausible, more realistic, than a family perpetrating an elaborate hoax for no sensible reason. The assumption here seems to be that while the world may be fantastical, unknowable, vast, and infinite with its strange and supernatural possibilities, human psychology is simple, and reducible to a set of finite causes and motivations. If the Irvings were sane and unable to profit, or uninterested in profiting, off of Gef, then, such logic runs, a talking mongoose is suddenly the most reasonable answer.

Indeed, the more likely story — that Gef never really existed — is in many ways more unsettling than the paranormal explanation, mainly because it defies a number of common assumptions about human psychology, and the way a small family, mainly isolated, might grow in strange ways. Looking for a motive beyond profit and fame suggests a family in turmoil, a crisis that manifested itself in a mischievous and protective supernatural creature. Did Voirrey invent Gef to connect with her father? Josiffe notes that Irving claimed his daughter was “not an affectionate child,” and that the only one of his children he’d been close to was his son Gilbert (who, by the time of Gef’s appearance, had moved to the mainland). Unsurprising, then, that Gef emerged as a replacement son for James: “James Irving’s fondness for Gef was matched by Gef’s warm feelings for ‘Jim’ or ‘Jimmo.’ As if in acknowledgement of a father-son relationship, Gef would ask Irving to tell him ghost stories at night.”

Even more disturbing: Perhaps Voirrey used Gef to protect herself from her father. Gef supposedly James that “I’ll follow her, wherever you move her!” — a statement that the Irvings read as menacing, but which also suggests that Gef wasn’t about to let anyone else menace the teenage girl, either. Through the years there have been several veiled insinuations that Voirrey might have been the victim of sexual abuse, though no evidence of such abuse ever emerged, and with British libel laws being extremely stringent, investigators were careful never to make this accusation openly. It’s possible that Gef was an amalgamation of many of these things. Within a fractured, hermetic, and isolated family, strained by intrafamilial tensions and psychological pressure, a mercurial and malleable entity emerges that can negotiate these tensions, and serve as an outlet and scapegoat as needed.

Gef’s story is interesting in another way. As a magical figure, he breaks the mold of the taxonomy of the paranormal. Was he a ghost, a supernatural animal, a witch’s familiar? Each of these different mythological creatures, after all, accomplishes a different psychological and sociological function. To call something a ghost is to invoke a host of associations: an uncertainty about what happens after death, a mourning not yet finished. Nature sprites, on the other hand, reflect our ambivalence and ignorance toward the natural world itself: a landscape that is not just unknown and dangerous, but magical and treacherous. The motif of witches’ familiars takes this ambivalence toward wild animals and mobilizes it against women.

Changing his nature and constitution throughout the years, Gef was all of these things, and thus none of them. A hodgepodge of different folk beliefs, each of which spoke to a different set of anxieties and aspirations, Gef could speak to none of these psychological needs, no matter which language he used. It’s possible, then, to read Gef as a product of a singular kind of artistic genius on the part of Voirrey or her family. All of these various categories — ghosts, familiars, imps, et cetera — are the product of a collective and communal vision, passed down through centuries without author or design, gradually molding to the needs of each time and place. Gef can be seen as a work of folk art in this tradition, a synthesis of Indian, Celtic, Christian, and 19th-century Spiritualism.

Because Voirrey Irving never, even to her dying day, confessed to the true story of Gef, we’ll never know for sure what went on. Perhaps in this she was thinking of the sad tale of Margaret and Kate Fox. In 1848 the Fox sisters started the Spiritualist craze that swept through North America (and soon, the world), by communicating with spirits via a strange rapping noise. Forty years later, Margaret finally confessed that the entire thing had been a hoax, and demonstrated how she and her sister had created the rapping noise by secretly cracking their toe joints. The outrage from the Spiritualist community was so vitriolic that Margaret was eventually forced to recant her confession, affirming the proof of ghosts under extreme duress.

Without any word from Voirrey, we are left only with a story of something strange that once happened to a family. It’s a story of a fascinating and disturbing psychological portrait of a small family, mostly cut off from the world, the facts of which are buried under so many layers of folklore, paranormalism, quackery, and pseudoscience that we’ll likely never understand what was really going on. There are no lessons here to learn — except, perhaps, for one we’ve known for centuries: never welcome a mongoose into your home.

¤

Colin Dickey is the author, most recently, of Ghostland: An American History in Haunted Places.

The post Speak, Mongoose: On “Gef!: The Strange Tale of an Extra-Special Talking Mongoose” appeared first on Los Angeles Review of Books.

from Los Angeles Review of Books http://ift.tt/2xwj9iF