Arthurian Cultivation

I shuffled down the stairs, arriving in the hall to a round of cheers. My compatriots called out to me and I waved at them with my good arm. Despite the radiating aura of death that came from the runic circle in the middle of the room, and Rowena watching me discreetly from the corner, my mood lifted as my friends gathered around to welcome me back to the lands of the living.

Sephy had to fend off a couple of hugs on my behalf, and I managed to dodge a slap on the shoulder from Bors at the last moment.

My mood was still odd. The nightmares had left me unsettled. Yet even this brief moment of warmth worked wonders. Memories of times in the Harkley halls where there were no friends, only enemies turned temporary allies, were banished.

I now had friends and allies who worried deeply for my health. My teacher, Marek, gave me a once-over as well, and didn’t even ask me if I’d been following my control exercises, which I felt was his way of showing he was pleased to see me hale.

Rowena even gave me a nod, and congratulated me on keeping hold of the chest in "challenging" circumstances. Which seemed to be her equivalent of a ringing endorsement.

I was brought a seat, which I gratefully took off to one side as I watched everyone put the final touches in place.

The hall itself was smaller than the lofty name suggested. It was at most five paces across and maybe twice that long, a low-roofed chamber built more for function than ceremony. The stone walls were crowded with the remnants of older victories, antlered skulls and yellowed furs nailed beside rust-scarred blades and spears whose styles had long since fallen out of use.Faded banners hung between them, their colours washed thin by time and smoke, their sigils barely legible where moths and damp had eaten at the cloth.

The centre of the floor had been cleared entirely, leaving bare stone marked with a chalk-drawn octagon packed tight with runes. Even unlit, the markings seemed to press on the air, lending the room a heavy stillness that no amount of torchlight could quite chase away.

Not everyone was here. I guessed that Kay, Gaz and Arthur were keeping watch. Gawain was also absent, but I assumed he might have been passed out. As near as I could tell he’d spent the last four days flying. I couldn’t see Tristan either, but that might just be because he was avoiding Rowena. I could never tell whether respect or fear dominated his mind when it came to the older cultivator.

Some commented on my sling. My bad arm was still healing. The cut had damaged muscle and tendons, and while cultivators could heal quickly, especially when infused with alchemy, it would likely take at least another week or two until I had anything like full control back.

I wouldn’t be playing my lute for a while, which irritated me.

Beyond the wound, a few joked I needed to get some dinner. It was only then I noticed that I was famished. Looking down, I realised how thin I was. It looked like I’d starved myself for a week. I knew that when healing from some things the body burnt itself up, but I’d never seen it to this extent.

"Are you sure you should be down here?" The question came from Maeve. I couldn’t tell if this was her pretending to be worried as part of our fake "relationship", or a genuine concern. I waved her off though.

"You think after all this I’d miss seeing inside?" I smiled. From deeper in the room I heard a cough.

"I’d prefer if you stayed. It’s both a chance to learn, and I won’t say no to even a junior death cultivator helping keep an eye on this monstrosity. I should be more than able to contain the power with the help of the runes, but if it seems like I’m not, shout." Marek said, looking up from some runes he was checking on the floor.

"Thank you, Marek." I looked over my teacher. He stood a little apart from the others, wrapped as ever in fine green wool worked through with patterns of silver thread in precise geometric patterns. The triangular mark of his coven was stitched into the fabric, the three-headed beast at its centre, fox, cat, and snake. His expression sat in its usual state of mild disapproval, a perpetual frown pinching his features.

"We’ll soon be opening the chest. I’ve set up all manner of anti-scrying runes, and the building is secure. If it’s what you’ve been hunting." Rowena shot Sephy a look. We all knew the unspoken agreement not to discuss the prophecy in detail. "I will most likely grab it and start sprinting it back towards the Golden Keep."

There were worried noises from the group and Sephy immediately went to speak, but Rowena cut her off.

"I know. I’m aware this is something you’re meant to deal with. However, the fact that those Ray-addled lunatics know you have this? We can’t afford to risk a Steel charging in to take it from you."

"We don’t even know if they’re looking for the… We don’t even know if they’re looking for the same thing we are."

"It’s too big a coincidence. Even if they’re not looking for it, they have their eyes set on this. We have to be careful."

"I hate not being in the loop. But I dislike additional responsibility more." Marek complained as he took position at what seemed like the most rune-dense part of the circle. "Look, this should be simple. I crack this open and either we’re left with an empty box and no Rowena, or we all get to look at some nightmarish thing that radiates death like a mass grave. Which is somehow less important than whatever it is you’re all looking for."

A minute of arranging people around the room followed, along with a brief discussion on safety, which started and ended with not touching glowing runes, not even if you think they look really pretty.

"Everyone ready?" Marek asked. Everyone nodded, eyes settling on the steel box in the centre of the room.

Power pulsed. The air grew thick with glamour as Marek used his second gift, one of water, to shape the pail of water he’d placed beside the chest. The water rose, and then began to spin. Eventually it was moving so fast that I could hear it tearing at the air. Only then did he move it closer, bringing the whirling water to press against a glowing rune on one corner of the box.

The runes flared, and fire burst out in all directions.

Despite feeling the array rise to defend us I still flinched back at the bright light. I was extra glad that it seemed no one had told Marek that I’d literally booted it down a mountain.

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Water and fire met. Steam ballooned out and the runes and protections pulsed. The mist cleared painfully slowly as we all leaned in to stare.

There on the floor, in the very heart of the array, lay something glittering and gold.

The ruins of the chest framed it like an offering gone violently awry, splintered wood and half-melted metal scattered outward, some pieces still glowing dull red as they cooled. At the centre of that destruction rested a book, untouched. Its covers were gold plates, thick ostentatious sheets, carved with looping filigree that caught the light too eagerly. Large, expertly cut gems were set into the metal, rubies and sickly pale opals pressed together without any sense of restraint.

It was gaudy in the way only the cultists could ever respect, excessive to the point of vulgarity.

The glamour rolling off it was immediate and oppressive. Not a flare or a pulse, but a constant, suffocating pressure that crawled across my skin and settled behind my eyes. Death glamour saturated the space, heavy and oily. It wasn’t the quiet stillness I’d felt around old graves or battlefields, but something alive and hungry.

The runes flared again, responding to the strain, and only then did the air seem to loosen enough for me to draw a steady breath.

Even at a distance, even surrounded by wards and chalk and Marek’s careful preparations, it felt wrong. Not dangerous in the immediate sense, but unwelcome, as though the room itself resented its presence. Whatever reverence the Rays demanded of their followers, this artefact radiated nothing resembling grace.

Just power, and far too much of it.

We all stared at the awful thing in silence. Each of us recognising we were in the company of something profoundly wrong.

"So I’m assuming that because it’s still here this isn’t what you’re looking for?" Marek broke the silence. He looked to Rowena, who was watching the thing like it might explode.

"Sephy?" I asked, turning to see if she could shed some light on what manner of thing was before us. Her brows were knit with confusion, and her lips moved as she sifted through her memories. For a moment she looked worried before her eyebrows suddenly shot up.

"I know what it is. It’s the Book of the Grail." She smacked her hand into her palm.

"Ah, well, now I know what you’re looking for. You know what, I should’ve just kept my mouth shut." My teacher groused. And despite myself I laughed.

I regretted it instantly as my wound ached, but by then the others were also chuckling.

All the tension went out of the room. It wasn’t the Grail, and yet, just going by the name, it didn’t sound like we’d wasted our time here.

Yes, our campaign continued, and yes, it felt strangely anti-climactic to find a book rather than the Grail itself. But it felt good to see evidence that we were going in the right direction.

"Would you care to explain?" Rowena asked. She was still watching the artefact as if it might grow legs and run off.

"The Book of the Grail, officially known as the ‘Testament of the Vessel’, is another artefact that was paired with the Grail itself. It gives not only instructions on how to use it, but also instructions on how to properly worship the Rays, and other such things. There are a lot of rumours about it, but this is… good."

"Why did that hermit have it? You mentioned he’d reached out to the cultists, surely they’d have come for it?" Lance asked. Her hand was on her blade.

"Maybe they were coming for it. That would explain their presence if we got there before they could," Maeve suggested.

"Possibly, but I’m suspicious of any situation where people are taking Vermald seriously. I feel like if they knew it was there they’d have sent a Steel in very quietly to grab it. Besides, I doubt he was aware of exactly what he had. It’s an obscure relic and it’s not like it has a title on it. He probably never realised what he had. This is good though, this is very good." Sephy was staring at the book as it sat in the middle of the room. None of us had dared to move closer to it.

"I feel like it would be better if it was actually the Grail," Lance groused.

"Yes, but this means that they don’t have this. We always assumed they still had the Book," Sephy explained, and we all nodded. That was good news.

"If they’re hunting this, should we not be worried that they have the Grail?"

"We don’t know if they’re hunting this or not. They should be able to sense artefacts like this even without knowing what it is. It’s infused with their power," Rowena said, speaking levelly as she observed the glittering book.

Now the chest was destroyed I could feel it myself. Something that had been a lingering sense in the back of my awareness was now loudly shouting its presence in the forefront of my mind. The corrupt, twisted glamour of the divine cultivators was practically dripping from it.

"Why is it radiating death?" Lance grimaced. "Odd choice for a divine artefact."

"I’m not sure. It’s not like my family knows everything about these items. I know you’re only meant to be able to open it in 'a place of great sacrifice or mourning', but that’s it," Sephy offered.

"I suspect it’s in part a protection thing. It’s a trick some Steel-rank death cultivators use. Why bother with complex defences when you can just saturate something in so much death that no one dares get near it. It also makes people worried about destroying it. No one wants to release that much death glamour," Marek chimed in. "It’s terrible from a safety point of view, but good security."

"Well, what does it mean for us?" Lance asked from across the room, her fingers resting again on the hilt of her blade. "Should we not just burn it or shred it up now?"

"It’s at least a Steel-rank artefact. I might be able to destroy it, but it won’t be easy or quick. As Marek just mentioned, I’d be wary of the kind of forces it would release. I also suspect it would gather a lot of attention, both cultist and fae," Rowena responded.

"Not that I want to look at it that much, but shouldn’t we study it? Know your enemy, is that not the best thing to do?" Maeve suggested. She didn’t look comfortable even as she said it.

"I should also mention part of the history states that if the unworthy try to look at it they’ll go mad," Sephy interrupted that thought.

"Well isn’t that great news." Marek groaned. "Hang on, I’m going to throw a blanket over it."

I chuckled at the ridiculous yet eminently sensible approach to an artefact beyond mortal ken.

"Does that mean Vermald took a look at it and turned into, well, Vermald?" I asked, watching as Marek made good on his promise and pulled a blanket out of his storage ring to cover it.

"I feel blaming this for his insanity would be letting him off easy. His manner of lunacy was his own. But this can’t have helped," Sephy responded.

"I doubt he even got this open. I think you’d need at least Iron-rank death glamour to open it up."

"Whether we study it or not is a question for another time. You have places to be. Myself, Marek and the others will discuss it in more detail. The more socially inclined among you need to go prepare to interrogate a king." Rowena moved forward and wrapped the book up in the blanket. "Don’t get distracted. You still have a job to do."

We broke apart. Rowena and Marek retreated below, while throwing up walls of protection. The prophecy was quite clear that we weren’t to get too much outside help in our search. However, it was fairly lax on forbidding assistance with things outside of the Grail. I could tell Sephy wasn’t best pleased, her family’s long-held reverence for the Lady of the Lake’s words clashing with her pragmatic view.

Still, we all agreed that we couldn’t allow the cultists to get their grubby mitts on the book.

A few others and I were assembled as we had to go speak to Phischer. He was throwing a banquet in our honour. The prickly king who’d barely deigned to speak with us had done a complete heel turn upon news that we’d slain Vermald.

I was told the other kings were pleased, happy to know a vile madman who conducted dark experiments and had been lurking on their borders, abducting their citizens, was finally dead.

Phischer, it seemed, just wanted to celebrate killing someone who’d made a fool of him.