INCANTATIONS AND COUNTER-INCANTATIONS
Incantations are a specific type of magic designed specifically for trapping and countering opponents. The basic concept is simple; the caster speaks the incantation's name, focusing their intent on the target, and then the incantation takes effect.
The effects of incantations vary somewhat between incantations. While all of them serve the same purpose, most incantations provide some kind of auxiliary benefit to the caster, by making the prison created by the incantation have terrain that suits them, or in much rarer cases a special condition is enforced within the incantation, such as magic becoming unusable or a more complex one, like lying within the incantation being impossible. Such complex incantations may find use in interrogations or rites of passage.
Incantations appear as homogenous barriers of swirling colours from the outside, and this barrier seems to be entirely unbreakable.
There are only a few ways to escape an incantation, one trapped within it. One such method is to kill the incantation caster, ending its effect. The effectiveness and feasibility of this method varies, however, between casters.
Another method for ending an incantation is to perform a counter-incantation, in which one casts a special ward on themselves, becoming exempt from entering any incantations to begin with. Counter incantations can also be used to form an impenetrable barrier within incantations for personal protection.
The final method by which one can escape an incantation is by means of using one of their own. Depending on the situation, this can fail, should the second incantation be weaker than the first, but if the second incantation is more powerful, it will override the first, and the original caster will find themselves trapped within an incantation themselves.
Knowledge of incantations is a dying art, due to their highly magic-consumptive nature, and the years of practice needed to learn to form and use one properly.
Dolorem readied the rest of the equipment, everything neatly packed into arm and leg pouches. He readied a handful for Lilith, who elected to wear them, alongside her splint mail, under her normal clothes. As Dolorem had said, it posed little difficulty to her movement, the only real downside being the warmth that came with wearing four layers, even if they were all relatively light. Dolorem retained his shinobi garb, only adding a rust-coloured haori to the outfit, as was common in the city.
The rest of the day was spent visiting the temple complex in daylight, as one was free to do. Dolorem scanned every square inch of the place for potential routes of entry, escape routes, guard rotations, even markings in the cobblestones indicative of high foot traffic. Lilith did more of the same, paying close attention to the guards' equipment, mannerisms, and attitude. She could read people far better than Dolorem ever could. After two hours of inconspicuous reconnaissance, they met up again at the temple gates.
Lilith spoke first, "Guards aren't your run-of-the-mill, they're attentive, and well outfitted, they're like a private army. Oh, and I get the impression that there are more than we see, just a feeling."
"Makes sense." Dolorem murmured to himself. "One mis-step and they swarm the place like rats. Thank you, Lilith, you've done excellent work."
"Thank you, I know, I am pretty fantastic." She said in a pantomime display of overconfidence. "So, what's the plan?"
"Well, the easiest route of entry would be via water, out the back, where the temple has its back to the harbour. I'll stick to the wall, then climb up at the corner. There'll be less chance of being spotted that way."
"What about me?" Lilith asked.
"To be fully honest I'd rather you stayed relatively uninvolved in this one, you're still on the mend and I can't justify putting you in harm's way." Dolorem said, trying his best not to sound patronising. "As the plan is, all I need you to do is guard the portion of beach I'll be escaping via, it should be relatively quiet."
"Fine, but don't blame me if you die." She joked. Dolorem didn't react much. In fact, he seemed entirely lost in thought. Lilith noticed how stress had harrowed him, scoring deep trenches beneath his eyes, and bleaching his hair at the roots. He seemed to be years older in a matter of days. She hoped this affliction would be temporary, a necessary sacrifice for a life spent peacefully afterward.
Dolorem's head spun, he desperately wanted to run from the situation, find somewhere far from the war, settle down and forget it all, but he couldn't. It wasn't right. Night was gathering by now, and Dolorem brought Lilith back to the safehouse, in the hopes of getting a few hours sleep prior to the heist. He rolled out a sleeping mat and collapsed, hoping to fall asleep before his thoughts had a chance to disrupt it. He was followed by Lilith, albeit more gently. The warmth of another person beside him should have been comforting, but he felt deep fear because of it, because he had something to lose.
Dolorem managed to get some sleep eventually, broken and marred by nightmares as it was, every little helped. Lilith couldn't manage, however. She stared at the low ceiling of the room, thinking. Anxiety settled in her stomach, taking root. Her life was in genuine, constant danger. She didn't have the luxury of regenerating from harm, nor the Orochi's powers to support her. If she died, she died.
The night wore on, and Dolorem rose after midnight. Lilith got up, her eye aching dully. Dolorem was fixated on his equipment, inspecting each piece. "Are you feeling alright? He asked Lilith, picking up on something being wrong.
"Just tired," Lilith answered, "I'll be better once all this is over." Dolorem examined his sword's edge and curvature, "You're not alone in that…'' he murmured.
The two made their way out onto the street, enveloped by the chill of the night. A handful of lights still cut through the dark, and the hum of the typical skullduggery and iniquity that came with the cover of night rumbled through the streets. They made their way toward the waterfront in silence, and were undisturbed as they did so thankfully.
Once they reached the quay, Dolorem began constructing the folding boat, tying it at the joints with twine. In the distance, Lilith saw the haze of lanterns. Six, maybe seven ghostly lights made their pilgrimage through the mist. It was doubtful they could see her, not in this poor light.
Dolorem stepped into the boat, flimsy as it felt beneath him. The water below was like a sheet of black mercury, the smells of salt and sewage rising from its onyx depths. He took the oar, and began to row, waving Lilith an unseen goodbye. The way to the sea wall of the temple complex was relatively calm. Dolorem found himself fully alone once again in the dark water, The Orochi's cranial lurking having somewhat subsided since his nightmare.
He hugged the wall throughout his entire journey, willing himself to blend into the dark crevices and nooks of the seaweed-ridden walls. As he got closer, his oar strokes had to become more deliberate, more silent. The telltale pounding of guard's boots signaled his arrival at the temple complex' seafront wall. At one point, a torchlight peered out over the ledge, and Dolorem had to halt progress, heart pounding, one hand on his oar, the other with a vicelike grip on the trenches cut into the wall by the sea. His shoulders burned as he resisted the rising urge to gasp out. Something dropped from the above platform, it was a bucketful of ash, no doubt emptied from a brazier. It landed in the water with a hushed bubbling. The footsteps turned, and faded off into the night.
Dolorem exhaled. His hand unclenching from the wall, coming away abraded by the rough stone. No other partols passed him on his way to his point of entry. Once he reached the sandy deposit he untied his boat's leather bindings, and re-folded it. Carefully, he covered it with a thin layer of sand for secrecy, and began his next labour.
The wall leading up to ground level was made of smooth pebbles, interspersed with larger boulders, and mortar to bind them. Handholds were rare luxuries, but the brew of salt and waste had somewhat weakened the mortar. He reached to his thigh pouch to retrieve his climbing claws, intending to use them to make handholds, but the Orochi stopped him.
"You can imitate the beasts, or you can become one of them." It said, Dolorem looked down at his own hands, them having gained a thick scale coat, and becoming tipped by hooked claws.
"Snakes don't have claws, they don't even have limbs," Dolorem thought, somewhat puzzled.
The Orochi gave what Dolorem was the serpentine equivalent of a snort. "All that's happened and that's your first thought? Even for a human you're an oddity. Anyway, my form is by choice, ever wonder why I appear in some legends as a dragon, and others as a snake? I've changed over time, just like you."
"Can't say I've lost sleep over it." Dolorem said, beginning the climb, spurred on by The Orochi's vigour. He cut deep troughs into the weakened mortar, using the claw's curvature to anchor himself. He reached the top of the wall with ease, hanging onto a scar in the rock just below the ledge. He'd wait until the next patrol passed. He felt an absurd sensation of vibration as the guard approached on his route. He could feel the steps as he took them, the fall of heel and toe. He could pinpoint the guard's exact position, his weight.
Once he passed into darkness once again, Dolorem pulled himself up and continued. His next task would be to bypass the outer wall, by climbing it. Dolorem unbound his grappling hook and flung it over the some-twenty foot shear wall. He couldn't risk marking it. If for no reason other than destroying property left evidence. Dolorem also felt a twinge of guilt, being the aggressor in this situation, breaking in to steal from people who had done him no harm. He wormed his way up the rope, the hook having lodged firmly at the overhang on the wall's opposite side. Once on top, the Orochi spoke again.
"Don't feel bad Dolorem. These are decent people, no doubt, and they certainly believe their intentions are noble, but my sword belongs to the tides of causality, not the confines of a temple. It's a tool for use, not a god to be worshiped. It'll be yours, then by death or misfortune, one day it will find a new hand, and from that one to another. That is the natural order of our world."
"Thanks," Dolorem whispered. "Let's focus on getting it." Dolorem crouched, slithering across the wall. Despite his lack of cover, he was relatively safe. "Us humans," his master had taught, "are designed to look around us, and down, what's above, that is of less concern. Use that to your advantage."
Dolorem hopped from the wall, down onto a storehouse rooftop. He used his arms and legs to compensate for the impact of landing, moving with the force to silence his jump. On a flat surface, rolling would have sufficed, but a flat roof was a rarity. He leapt from rooftop to rooftop, as a wraith, only pausing to allow a guard patrol pass. He reached the central building without a hitch. From one of his pouches he drew a firecracker chain, and with a quick hand seal, lit the fuse. He swung the chain over his head before letting it fly into the temple's plaza. Once it went off, he'd have sound cover and a distraction to get in, without having to resort to violent means.
The roar of the firecracker alerted the guards, and the sudden rising of footfalls and tumult of voices began. Dolorem located a weak panel in the wall, between two sections of roof. He wove the seals of one of his wood jutsu: his fingers glowed with warm amber light. He plunged them into the wood, his magic making the wood as malleable as butter. The aged pine wood was pushed to either side. Once he squeezed through, the wood returned to its normal shape, the solid surface totally pristine.
The inside of the sanctum was eerily silent, in sharp contrast to the chaos unfolding outside. Moonlight filtered down to the centre of the room in brilliant shafts, all focusing on the focal point that was the Sword of Gathering Clouds. Dolorem descended the wall to stand before the decadent golden altar. A glimmering magical barrier encircled the installation, a final bastion to deter would-be intruders. Dolorem had little idea what kind of magic was used to form it, so reversing the technique would be next to impossible. His mind raced through possible options.
Barrier spells were usually one-directional, allowing passage one way, but not another. Weaker defensive ones could be broken by heating the air on the inside, breaking it at its weak side. A similar principle applied to ones built to restrain. Unfortunately, this was likely made by a master abjuror. No expense would be spared to protect such a treasure.
Dolorem had an epiphany. The dome of force was a hemisphere. Carefully, he extracted a throwing needle from his arm pouch and pushed it through the bubble of magic. The barrier put up little resistance to the metal. Once his fingers contacted the bubble though, a jolt of pain shot up his arm. He jumped back, nursing his now-broken fingers. The barrier prevented living things from entering, but slow moving inorganic material was allowed through, so air could circulate. His fingers contorted and snapped back into place. He carefully withdrew his throwing needle, avoiding touching the barrier again.
The forcefield had a "floor" on the inside, a foot-wide horizontal slab of force that encircled the altar. If he could reach under that, he could pull the sword out under the barrier. The question was how.
After some deep thought, he noted that the granite slabs of the floor were somewhat loose. He certainly couldn't lift them, but he could fit something between them, like a root. He wove the appropriate hand seals and touched a point on the ground. It was the same technique he had used on Priscilla, albeit on a slightly smaller scale. The willowy, fibrous roots snaked between the slabs, burrowing beneath the packed-earth floor and beneath the barrier. A wave of relief spread over Dolorem once the twisted wood pierced the floor on the other side of the barrier, leafy tendrils curling around the altar and around the blade itself.
As he willed it, the sword was grasped and pulled underground by the vine, once it receded from beneath the barrier, the slabs on the ground settled back into place. After a few seconds Dolorem saw the hilt emerging between his hands. Hurriedly, he tore it from the ground, shaking and sweating profusely. He felt the Orochi's presence. "You've retrieved it. You have my thanks, Dolorem." It said, Dolorem exhaled, relaxing his shoulders for what felt like the first time in years. "Right," he gasped, his mouth parched. "Let's get out before…"
He was cut off by the sound of a coarse voice that sounded hardened by countless millennia. "Incantation: Sage's Mountain Prison." Dolorem felt the entire world shift beneath him. Suddenly, he found himself in a colossal stone arena, unarmed and unarmoured save for his undershirt and hose, facing off against a hulking figure, perhaps three metres tall, with a flowing mane of black hair. Beneath a demonic mask burned crimson eyes, staring into his very soul.
"My name is Ironhand Aeonis, Champion of the Storm King. Five-Seals Dolorem, you hereby stand accused of grand larceny against the gods. In the name of my Lord, your penalty is execution!"
"I should've expected this," The Orochi growled. "Only way out is through him. With my sword, we might stand a chance."
Aeonis approached, a massive black greatsword in hand. In truth though, that thing was too big to be called a sword, too big, too thick, too heavy and far too rough. It was more like a heap of raw iron. He brought it down with inhuman force, even at his size, it was a small miracle he could wield such a thing, let alone one handed. The impact of the blade cleaved the paving slabs where Dolorem had stood but moments ago.
Dolorem leapt back, drawing the Sword of Gathering Clouds. Without looking at it, he sidestepped Aeonis' deadly cleave, and struck hard with the blade, point focused right under the behemoth's ribs.
The blade shattered in a shower of rusted scrap. In Dolorem's hand was an antiquated blade, with corroded blade and a rotted hilt. It wasn't even remotely usable. Aeonis slapped Dolorem on the top of the head, knocking him to the ground and shattering his collarbone. Before Dolorem could pull himself from his daze, Aeonis' sword had been rammed into his ribcage, shattering organs and bone alike, splattering blood and viscera across the arena floor. Dolorem went blind with the pain, even as the Orochi's power pulled his mangled torso together, he gasped and choked up blood.
Aeonis withdrew his sword and turned to leave, and Dolorem, eviscerated as he was, despite his organs being reduced to shredded offal, dragged himself to his knees. Through intense, burning pain, through blood-corrupted lungs and shattered bone, he stood up, blood still pouring from his mouth. Aeonis turned to see him in a wavering battle-stance. "Five-Seals," his voice boomed. "I strike you down and yet you stand! Why is it you wish to prolong your suffering? How many deaths must you die by my hand?
"Because…" Dolorem gasped, weaving hand seals to turn his limbs to steel. "Because… " he croaked again, his whole body shaking. "Because… that's…"
"Because that's what it means to love someone." He finally managed, clenching his hardened fists. "Because I want… to live, for Lilith."
Aeonis leveled his blade at Dolorem. "You may be a noble one, Five-Seals, but a thief is a thief. I have stood for millennia against your kind, and will do so for a millenia more!" He roared, charging.
Dolorem leapt over the blade, stomping it into the ground, before charging up the slab of steel and striking Aeonis in the face with a venomous right hook. The blow momentarily startled the giant man, Dolorem followed it with another, then another, each strike weaker than its predecessor, until he was swinging pathetic blows, barely glancing off Aeonis' mask. Tears flowed down Dolorem's face as he desperately swung with mangled hands, over and over, despite them doing nothing to harm Aeonis.
"You fight with heart, Five Seals' ' Aeonis growled. As fast as a man half his weight, he grabbed Dolorem in a stony gauntlet, eyes burning an even brighter crimson than before. He slammed Dolorem into the ground like a ragdoll, face first. Over and over, each impact adding a new broken bone or ripped tendon, each lift shaking strips of torn meat off a shattered skeleton. Once satisfied, Aeonis dropped Dolorem's utterly destroyed body, leaving.
Dolorem couldn't move. Not because of pain, but simply because he lacked the infrastructure any longer. The Orochi felt panicked, knowing there was a limit to what he could heal. Another assault like that would surely kill Dolorem. Still, Dolorem, as soon as his body regenerated at all, was attempting to stand again. The moment a bone or ligament was back in place, he was pushing it to perform. After three agonizing minutes, he was on his feet, shards of the Sword of Gathering Clouds in hand.
Aeonis looked on in pity as Dolorem staggered forward, gasping for air, trailing crimson footprints and vermillion splattering beneath him. Aeonis stepped forward, wrenching the two halves of the blade from his grip. "Five-Seals, you have my respect."
He stabbed him through the chest with both halves of the snapped blade, spearing him and lifting him high. Blood trickled down the corroded metal, dripping off Aeonis' hands.
He dropped the shredded body of Dolorem, blades still embedded in his body.
Dolorem lay on the ground, dead.
He was yet to be robbed of sensation, but his heart had ceased to beat, pierced by the tip of his own sword. Just as his vision abandoned him, he felt something awaken deep within him. His heart restarted. Beating, slow, strong beats, like the thunderous sound of a war-drum. Dolorem was flooded with feral vigour, his wounds closing, blood being drawn back into his body. He ripped both halves of his sword from his body. Leaping to his feet.
He slammed the bloodsoaked shards together, the weapon reforming in a burst of tempestuous winds. Aeonis shielded his face from the razorlike gale. He lowered a lacerated arm to see Dolorem standing once again, this time proud and tall. His wounds were healed. His body, where his shirt had been ripped off, bore beautiful cloud-pattern marks on his revitalised muscle. He bore an insane grin, and in his hand he held a reformed Sword of Gathering Clouds. The ancient leaf-shaped blade had been replaced by the slender form of a katana, hilt extended into a daggerlike blade at the hilt, capable of being removed for use.
He took the blade in both hands. And raised it overhead, wind swirling around it. He swung down, cleaving the air before him, slashing through Aeonis' right arm with ease. Aeonis stopped in shock, examining the wound intently. He charged with the blade in hand. Dolorem blurred as soon as the blade made contact with where he was. The afterimage disappeared, and Dolorem was behind him, cutting a deep furrow into his back, before sweeping low and slashing his achilles tendons.
Aeonis spun around, trying to backhand Dolorem with his sword. Dolorem parried, his willowy blade deflecting the obscene mass of iron. Aeonis recovered and brought his weapon down vertically. Dolorem blocked, then twisted beneath the huge man, cleaving him from the centre of his chest to the shoulder. Dark red blood sprayed from the wound, and Aeonis toppled over, falling on his back.
Dolorem stood over his defeated foe. Aeonis drawing pained, rasping breath. "Five-Seals, I…" he gurgled. "I'm… scared." The gargantuan man trembled. Dolorem knelt beside him. "It's alright, I'm here." Dolorem said.
"All these years, my life was extended by my duty, a prison in return for safety from my one fear. Now, it's all disappearing." He wept. "I don't want to go!" He cried out.
Dolorem's face was grave. "It's ok, Aeonis. It's not so bad. You fulfilled your duty as a true warrior, you die with your honour. Hold your head high."
The light faded from Aeonis' eyes. "Maybe… I existed this long… to live for our one, glorious fight…." He said, the death rattle beginning in his throat. Aeonis' body turned to ash an instant later, and Dolorem found himself in the temple once again, re-armoured and rearmed, crying and shaking. "Maybe so, Aeonis."