Actual Play (AT LAST!)

[order99]

  CANTO II

   Another day at work, hard labor and long hours on a breakfast of cheese and stale bread, barrels of ambergris and blubber to process, mix with wild herbs and ash and begin the process of making scented soap, the mixing of plant oils with fat for creams, the Petal Press creaking and groaning non-stop and with an alarming rhythm. Marc Legrand spent hours just chopping literal bushels of wild violets into a salad that the Press could digest without being overwhelmed by stalks-he made the time fly by asking questions of the Imp in his coat pocket, though the latter still seemed to be sulking...

  Tell me O mighty Imp-would you change the Tides of the Earth itself for this paltry soul of mine?

  What about commanding the Sun be still overhead, in mockery of our Creator?  If my spirit be forfeit at least commit  a blasphemy worthy of notice?

  Ah, what about a Wish to elect the next Pope? A simple matter, that-yes?

  Hardly a simple one, replied the creature in his mind at last. But it could be done. Are you truly interested-or simply bored again? And no, we won't disrupt the very Planets in their paths for the sake of your Barush-

 Aha-you use the Hebrew definition...Body and Breath make a living soul?  Which means the payment results in my death always?

 I-am-not-supposed-to-give-you-knowledge-for-FREE!  Clever...so Wish for Immortality and find out...

 Marc grinned as he chopped more violets-as horrible as the fate hanging over him was, sometimes he actually enjoyed sparring with Importune as a release from his daily misery. I'll not wish for that-either i'll end up a completely indestructible object with no life in it, or i'll age normally and beg you take my life in a mere century or so...

  If you only knew what Great Work your Breath would yield, Human, you would simply give it to....NNNnnnrrggg!!!

  Aha. So tell me and find out. Perhaps I would simply submit my spirit-shall we find out what my answer would be?

  For a moment only the great noise of gnashing iron teeth answered him-and the the Imp replied almost sadly, I would tell you. But it is forbidden. My voice is sealed by greater Powers than mine. I would have you Deal honestly with me, with full Understanding...and if you refused me, then at least we would be done. Honestly Human, do you not believe that I am as weary of this bond as you?

 Marc Legrand  narrowly missed chopping his own fingers for a moment. Are you truly sick of this bond? Then tell me how to end it. Let us go our separate ways at last.

  It.Is.Forbidden. Such a clever one you have become, to torment and tempt me as if I were the mortal-I am very nearly proud of you. But I am weary now of our little jests-let me be.Let me be.

 Huh.  "So you're as weary of me as I am of you," muttered Marc Legrand under his breath, "and  a Great Work turns upon my capitulation to damnation-a riddle worthy of the late Doctor John Dee himself!  But i'm no sorcerer to command Angels to my will, I can't even interrogate a Bound spirit..."

  Only silence answered Marc in his head-and at last he heard a sound he had ignored before, a rhythmic pulsing from the Petal Press that should not be there, and a frenzied shaking of the frame...

  "Mister Galte!" screamed Marc amidst the noise of the factory, "The Press lost the balancing-arm! We have to shut it down immediately!" But Galte, back turned and reading a ledger, didn't appear to notice...Marc gestured at the other Petal Press workers and several of them backed off and away-but suddenly the Press shuddered free of the massive bolts pinning its feet to the floor and charged forward like a living beast and pinned seven bodies to the far wall.

  And just to make matters worse, a pile of oily rags caught flame  and ignited three barrels of rendered whale oil-what in God's Name are those even doing here? thought Legrand- and in little time the room began to fill with pungent smoke.

  "Galte! We need to move this Press before the men burn alive! Hurry!"

  "I'll need more men", replied Richard Galte coolly, striding through the far door-and closing it behind him. The two workers left free to move tried to follow the factory owner-only to find it locked. This wasn't an accident thought Marc as his stomach curdled in him. None of them were. Galte's Oil and Perfume is...sacrificing us?  Marc's practiced eye noticed the regularity of the room, a perfect square, the pit a perfect circle, the five spots where the Petal Press had bolted...Yes. A sacrifice Pit. This entire room patterned after those of the mad architect Jack Hawksmoor. Some student of the Spirit World I am.

  Ten men, including himself-the number of Perfection. Importune, Marc implored silently, what happens if two Pacted beings die in another's Pacted sacrifice?

  I said spare me your riddles for now, hissed the Bottle Demon.

  This is no game Importune. See what I see.

  "This is intolerable", spoke a voice behind Legrand. Marc turned, and at last he saw the creature that had tormented him so for a decade. They were man-height, slim and sexless and smooth and translucent, with tiny tendrils of mist floating across their form. A blank, featureless face gazed placidly at him.

   "This Pact interferes with our own", muttered the Imp. "Under these circumstances I may assist your escape. Nine die rather than ten-and our clash of wills and trial will continue."

   "I will not leave these men to die", replied Marc with gritted teeth.

   "I leave you no choice. Blame me for their deaths if you like."

   "It is you who have no choice, Importune," growled Marc as he leaned against the wall with knees gone rubbery, "for at last I have discovered a Wish worth my soul."

   "I am listening," replied the creature quietly.

  "Save these men. Spare nine lives, and take me for the tenth. They must all live-and with good health and no crippling injuries. Do  we have a bargain?"

  "I...cannot. A Pact must not interfere with another Pact. Nor can I allow you to die here and be free of me-because that interferes with our Pact. I am...bound in this manner."

   "Leave these men to die", whispered Marc,"and i'll end our bond with open wrists tonight.One way or the other, you will lose."

    Marc Legrand felt the Demon's hands upon his shoulders in an almost brotherly gesture-they felt like flesh. "Such courage. Listen. Promise me your dying breath Marc Legrand-and I will empower you to save them.You are free to act where I cannot. I will not take you until your task is done-and if you perish in the attempt  ere I collect you then your very spirit is free of the Bargain. Will you accept?"

   Marc swallowed, feeling rancid smoke in his throat. "Yes", he managed at last.

   "Done."  A tiny silver disk the size of a dime appeared in the Imp's hand, a token of the Pact-and Marc Legrand distorted into a massive, inhuman bestial being with flickering glassy eyes, a Horned Crown of black iron, massive three fingered hands and bronze skin balancing on gleaming hooves. "I leave you to it, my worthiest of victims", saluted the creature as they casually strode through the locked door-

 -into the path of a tall, lean man wearing smoked lenses and an impeccable silk hat. The man frowned as if he had attended a bad play, and made to lift the lenses from his face.

  The Bottle Demon knew all too well who the tall man was and what he could do. "Your pardon", quavered the Imp as they inclined their head,"but I only do what I must. If that means that I...End here, so be it. I would pass, if I may."

  The man with the glorious hat paused, considered-and passed the creature to one side.

  I almost wish that he had ended me, thought the Imp glumly as they descended through the earth as easily as a raft through a lake...

 END CANTO II

[order99]

CANTO III


   The creature called Importune by their final victim descended downwards through packed earth, clay and stone, past a vein of magma-and then sideways into a pocket of cold, magical darkness, deep, deep below-and within the endless fissure deep within Creation languished the Grigori, the Apostates who abandoned their duties and bred with the Daughters of Men, chained with Darkness itself, unable to bear the touch of sunlight, moonlight or even starlight. Only the least of them, bolstered by stolen magics, could wander freely in Creation, protected by their flask of black iron, swollen with stolen power from Melchior that they might break the Grigori curse and allow them access to Allah's Creation again...

   But instead of joy at the liberation of their kindred the Imp felt only a deep, dark river of sorrow at the loss of their latest victim Marc Legrand...he had proven immune to the lures of wealth, of power, of pride, of lust-the memory of an angry youth mutilating himself into sterility to thwart his Destiny arose in the Bottle Demon's mind and though gender-less themself they shuddered in empathy-and in the end it had been compassion for others that had proven fatal to the poor wretch.

  But why this sorrow? Why did Importune mourn? Soon their kindred-who oddly enough resembled the Imp in no way whatsoever-would be free, free to teach all men the ways of Sorcery again, to slake unnatural lusts with human women, to once again birth to the Vital Race in vengeance for what Allah had denied them...

 Importune had never assumed a gendered form, had never lusted for the daughters of Eve, had never burned in the light-why was that? How had Melchior found resources  and power to bind the Imp into black iron, and why no others? Why had they just addressed the All by a Persian name rather than Elohim or Iahovah  or the boundless other masks of the All?  Why did Importune not open the doorway, raise their fist in triumph and begin the Great Work that would free their brethren?

 It was this light in their hand, this brilliant token of the life of a righteous man-it burned in their hand like a hot chestnut, blunting ambition and sowing confusion and making sorrow in their heart. The sooner Importune wrapped this burning light in cloth, gestured open the hidden door between there and here and placed the final and Fortieth stolen Holy Breath into the light-proof altar, the sooner the Great Work would ensue-and if Allah (stop that!) would stoop to murdering the Earth again to stop their kind at least it would be with fire and not flood...

 But first-another few moments to gaze into the perfect, flawless enchanting light of purity. It was in truth, the most glorious and beautiful thing that they had ever seen...

****

  Powerful three-fingered hands  grasped a leg of cast iron and heaved-almost enough, the entire assembly of the Petal Press rocked forwards, nearly an inch. Twenty men with ropes and pulleys had labored to drag the apparatus to its stone slab-but whatever Marc Legrand had become he was nearly strong enough to move it on his own! Marc heaved again and was rewarded with nearly half an inch of scraping on stone...

  -And then the men inside caught sight of their would-be rescuer and began screaming-and a full stone crock of violet-scented face cream smashed into the back of his skull, feeling as gentle as a Mother's Kiss but filling the room with the scent of burning flowers. " Stop distracting me," snarled Marc,"i'm trying to save them!"  And then Marc hesitated at the sound of his own voice, powerful and metallic as a trumpet-

  "Save them for your Dinner most likely!" shouted one of his attackers in a shaky voice, grabbing  a chopping hoe but not yet quite nerved to attack.

  "If I wanted to devour you lot," roared Marc in the voice of a Cathedral Mass,"I would wait until you were properly smoked! So help me move this press, NOW!" Not bothering to see if his words had any effect, Marc turned back to the iron machine and renewed his grip. Another laborious half-inch...

  "Not-not to be ungrateful," quavered one of the men trapped behind the iron press, "but-but what manner of creature are you?"

 

  "Ten minutes past," grunted Marc Legrand,"I was a man just as yourself. And as to what manner of thing I have become-I intend to live long enough to find out!" And Marc kept pulling, kept pulling-and human hands joined in, one pair to each side of him. With three at the task another inch was gained, then another-then the gap was big enough for a human bicep, and seven sets of hands pushed with what little leverage they could muster...but the smoke grew thicker, blinding sight and choking off air, and by the deep cough in his own bestial throat Marc knew that he was not immune either. Not enough time.

  Marc had not dare pray in a decade, his attempts always being drowned out by derisive laughter or blistering curses-but he was alone in his own head at last. "My Father," began Marc hesitantly, "I have committed  the greatest of blasphemies-I have sold my Birthright to your Eternal Enemies for gain. I deserve only damnation. But these men with me are innocent of my sins! I beg of you Father-rescue them from the flames! I Beg you!"

  Deep within the monstrous torso of the transformed Marc Legrand, a heart made of iron-heavy river clay beat exactly once, sending a trickle of ichor coursing through his body. In moments, the forest of screams in his head that had made it so hard to concentrate flowed into a harmonious choir...and Marc lifted the heavy iron mechanism as though it were made of feathers. (Raise Elephant-Editor). He glanced at the walls, two of brick and one of plaster and wood, due for an expansion when the permits cleared-

    "Behind me!" laughed the titanic horned beast once known as Marc Legrand-and as the men obeyed the creature shot forward on sharp hooves as if fired from a gun, wielding a two-ton cast iron press like a lance. The poor wall ahead never stood the least hope of a chance.  (Wrecking Roll vs Wall with a Bonus Die for charging with a Battering Ram!-Editor).

****

   As the creature known as Importune gazed into the image of a selfless soul the disk suddenly flared, bright as the sun! A light akin to the Creator's own seared the Imp, blinding them and bathing them in its radiance. No sin could stand in that light, and no falsehood-and as the Imp reeled near-senseless on the stone floor barriers in their mind shattered like thin crystal, one by one, and images trickled through their brain like the gentle flow of a brook...

  Suleiman's Blessed Beard, thought Rais Al-Kamael  as they arose-what have I done? What blasphemy has that Apostate forced upon this unworthy worm?  For Rais had never been a Grigori, never served the merciful Allah directly, never seen the Paradise nor the Perdition spoken of in ancient texts-for those places, if they existed at all, were for Mankind, and Rais was a being of smokeless flame, called Ifrit or Djinn, and knew not Mother or Father or an afterlife if one existed.

  Certain texts spoke of War between the races of Djinn and Man-but that was a lie. For even if the Ifrit had desired war with Adam's Race the World had turned, and the abundance of power needed by the ephemeral races began to fade. Casual spellcraft vanished, leaving only those of certain Bloodlines and wisdom capable of  wrestling the stubborn rivers of sorcery. The Ifrit, caught in a drought of what they needed to live, began to fade and sicken and perish while sturdier races of clay continued with their lives...

  No, it had not been a War that wise and merciful Suleiman had begun,it had been a people-wide rescue, the Twelve Tribes-and some others who had learned the process-came to the Djinn, bound their lives to clay and glass, brass and iron. The price was service of course, but by and large the burden was easy and the yoke was light...Sons and Daughters of Adam came and went in their generations, some virtuous and some wicked, and each faded in turn.But the Bound Ones continued on and on (save for the ones bound in ceramic and glass-it had been most short-sighted of those men!) and on, traded to Master after Master as all had agreed to in the Covenant.

  And how Melchior of all beings, wondered the Ifrit, managed to possess my flask-that would be a tale worth torturing out of the Apostate King. Instead, Rais pivoted on their heel and walked away-let the unworthy creatures howl for all Eternity, they would not receive the Barush of Marc Legrand, they would dwell for all Time in Darkness-

  Leaving them with 39 stolen sparks of Divinity, meant to return to the One...and hopes of acquiring a single extra spirit to unleash them again. With a heavy sigh, Rais  reluctantly bound the gleaming token with muslin cloth and began the passes that would open the  doorway to the imprisoned Grigori. Merciful Allah, prayed the Ifrit, have compassion upon this deluded being forced to work evil workings. I beg of you-give me the Wisdom to return to You what is Yours. I beg. And through the doorway shuffled Rais Al-Kamael, to be greeted by total darkness and the reptile slithers of their hated foes.

****

  Marc had just succeeded in herding the nine men out when a bolt of pure burning agony lashed across his back like a jagged blade-the first time that he had felt any pain in this form at all. "Wretched Thief!" snarled an all-too familiar voice. "You DARE steal the ones marked for Baal?  I will flay the skin from your bones and wire your skeleton for a puppet! Your soul will be my plaything for all Eternity! I will-"

  You will die under my hooves, finished Legrand through the dim moans echoing through his skull.Whatever powers you possess, I will pit them against mine and crush the breath from your braggart's body-but as he turned and strode back into the light cast by burning fat the factory owner screamed, paled and fell flat of his face in supplication. "MASTER! I didn't know it was you! I DIDN'T KNOW! Please...forgive your Devoted Servant!"

  He thinks...that i'm his loathsome Master? Well then..."INSIGNIFICANT WORM!" bellowed Marc in the voice of a dozen trumpets, "You dare assault me? ME!!"

  "I didn't know!" screamed Richard Galte through a mouth full of dirt. "I meant for those men to be slain for your Glory! I only wanted to re-create the idol destroyed  last month! I needed the bones for pins and the fat for-"

  "I care not what you need!" snarled Legrand, getting into his role. "These men are mine-to slay or to save as I choose! Why should I honor our Pact any further?"

   "Please," moaned Galte, only slightly muffled by the soil. "Take all that I possess! My money, my factory, the lives of every stinking wretch in this town if it pleases you! But don't abandon me, please do not abandon meeeee..."

  Marc placed one powerful hoof on the factory owner's spine-and pushed gently. "Remain supine in the dust," intoned the beast conversationally,"lit by your own burning factory-and do nothing else until the Sun's first rays hit your face. That will be your Penance for this-lapse in judgement."

 "I OBEY!" shrieked the prone man-and at last Marc let him be. and returned to the men, who still shrank away. "Paul Carnevan," spoke Marc as softly as he could-and Paul started as if stung by a wasp, but approached. "The men still fear me," spoke Marc sadly, "so i'm leaving them. Make sure that they get home safely-and let them know that Richard Galte is a Diabolist. They might not be safe here anymore once he discovers that i'm not actually his foul false god."

  "I'll do that," replied the worker with a steady voice."But we're missing a man, Marc Legrand. He's a little on the small side-"

  "Oh no Paul," muttered the bronzed minotaur sadly. "You aren't missing anyone at all."

  " Oh my God. Oh Blessed Virgin, Marc-"

  "Don't tell the men. This Devil's magic may not be forever-I may be myself again by tomorrow-"

  "But what if you aren't ?" replied Paul quietly.

  "Then i'll see of PT Barnum is hiring," joked the beast-man. "Bon chance Mon Frere..."

  Near to tears, Paul Carnevan simply nodded and walked away.

****

  " WELCOME IMPORTUNE," grated a voice as of stone on stone. "ARE WE TO BE FREED?"

  Never, thought Rais to themself. "I have the final spirit," replied the Ifrit aloud. "Freedom is so, so near-once my Payment is made, naturally."

  In the stillness of the deep abode, one could have heard a single beating heart.

  "YOU...BARGAIN?" thundered the gravel voice.

  "It's what I do," replied the Ifrit. "But only for what was already promised me. Restore the memories you took from me oh Melchior...the memories of Heaven, our affairs with the Daughters of Eve, the pride as we gazed upon our children, the punishment we have endured together-knowledge of my True Name. Restore to me what is mine so that we may celebrate as brothers."

  "AFTER THE GREAT WORK HAS BEGUN-NOT BEFORE."

  "You promised otherwise."

  "YOU WILL OBEY ME."

  "When I am repaid," replied Rais mildly, amused to his very core.

 "I TWINNED MY POWER TO YOURS THAT THE WORK BE ACCOMPLISHED," roared the stony voice,"AND YOU REPAY ME THUS? SEIZE HIM!" And Rais could feel and hear cold, hushed movement around themself-so they loosed the muslin just a crack...and Lo, There Was Light-and cries of agony.

  "A bit too bright?" joked the Ifrit conversationally.

 "OBEY MY WILL LITTLE GNAT-OR I SHALL SPEAK YOUR TRUE NAME AND UNMAKE YOU UTTERLY!"

  "Do so."

  "I DO NOT BLUFF."

  "Nor do I. Say the name."

  Only the slow hiss of magma answered Rais.

  "As I thought," replied the Ifrit. "You never knew it-but I know yours...Orlanthiel."

  "_{Noooooooooooooo}," screamed the Grigori  at his new volume, utterly powerless.

  "And now you wretch," commanded Rais, "I command you-you who would force a Smokeless Flame of Allah into Evil doings-Destroy the Altar and release all of your stolen lives!"

  " _{Seize the Djinni!}" screamed Melchior-but instead bodies wreathed in smoke and smelling of singed hair broke open the seals of the altar and fled screaming from the bright light therein...Rais opened the Barrier with a gesture, watching the unforgettably beautiful sight of 39 spirits wending their way back to the Almighty One. "A pleasure doing business with you," remarked the Ifrit mildly-and shut the Apostates in Darkness what one hopes be forever.

  The Ifrit moved sideways once more, then upwards-but their insides writhed as if a storm dwelt within. What is this, wondered Rais briefly-and then they knew. Of course. I all but Unmade Melchior, and with his power gone from him it leaves me also-all the better then! And the Ifrit continued up and up and up, shedding stolen power as a bird molts feathers. First to go was the powerful ability to mold Creation in pale imitation of the One-then went the power to create waves deep enough to drown cities. Then the power to make the earth shake, then the power to make from nothing in mockery of Allah-one by one Rais felt abilities leave them, the False Resurrection, the calling of Unclean souls into the flesh of the Ghul, the power to transmute one metal to another, then the power to fly at the speed of thought, then the summoning of the Uncountable Insect Horde, then the ability to melt steel and stone with a gaze, then to impregnate a being of clay-as if the Ifrit would have ever used that one!

 At last the Ifrit shed the power to become immaterial-and a bolt of sheer panic gripped them-but already they were above ground and unharmed. "The Universe is kind," spoke Rais in gratitude, and knelt for a moment. What powers remained to them were wholly their own, and that was precisely as it should be. Rais readied the Invisible Wings in their mind-but the burst of power did not come, nor the lessening of gravity.

  Fool, Rais reminded themself. You are bound forever to the iron flask.If is is owned by a Son of Adam then you may only use you Powers when commanded to...and now that Melchior is diminished-

  The Ifrit shuddered as if with cold. The holder of their anchor was a man that they had systematically tortured for over a decade-and whose parents had died by their hand.

  "Oh Great Merciful One," prayed the being of smokeless flame aloud,"Please let Marc Legrand be as understanding and compassionate as he is righteous!" And with the stride of a man condemned to torment the Ifrit went to find their Master and return the token of an annulled transaction...

 END CANTO III

[Edited because Spellig iz hurd...  ]

[order99]

 CANTO IV

   Marc Legrand had found an accommodating boulder-several logs had collapsed under his massive bulk-and sat.  The dawn's first rays has caressed his face...but it was still the broad, shark-toothed and hell-eyed face of the Beast of Baal. So, thought Marc glumly, I am either to deliver my soul to Perdition or be cursed with a demon's form forever...

    Even so, one was still a magnitude worse than the other. Marc had mentioned PT Barnum as a joke, but-assuming he didn't get immediately arrested or killed by the townsfolk of the Bay-a freak show might just be the best option out of this terrible hand he'd dealt himself. He could, hmm, batter himself until what passed for blood oozed out of him, stagger up to some farmhouse feigning helplessness, make up some cockamamie tale about too much to drink and falling off a Circus train...some initial suspicion (probably involving a crucifix and Holy Water) an offer of manual labor for a train pass. Eventually word would reach the newshounds and interested recruiters might drop by-then the company of others not unlike him, meals and coin, getting used to this noise in his head that broke his concentration...Ox? Minotaur? Certainly not a Demon's name...Auroch. Yes, that would roll off of a carnival barker's tongue-

   And then a body sat next to Marc Legrand's-and he abandoned all of his dreams of continuing his life in any form whatsoever.

   "Fancy meeting you here," said the Imp conversationally.

    "Indeed," replied Marc, finding that utter despair often generated a calm all its own. "So...the Bargain was kept. Nine men lived who would have perished-and barely even a bruise or a cough between 'em. You kept your end of things...and I owe you what I promised. Take it when you're ready-i'll not try and stop you."

    "I-no longer desire your Barush," answered the creature hesitantly. "Indeed-it has undone Melchior's so-called 'Great Work' entire. The selflessness of your desire overcame all-and undid the black enchantment the Grigori had bound my will in. Thirty-nine spirits of your line are reconciled to Allah, and this-belongs to you." Gently, the creature pressed she tiny, shining token into Legrand's palm, where it dissolved. "What I don't understand," continued the faceless manikin,"Is how you still maintain the Outcast Rune of Melchior and its protection."

  "The..Outcast-"

  " A pale imitation of the Mark that Allah protected the First Murderer with, that others would not slay him. You were to be preserved until...you...gave in. But with Melchior's power and corruption gone entire from me it should have dissipated along with him, melted into the deepness of the earth with his diminishment-it is puzzling."

  Marc brought his bestial brows together in concentration. "You mention Grigori, Melchior...are we speaking of the Book of Enoch?  The Church declared it non-canonical, but-"

  "It is close enough to the way of things. The Hell you feared was not for Men-but for the Apostate angels that led to the very Deluge. They plotted to walk again in the light with forty human spirits-but your courage has undone them and freed me to serve you with the zeal that I once possessed! Forgive me Master, but we have never been properly introduced...I am the Ifrit Rais Al-Kamael, bound by the merciful Suleiman that I may serve the holder of my flask-which is you.  My power is not as great as it was-but what remains, you command until you pass me to another." 

   Marc Legrand closed his hellish eyes in pain. "I no longer hold the flask. When I changed, it, it went away somewhere, the same place my clothing and my...humanity disappeared to. I suppose that i'm stuck like this now."

  "Only if you desire it-your other form but sleeps while this one is awake. If you wish to give away your power for mortality again Master, you must only  picture the iron flask, touch my flesh and order it so. "Do you indeed wish this?"

  " I do," replied Marc, picturing the bottle and brushing the Ifrit's shoulder-and with a simple shudder, the massive bronzed creature was gone-and a slim man in his work-clothes stood in the creatures place-shuddering with relief. "I pray," remarked the man once he could speak again,"that I never become that blood-slimed, screaming thing ever again!"

  "The Beast of Baal," replied the Ifrit, "will never trouble you again unless you command it of me-or one with Sorcerer's Blood, but they would need to know your full name and have a bit of you in their power, so it is unlikely-"

  "Wait! Can you not rid me of it forever?"

  "I no longer possess that power," replied the faceless humanoid with reluctance. "But the Tulpa, the false ghost of that which never lived, given false life from a thousand sacrifices-it will sleep forever if you wish it so. It is only a tool to be used or stored as you will it."  The Ifrit shivered in the sun. "I am cold," they muttered. "Why am I cold in the sun?"

  "Use your power to build a fire then," commanded Marc Legrand. "I will it of you."

  "I do not deserve your mercy, yet I thank you," replied the Ifrit. "Still, you must touch the flask as you command me."

   "Easy enough-ouch!  Something sharp in there-" Marc pulled, expecting his carving blade-but instead it was the iron flask...and it was utterly riven, as if by an avalanche of stones.

   "Ah," spoke Rais at last. "That is why I am cold...oh Allah take me for a fool, Mechior could not have darkened my mind without corrupting the Holy Seals of my anchor. And now his power is gone from it. Why did I not see this?"

  "Huh. Well...I suppose that means that...you're  free now. Congratulations are in order I suppose."

  The Ifrit chuckled bitterly. "Free? One supposes! I am indeed Unbound-and soon I shall be utterly without bound...I suppose that I shall at last know if the Merciful All has prepared a place for the Barush of Djinn and Ifrit."

  "Wait-you're dying?"

  "Indeed. I have known the Mercy of Allah for a thousand of your lifetimes-so long ago that his chosen family of sheepherders called him Yah. At least I go to my end  with a whole mind again-though I had hoped to atone for at least a portion of my misdeeds."

  Marc Legrand placed a hand on the creature's shoulder. "I...don't know what to-i'm so sorry. I'll miss you-"

  Entire flocks of birds fled the sound of raucous mad laughter that seemed to echo through the canopy of trees.

  "You-Hah! You would-Heh! you..." Gasped Rais between convulsions. "By all of the Prophets that ever lived! I have tormented you and yours for forty generations! How can you have such compassion on this wretched thing after all that I have done?"

   Marc Legrand  knelt down to meet the sitting Ifrit's  faceless visage. "That-wasn't you. That was...some horrible thing that was done to you. This person I see now- Rais Al-Kamael-that person is one I will miss, very badly."

  "You have mercy equal to Suleiman himself, Mark Legrand. And it occurs to me that there is a thing I can do for you." The Ifrit placed one translucent hand on Marc's cheek. "Listen, o my final Master," they spoke, " my full and True name is Rais Ibn Zarkar Surya Al-Kamael-and while I live, it is a name to conjure with! Picture your deepest desire-if there is power enough left in me it shall be accomplished in an eyeblink! And if my power is insufficient-then your way shall be eased towards it.  Wealth, Health, Companionship years of Good Fortune-say aloud my Name and wish it."

  Marc picked up the Ifrit-he was diminishing, shrunken to the size of a newborn calf.  "I have had my fill of wishes, Rais," he said simply. "Is there a way to re-bind you, to one of these rocks or my knife or-"

  "You do not have the knowledge or power of Suleiman, my Master and friend. Please-make your desire known before my last breath-allow to to atone, I beg you..."

  The Ifrit was the size of a beagle now. Marc bit his lip, raised his head to the sky, and made his wish. "By the power of Rais Ibn Zarkar Surya Al-Kamael-this world shall not take my companion from me! I forbid it! He will not fade from this earth! I...so....command!"

   "_What?" gasped Rais, the size of a puppy now. And from a clear sky came peals of iron thunder, and a bolt of tripartite lightning  grounded itself through Marc Legrand-and for a moment, there seemed to be three of them.

****

   "Well that was interesting" , remarked Marc Legrand  aloud as he carefully rose. There were tendrils of smoke and a smell like roasted grass coming from his clothing-but the man was miraculously unharmed. But there was someone unaccounted for-

   "Hey-" started Marc...and realized that he could not remember what his companion had been called. His faceless, translucent form was imprinted deeply in his mind-but there was no name. "Hey," he settled for calling, until a bit of movement caught his eye. It was....his friend, the size of a cricket, crawling up a stalk of tall grass, and Marc placed a hand nearby to catch them.

  "This is going to sound insane," began Marc,"But I can't remember your name."

  The tiny creature pondered. "_{It was-sunshine? A Camel? Ridiculous. I...don't know, sir. I don't know}."

  "This must be part of the Wish," remarked Legrand. "Wait-when Adam was in the Garden, the Almighty tasked him with naming all that walked, crawled, swam or flew. And I am a son of Adam, so-By the Authority of the First Man Adam," intoned the still-smoking figure, "I name this creature Impresario Doorknob Timepiece Morninglord Travelogue!"

  "_Seriously?" replied the tiny man-but power rushed between the two, and the tiny Ifrit grew until they were just larger than Legrand's open palm. "Aaaaaaaaaaaaah!" cried the Imp with joy, stretching their frame to a full six inches,"I live! I Live! But how?"

  "Not-certain," grunted Marc, holding his head in both hands. "But-I, I...know sorcery..."

  "How can this be, Master Marc?" inquired the Ifrit, "and how did you re-bind....great Suleiman's Beard, you bound me to your living skull!  It is beyond all possibility!" The Imp gently poked their Master on the cheek. "And you do know Sorcery-but lacking the Blood you must use the Old Way to cast, and since the World has so changed the Old Way is dangerous. I advise you to to use my powers instead-though I am far diminished, what I am is in your service until your very bones are dust-"

  The Imp was interrupted by a horrible growling sound, and looked hurriedly around for predators.

  "Er, sorry about that," muttered Marc. "I haven't  eaten since last breakfast. Let's see-I have funds for about four decent meals, no hope of returning to Galte's mill, no prospects for further employment without carpenter's tools and-do you need to eat, my friend?"

  "I do not," replied the Ifrit, "though I delight in tea and coffee. Still, you have a bright future ahead-"

  "HAH!"

  "-You have a carving knife," continued the Imp,"you have some coin, you still somehow have the Outcast Rune and its protection, Allah knows how...you have coiled within you the Beast of-"

  "Auroch," interrupted Marc. "I won't be called the name of a false god."

  "You have the Auroch, you have spellcraft, though it is hazardous to you...and though my powers are those of a newborn-you have me. Honestly Master Marc-how can we possibly lose?"

    Shaking his head in amused disbelief, Marc Legrand placed his familiar in his wide coat pocket-not the one with the knife-and marched into Lighthouse Bay from the edge of the forest, seeking breakfast.

****

  "I still can't believe you convinced me to place three dollars of our bank loan on-horses!"

  "Was it not for charity?" replied Impresario, carving tiny highlights into the gargoyle's wooden face with an awl the size of an Imp-sized sword. "And did not over a thousand years of gamesmanship win us enough for tools, a modest shop to live and labor in, food and drink and a soft bed?  Was not the loan repaid early and with interest? Did not all three steeds I wagered on place?"

  "Well, yes," muttered Marc Legrand. "But don't tell me that you knew a hobby-horse on wheels was going to place First!"

  "Alas, I did not. That one was indeed for charity. But Allah blessed our endeavors-and more-so when you decided to donate half of our bountiful harvest to the medical practice!"

  "Well," replied Marc," I never had the money to donate before! It was the most...amazing feeling. I intend to make money enough that we can do that again."

  "We shall so prevail Master Marc," stated the Imp fervently. "How does the face strike you?"

  "Perfectly malevolent. That's actually better detail than I can manage without a magnifier...so when did you become a carpenter?"

  Impresario placed the awl back upon the rack. "The very same moment that you became a Spell-worker, Master Marc. As your servant, your crafts are shared by me for your betterment-"

  "Pity that didn't work in reverse," spoke Marc.

  "Indeed. You speak neither Arabic nor Hebrew nor Greek, your Shah game is terrible and your cooking still mediocre."

  "Well, I suppose that in the kitchen you'll just have to be the Master," teased Marc.

  "Allah forbid I should have such responsibilities," grumbled Imp in return-but then the brand-new copper kettle whistled and badinage was dropped as hands gripped a stoneware mug and a copper thimble...

 END CANTO

****

  [Editor's Notes-well, most of the action was pure Role-playing (Per Negaton adores character depth) but he really racked up the Good Deeds for saving nine lives at a pop, plus some XP for immediately 'defeating' a 5HD Mobster with magical powers... Per earned 8 Karma, kept 3 for later use on any of his PCs, converted 5 to 500 XP and placed all 650 into the Auroch despite Marc's reluctance to use it unless in extremis...]