When I cross this line, I become a criminal.

"Name?"

"Langdon Kruz."

"Occupation?"

Singer of Nuarta’s Praises.

"Sir, your occupation?"

"Tinker."

"All right, Mr. Kruz, you may pass, may Wallethere be with you."

"And you, Sir Guard."

Thus was the way that Langdon Kruz entered Irelia, becoming a criminal for the worship of Nuarta(1).

* * *


The oxen pulled the tinker’s cart through the great gates at the border of Irelia. Langdon stifled a grin, since he could have just as easily gone around the gates, skipping the process entirely. Making the world a better place isn’t about doing things easily; it’s about doing them right. Langdon understood this. He had traded an entire book of battle spells for the money to gain this cart. The only spells left to him were scribed in his first spellbook, the one he used as an apprentice. All simple spells, not a slaying spell among them. So was Nuarta’s will, so it is done. Sing praises.

The rest of the commune(2) said that he was a lunatic, and perhaps he was. The other disciples of Nuarta weren’t so blessed to receive the word of Nuarta. A Mission, A Quest, a Martyrdom. Perhaps it was that he never took a partner, or that he was still shaking from the alcohol coursing through his veins when he told them. It was the feast of the Blue Moon, the second full moon in a month. He had wandered away from the table, in order to obey a calling far less divine then the one from Nuarta. The Moon spoke to him(3) . It told him to sing the praises of magic to the world, show people its beauty, its function, but not its destructive capability. Any fool with enough learning could destroy a village, but it took true skill to build one. Langdon was the fool with the skill. How does one deny a god? Especially one that has blessed someone so many times as Langdon?

Just a few simple spells were all he had. A spellbook thin enough to make people believe that it was the bottom of his pack. The mighty spellbook of slaying spells, incendiary incantations, and engaging enchantments is far away now, used to fund his Martyrdom. Two oxen, one cart, a traveling forge, tin, and wares. Not to mention the training to use such items. For the last two years Langdon has prepared. To prepare, he had to see magic with a child’s eyes. Langdon relearned what it was so beautiful about magic, so attractive, so magical!

He realized along the way that some of the simplest spells available to an apprentice were some of the mighty magics that called him to Nuarta. Colored lights, a helping hand, a quick-starting fire, and fixing broken things. All amazing to the common folk of the world. All things an apprentice could do(4). Yet some required more; Langdon was one of them. At one time, to summon an army of minions to his side was easy, to drive a tower to ruins in moments, were all things he was capable of. In the last two years, he relearned many things, and forgotten or discarded many "sacred" tenets of magic. He was at last ready. A Mission that would change the world, or kill him. He thought that the second was more likely.

* * *


Night was falling. Langdon could carry on if he was truly in a hurry, but the magical light he would use to prevent the oxen from breaking their legs would call attention to him. He needed somewhere to stay, and perhaps a usury, to exchange the coins in his pack. Langdon was still near the border, and the only place within sight was a small temple of Wallethere. He decided to press his luck; so far Nuarta was with him.

He tied off the oxen to a post near the door of the temple, and walked up to the doors. A quick knock, and a priest answered the door.

"Can I help you, old one?"

"Yes, Father. I am a wandering tinker, and I am need of a place to pass the night."

"A tinker? An honorable profession, please come in."

"Thank you, Father. Do you have a place where I can refresh my oxen?"

"You may draw some water from the well. Please use the buckets marked for such, we do not want the buckets mixed."

"Of course, Father." With a quick nod, Langdon walked out of the building, and filled a pair of buckets for his oxen. After seeing to the beasts’ well-being, he returned to the inside of the temple.

"Father, I am just a poor tinker, I have nothing to pay you with. Is there some service I can provide for your temple?"

The priest looked at him, and considered. "You said you were a tinker, long beard?"

"Aye. I mend things, I make things, and I trade in things."

"Do you know anything about music?"

I sing the praises of Nuarta, bigot.

"If you intend on me singing for my supper, I must decline."

The priest laughed, a deep hearty laugh, from the belly. "No, old one. This small temple is known for its organ, but the organ ceased working some months ago and no one has been able to fix it. If you could take a look at it..."

"Of course, Father, but I couldn’t tell you if I could fix it properly. I know not of such things, but I will try."

"Trying is the first step to success."

"A tired old saying, but no less true for it."

"Well, I will leave that to you. I must visit some elderly parishioners that are bedridden, give them Wallethere’s blessing."

"Of course, Father. You tend to the soul, and I will attend to the organ."

"Thank you, old one." The priest left Langdon to the organ.

* * *


Langdon got out his backpack, and took out what appeared to be tinker’s what-cha-ma-callits. In reality, they were components of spells-- bits of wood, strings, and little leather pouches full of nails. In a few moments, several helpers were disassembling the musical instrument, while Langdon directed them(5). The organ was not made to be taken apart, and if it weren’t for the ethereal nature of his servants, it never would have come apart. Once in pieces, he looked over the bits. A good deal of them were broken; some could be fixed by hand, or replaced with items from the cart.

While he was gathering pipes, tubes, and wires it began to thunder. The sky obscured his view of Nuarta. An ill omen. Well, at least it is the right climate for blasphemy.

Langdon took the pieces that were unsalvageable and threw them away. He then picked up the broken pieces that he did not know how to fix, and gathered them into a pile, and within minutes, the broken pieces where mended. Langdon’s supply of minor magics was almost depleted, and those that were left were of no use in this situation.

Langdon then directed his ethereal helpers to reassemble the organ. It was a thing of beauty, a thing of magic. The bellows filled with air. Langdon tentatively pressed one of the keys, and a low note echoed around the small temple. The door opened, and drenched the floor with water. The priest’s face lit up, hearing the deep rumbling note.

"You fixed it, tinker! How in the world did you fix it?"

Langdon looked at him, spread his arms out, and gave a little smile. "Magic."

The priest looked him strangely, and then gave another deep belly laugh. "You almost had me there, old one! A jest amongst the best! Magic! In a temple of Wallethere! As if such a thing were possible!(6)"

You would think that, you small-minded imbecile. Langdon just kept smiling.

"Play something for me Father, something singing praise."

"It’s been some months, but on such an occasion, I feel obligated."

Langdon slid away from the bench, and went to pump the bellows. Air whirred through the pipes as a long, sorrowful melody gradually turned from a funeral dirge to a lightly tinged celebration. The Birth of Wallethere, born from the blood of a murdered god(7). The priest stopped playing as the song rose to a crescendo.

"You must be tired after fixing this, old one. Come, allow me to show you to a bed where you can rest."

"Thank you, Father."

Langdon’s head hit the pillow, and his last thought of the night was that tomorrow would make or break him.

* * *


Langdon was up with the sun, as is the custom in Irelia. His oxen were taken care of, and he was about to set out on a new day, cleansed from the storm of the last night. The moon was visible just over the horizon, about to set.

"Thank you for your hospitality, Father."

"No, old one. It is I who should be thanking you! You have restored my small temple to its former glory! You shall always be welcome here!"

"Forever?"

"Forever, long beard. I give you my word."

"Thank you, Father."

"Who is it that I am giving my word to, old one?"

"Langdon Kruz."

The young priest’s face fell, and the color drained. "You weren’t lying?" said the ashen-faced cleric.

"I never lie. I fixed your organ, with magic."

"The corruption!"

"Ox droppings. I did nothing that could not be done with your own two hands.(8)"

"You should be burned!"

"Its been attempted before. You know of where I was born?"

"The City of the Damned? You mean-"

"It’s no story. I am Langdon Kruz, the same man who destroyed an entire village and raised them as undead. It was I who fixed your organ."

"Why?"

"You showed me hospitality."

"Are you going to kill me?"

"What for? Offering me hospitality forever? I think not! It would be a waste." Langdon reached behind him, and took an axe from its place in the cart, and threw it to the ground. "You have a decision, father."

The priest, barely old enough to shave, too young to remember the sins of Langdon’s past, looked at the axe.

"That organ was fixed by magic. Either you can take that hatchet and destroy the organ on which you played such a beautiful song of praise to your god last night, because it has been corrupted by magic. Or you can take that hatchet and bury it. Tell people a tinker fixed it, and sing more praises. I have a feeling a good many of your parishioners have not been attending service since the organ fell silent. Keep the organ, and regain the lost sheep, or destroy it."

"What is keeping me from gathering the faithful to burn you at the stake?"

"Absolutely nothing. And I will do nothing to prevent it. I have a lot to atone for, Father."

With a click and a word the oxen pulled off, leaving the priest staring at the axe.

* * *


Langdon smiled. The priest had a shadow of doubt. He would probably keep the organ, and sing more praises, but there was no way to be sure. He may be dead by nightfall, but it would remove something of beauty from the world. The music, it all came down to the music. Opinion didn’t change overnight, nor did doctrine. It happened one person at a time. The music would bear it out, and the only thing magical about that is the same thing that all music has. The ability to stir the soul, for the musician to change feelings by putting his feelings into the music. Langdon would take it one day at a time, one person at a time, until he died. The beauty of Magic needed to have songs of praise raised to it, especially by those who lived in fear of it. When no one lived in fear of magic, and saw the beauty of it, the world would be a better place. Langdon doubted he would live to see that day, but perhaps he would help it come about.


Footnotes:
Editing and Footnotes by Adam Wells Davis

  1. Nuarta (pronounced NAR-ta) is the Melurbian deity of magic and the moon. The Theocracy of Irelia is ruled by the clerics of the Nethenist religion, a monotheistic faith dedicated to the worship of Wallethere (pronounced (WALL-a-theer), the Living Tree, god of rebirth and craftsmanship. Nethenism considers arcane magic of any sort to be a blasphemy tainted by the touch of the devil Traad, and thus Irelia is the only one of the Seven Baronies to outlaw wizardry. Within Irelia’s borders, the worship of Nuarta is seen as no different than that of Traad, and Nuartans, like the wizards who comprise much of their faith, are burned at the stake.
  2. Among their more esoteric beliefs, Nuartans do not acknowledge or practice the sacrament of marriage, arguing that, like the waxing and waning of the moon, love may ebb and flow with time. All children are considered legitimate by the church (they are named for the father), and there is no concept of adultery. Most Nuartans form long-term partnerships of love, which frequently last for the couple’s entire lives, but such bonds are informal and may be freely interrupted by liaisons with others or permanently broken at any time, even if the couple has children. Needless to say, the Nuartans’ beliefs give the church a (half deserved) reputation for sexual scandal, and members of this faith are frequently scorned or shunned even in areas where the religion is legal. Consequently, many Nuartans live in commune-like groups apart from mainstream society, where partnered couples may freely live together or drift apart among others who believe as they do, and children are raised collectively.
  3. Nuarta is considered to actually be Kaerith’s moon, and that body goes by his name throughout the Seven Baronies, save in Irelia, where it is called Ama Ranil, Irelian for "Jewel of God."
  4. All of these effects may be achieved by cantrips or the simple 1 st -level wizard spells dancing lights, helping hand, and mending.
  5. The items listed are the material components for the 1 st -level wizard spell unseen servant , which conjures invisible aides to assist the caster in mundane tasks.
  6. Many Nethenists are of the belief that wizardry cannot be practiced on ground sanctified by Wallethere. In some of the larger temples of Wallethere, special blessings actually prevent the casting of simple spells, but in most Nethenist sanctuaries wizards are capable of using all their magics, albeit with some difficulty. In any sanctified temple of Wallethere that is well-maintained and receives regular worship from a flock of dedicated believers, cantrips do not function and arcane magic is easier to resist (in game terms, the DC for any arcane spell with a saving roll is lowered by 2).
  7. According to Nethenist mythology, Wallethere was created when the sun-god Farus, husband of Britigit and patron of craftsmen, was murdered by the evil death goddess Iara as part of her bid to slay the gods one by one and rise to the top of the Melurbian pantheon. When Farus’ blood fell on the soil of Elamonel (the earth goddess and mother of the gods), a mighty tree sprung from the ground; that tree, a magical being of great wisdom, was Wallethere. Nethenists believe that the Melurbian gods, caught up in their own politics and too removed from the material world, have lost their claim to divinity, and Wallethere, born of divine blood but still tied to Kaerith, is now the true lord of the world. Because of his origins, however, Nethenists have great respect for the goddesses Elamonel and Britigit, a more guarded approval of Britigit and Farus’ daughter Liltin (goddess of love and life), and a deep hatred for Iara, viewed by them as the killer of the father of God.
  8. This is the precise reason most often cited in Nethenist theology for the blasphemous nature of magic. Wallethere inherited his father Farus’ role as the patron of craftsmen, and magic is viewed by Nethenists as a shortcut to true creation, an energy granted by the devil Traad to tempt mortals by allowing them to attain their wishes without effort. A mage, they say, can conjure in seconds what a skilled craftsman would take weeks to build, mocking the effort and skill of the man who has worked hard to create a thing of beauty. Wizards counter that magic itself is a craft and an art difficult to master and control, but the Nethenists view it, and anything touched by it, as tainted. No Nethenist is permitted to learn arcane magic, employ any wizard to cast a spell on their behalf, or use any object created by magic.