Illegal Magic

Silent they crept through the woods, sure and steady. Spry and swift, they crept forth on bent legs, always hiding in the shadows of the trees. Their only light was the Full Moon, glaring down at them, cold and unforgiving. Nevertheless, even now the five of them could feel subtle power work upon their minds. Through the night they went, advancing in stealth. Following a dirt path worn with use, they finally came to a great copse of trees, within which lay a great clearing. In the center of the clearing lay a circle of tall, standing stones surrounding a fire pit, stocked with firewood and oil. Sprinkled within appeared to be numerous herbs. With cautious steps, the travelers stepped into the clearing, cowled heads swiveling around. Their dark cloaks obscured their appearances, each one looking like the next, each person there tense. As the quintet finished fully entering the glade proper, the lead figure raised their head and sniffed the air once, twice, and thrice. They turned to their companions. 

“All clear,” the report came in a feminine voice. Immediately, the other four straightened up. The group advanced to the circle of stones, the moon casting them into shadow. Coming to the stone circle, the five of them casted off their cloaks onto the ground, revealing themselves to the world. Wolf pelts were draped over their shoulders, the faces of those noble beasts covering their heads and obscuring their faces. Images of prowling wolves were painted in black all over their exposed flesh, looping around in circular patterns. The five individuals took one last look around to ensure they were truly alone. It would not do to be interrupted by the Inquisition, afterall. 

“Alright, let’s do this,” the first speaker once more gained the attention of her fellow conspirators. With a muttered cantrip and a wave of her hand, a plume of flame emerged within the fire pit, hissing and steaming in the summer air. Before their very eyes, the flames turned to a pale blue, seeming to drink in the Moon’s light. Firelit shadows danced across the stone circle. From beneath the pelt of a white wolf, a goatskin drum bearing the wear of time was pulled out, as was a drumstick. Taking up positions in the gaps in the circle of standing stones, they all stood still. No one moved a muscle. 

Boom, doom. Boom, doom. Boom, doom. Boom, doom. Boom, doom. 

The beats of the drum broke the silence of the night, echoing into the darkness. 

 Boom, doom. Boom, doom. Boom, doom. Boom, doom. Boom, doom.

The rhythm of the drum attuned itself to the beat of their hearts. 

 Boom, doom. Boom, doom. Boom, doom. Boom, doom. Boom, doom.

The Full Moon stared down at them, as they began their rite. The drummer slightly increased the rate they drummed, head beginning to droop. Long, russet locks spilled from beneath the wolf pelt as feminine features peeked out. 

“Hail to thee, oh glorious Moon! Hail to thee, kinsman, ally, Lord and Master!” The words of the drummer rang out clear and bold. Upon her speaking, the other four began to stamp their feet, shifting first to the left, then to the right. The hoods of their pelts began to slide back, revealing glazed eyes. 

“Hail to you, Midnight Eye, hail to you, Shadowed Lord!~” her companions began to sway, never ceasing their shifting about. 

“Hail to you, King of the Night! Hail to you, Father of Wolves!” In the distance, a lone howl pierced the air, haunting and forlorn. 

“Hail to you, son of Duspadar! All hail the Lord of Werewolves!” The ritual fire blazed into a tower of sparks, bright and furious. The air itself seemed to grow colder, summoning a cold wind from the north. The drummer raised her head skyward, glazed eyes gazing at the object of her invocation. The grip on her drumstick slackened even as her pounding became erratic and unsteady. The movements of the other participants were just as unpredictable. Their eyes took on a haunted glimmer. Without warning, she increased her drumming, her body gyrating with the beat. Her head jerked back and forth as a low growl emerged from her throat. Her companions copied her, bodies jerking and shifting, never still. Without warning, one of them let out a bark, setting off a chain reaction. Soon the clearing was filled with the sounds of animalistic cries. Their eyes began to take on an amber glow. 

“Mighty Lord, Mighty King, Father of Winter, Silent Watchman, Bane of Vampires,” the voice of the drummer thickened and slagged, the words slurring together. The other four dropped to all fours, crawling around the blaze before them, growling and snarling. Their features twisted, lupine shades twisting along their shadows. A cold chill settled down on them from above. The four participants raised their heads to the object of their ritual, howling and baying with all their energy. Without pausing, the drummer stood up and raised her head to the sky once more. 

“In sight of bitter and ancient Moon, 

Forsake now we do the shape of Man. 

Bone shall break then mend anew, 

This is our cause, our mission, and plan. 

Consumed by the madness that we call upon,

Our minds shall bend in ancient rite.

They shall wither and decay and shrivel and burn,

Until wolfborn spirits possess us this night.

See the skins that we now wear?

We now will become the skins we bear. 

Now, by Great Moon’s will, we become the beasts that kill.” 

Her voice, starting in a low murmur, rose to a greatest crescendo at the end, screaming the last line with all her might. Her compatriots' behavior intensified, each of them shaking in a maddened frenzy. The fire in front of them blazed higher and higher, casting greater shadows into the night. Her incantation finished, the drummer paused her drumming.

“Beast-child, skin-changer, wolf-walker,” she whispered. Drum and drumstick dropped from her hands. She fell to her knees and onto all fours, and raised a furred snout heavenward in a wild and unrestrained howl that sailed into the sky. Her cry was joined by her fellows, who let out crazed barks from wolflike faces. Fwooosh! The blazing fire suddenly extinguished itself, leaving the area dark save for the Light of the moon. In the shadow of the circle of standing stones, glowing amber eyes peered out. Ceasing all sound, they padded on silent feet into the dark woods, and into the depths of night.

Decades may pass and she could be old and gray, Lysandra will forever recall the tongue lashing her uncle gave the provincial Governor of Dalriada this night. 

“Alright, let me get this straight,” Commander Lysander pinched the bridge of his hook like nose in a vain attempt to ward off the stupidity he was forced to endure. “First you issue a blanket ban on all rituals in the province, then you arrest dozens of well known individuals who protest said ban, then you receive several reports of your agents dying in mysterious circumstances, and now you expect the Imperial Legions to step in. Do I have that right?” He punctuated his query with a raised eyebrow. His interlocutor flushed a deep crimson, his round face taking on the form of a ripe tomato. 

“Well, yes, but-” 

“Governor Symeon, have you been partaking in mushrooms lately? Ignoring the fact that your ban is technically illegal under Imperial Law, ultimately the deaths of your followers is an internal matter, and neither the military nor the Inquisition for that matter have any jurisdiction in this matter.” Commander Lysander removed his fingers from his nose and gave the Governor an annoyed glare. “You issued the ban, now you have to take responsibility for both the backlash and the fallout.” Governor Symeon gaped slack jawed. Slowly, he rose from his chair, shaking.

“Y-y-you, y-y-you, Y-Y-YOU~!” Governor Symeon seethed, raising a quivering hand. His left eye began to twitch. Lysandra subtly slid to the side, not wanting to be on the other end of the Governor’s infamously short temper. Her maneuver was just in time, and she held her breath as the Governor’s temper finally broke its binds. 

“You PATHETIC, USELESS, EXCUSE FOR AN IMPERIAL OFFICER! YOU ARE A FILTHY IMPUDENT BOOTLICKING DISGRACE TO OUR NATION!” The furious Governor pointed a shaking finger at her uncle, who merely brushed his platinum bangs out of his eyes and then inspected his nails, resting one leg on a knee. The unimpressed look Commander Lysander shot Governor Symeon only made the official angrier, a snarl full of teeth taking up a scarlet face. 

“YOU ARE USELESS IN EVERYTHING YOU EVER DO, INCAPABLE OF DOING ANYTHING USEFUL WITH YOUR MORONIC AND IMBECILIC LIFE!” The Governor raged on, spittle flying from his mouth and landing on Commander Lysander’s sun kissed face. The officer merely took a gray cloth and wiped his face with it, a grimace lining his features. 

“I understand you speaking to me, but must you also spray me as well?” Lysandra blinked as a whistling sound sounded from the Governor, steam beginning to flow from his ears. The thin brown strands that could only loosely be called hair rose up as hot air started circulating around the room. Lysandra brought a hand to the bronze necklace that rested at her throat. With a low whisper, the air around her cooled off, although she noted her uncle merely flexed his hands, elsewise showing no signs of discomfort. Looking at the Governor, Lysandra once more slid into a small alcove just as the room caught fire in a burst of heat and smoke. Immediately, she pulled her ash wand from her sleeve and waved it about, clearing her section of the room out. Commander Lysander had a similar idea, hands moving to clear the room. He gave Governor Symeon a condescending sneer. 

“I trust that you will be more reasonable now that you have had your daily temper tantrum,” while his voice remained conversational, a familiar glint of irritation lurked in his azure eyes. His body was also tensed in his arms, legs, and shoulders. To his credit, the Governor looked rather abashed at his lack of composure. 

“My apologies, Commander, my nerves are rather frayed of late ever since the assassinations of my servants began.” Governor Symeon sighed, sinking into his seat. He rubbed his forehead with a palm. 

“It is very frustrating that my edicts are continually being contested by the folk.” Lysandra made eye contact with her uncle, eyebrow raised and head tilted at the Governor. Commander Lysander inclined his head in her direction. Turning to the Governor, he inclined his head.

“Remind me again, why did you think banning all rituals in the province was a good idea?” The question seemed to light a new fire in the Governor, whose face hardened with a mixture of fury and grief.

“My wife and children killed themselves in their practice of ritual magic,” he gritted through clenched teeth. “My wife? Killed after Summoning a Demon after forgetting to make sure the containment circle was complete. My son? Tried to curse his rival and ended up cursing himself to die from a broken heart. Literally. As for my daughter? She couldn’t conceive with her husband in the first few years of their marriage, so she turned to fertility rituals. The one she chose required a living sacrifice, and she failed to take that into account. She died giving birth to my granddaughter, and I have been fighting her husband for custody ever since.” Governor Symeon frowned, anger gone and replaced with despondency. “Too many people attempt rituals and end up getting hurt. It's for the best that they are banned.” Lysandra and Commander Lysander side eyed each other, faces blank. Commander Lysander let out a breath through his nose, fixing the Governor with a sober gaze. 

“Have you ever considered that ritualists would simply go underground and ignore your edict?” Judging by the flinty glint in the Governor’s eyes, he had.

“Furthermore, have you considered that your family members were incompetent….” Commander Lysander trailed off, a look of dawning realization blooming on his visage as the Governor stared him down with blank eyes. Her uncle coughed and tried a different approach. “Generally speaking, most practitioners of ritual magic learn from experienced teachers before attempting anything too dangerous, and it is commonly held that if they are held to be incapable of performing one without any issues, then they should not attempt them by themselves. Your family did not take the necessary precautions, preparations, or research, so none but they are responsible for their fates.” Seeing the Governor adopt a thoughtful expression, Commander Lysander continued. “So long as the ritual does not violate the Laws of the Empire, what people do in private is not the concern of the State. While your ban comes from a good place, the citizenry of this province do not understand or care for the reason why you’ve banned rituals, only that you are interfering with their personal lives and liberties. But,” Commander Lysander raised a finger to forestall any interruptions, “If you were to repeal the ban, then it will improve your public relations with the masses.” Governor Symeon stroked his chin and thought. While he was musing it over, Lysandra sneakily turned to her uncle and pulled out a rolled up piece of paper from her cloak. Commander Lysander pointed a finger at her before turning to the Governor to hammer the final point home. “A few bureaucrats in Arcanagard also took the time to reach out to my staff, apparently the capitol received hundreds of complaints about this ban of yours, most of them calling it ‘A gross abuse of power,’ and ‘Overstepping your authority,’ according to what I have heard,” The commander mentioned, making air quotes throughout. “Chances are the Ruling Council will strike your ban down if only to preempt having to put down a rebellion so soon after the Kinstrife.” All three of them in that room shuddered at the thought of the grueling civil war that had wrecked their nations decades ago. Governor Symeon slumped down in defeat and sighed. 

“Very well, you’ve convinced me,” he admitted. “I will repeal the ban tomorrow.” While he was sulking in his seat, Commander Lysander gave Lysandra a cheeky grin and flashed her a thumbs up. Lysandra crossed her arms and felt her eyebrow once again inch up her forehead. Her uncle’s face fell. Knock! Knock! 

“Your Excellency, I come with news!” The door opened as the messenger entered. Shaggy straw colored hair blanketed a pale face. Lime green robes did nothing to hide how thin and lanky the Governor’s aide was. In one hand he carried a tray, bearing a jar of wine and some cups; in the other he held a rolled up roll of parchment, carrying a wax seal stamped with a wolf's head sigil. He visibly gulped as he took in the scorch marks on the walls, along with the charred edges of the furniture. 

“I will s-s-send for the cl-cl-cleaning staff,” he stuttered. He set the tray on the table and handed the parchment over. He wilted beneath the stare of Commander Lysander. He turned to leave, but a wave of the Governor’s hand had the door closing with a thud!

“You stay, for now,” Governor Symeon pulled out a knife and broke the seal after scrutinizing it for a moment. Unrolling it, he gestured for the aide to begin pouring him and his guests refreshment. While his employer read, the boy filled three cups with practiced ease, setting one in front of Commander Lysander. As he finished pouring a second, Lysandra went over and held her hand out. 

“If I may,” the aide froze. Slowly, he handed her the cup. He relaxed when she moved back to her spot by the wall to nurse her cup. Taking a small sip of the sweet vintage, Lysandra observed the Governor, who by now had finished the message, having set it aside and started massaging his temples while bridging the third cup to his lips.  

“I don’t suppose I am obligated to offer pardons to anyone caught killing my followers,” the Governor peered out to her uncle over the rim of his cup. Commander Lysander raised his drink and glanced at the aide who by now had retreated to the closed door. 

“Technically you are not obliged to do so, but it could be a potential publicity stunt. I take it someone was caught in the act?” he gestured with his cup towards the scroll. Governor Symeon rolled his eyes and sighed. 

“A pack of wolves was spotted two nights ago killing three agents outside the fort of Dun Cuanun, which was the Full Moon.” The Governor took a gulp of his wine. “Some hunters managed to track them down to the outskirts of the nearby village, where they stumbled on a stone circle, within which was a recently used fireplace, which in addition to the drum found there and the footprints bore the signs of a ritual. Based on the materials burned, the location, and the time, the ones who made this report suspect that it was a transformation ritual.” Commander Lysander straightened up. 

“A transformation ritual?” Lysandra felt her lips pull down in a frown at the interest in her uncle's voice. “Not many people are into those these days.” The commander leaned forward. “Where did you say these individuals went?” The Governor took another gulp and pursed his lips. 

“According to this,” he gestured at the report, “After they slew my agents, they went towards the ritual site then doubled back. The hunters lost them at daybreak.” The Governor shrugged. “At this point, I give up. They can have their pardon.” He mockingly raised a toast. 

“To laws no one will obey!” Lysandra winced at her uncle’s ironic echo.