Rough Work for the Firebird Card

A look at the Deck of Void

I have the first rough design for the Deck of Void printed. This one has no art on the face, only on the back. Prose only to define the cards. I have some ideas for the art, but felt getting a working playable deck took precedence. Here, have a look.

A

What is this?

This is the game that the Moral Guardians warned you about: that evil devil bargaining, magick using, demon invoking vile brainsucking game that convinces you that the walls between reality and fantasy are thinner than you think.

When Patricia Pulling founded Bothered about Dungeons and Dragons, it is this game that she was envisioning. A game that tells players that they can step into a fantasy world and that the two worlds can affect each other.

...but...

You already do this every day. You live in a fantasy world of your own design, drifting through a harsh and uncaring reality within this bubble of delusion. Every day you trick yourself and deceive yourself and believe your own lies about the nature of reality and the meaning of life. Every one of us lives inside a fantasy.

What Patricia Pulling so feared, was that people might choose fantasy worlds of which she did not approve, and over which the dominant hierarchy and mythology held no power. These moral guardians feared that you might tell your own stories, that you might escape the judgement of bronze age storm gods and the moral oppression of nomadic goat herders who hadn't yet invented toilet paper.

So this is a dangerous book. Clearly, a rebellious book now sits in your eager little hands. This book is a game, yes, but so is life. And, in fact, they are the same game.

So how brave to you feel?

Ancient Temptation of the Zombie Butterfly 6

6

- = -

Northern Badlands,  Second month of the Hot Winds, 314 APW (After the Precursor War) 

The hut had been built from sod cut out of the badlands and used as a kind of brickwork, layers of sod earth piled like flat breads in a market. The door had been by stretching a ox hide across a frame of driftwood that had likely been scavenged from the shores of the nearby brackish inland sea.

Cyri pushed open a door and stepped inside, "I have found your family's killer,"

The woman in brown did not turn to face Cyri, "I see. And what do you plan to do?"

"Well, I deal with parasites the same way every time," Cyri said as she drew her Tomahawk, "But this time, I do plan to make the last parasite suffer."

The woman nodded, "People do say that nothing can stop you."

Cyri continued, "She took lives from family after family. And she will do it again, to other families trying to heal the wastelands."

The woman put down apothecary jars she had been washing as Cyri approached.

"She will tear away at those doing the work of the Precursors, and destroy those little spots of hope again and again."

The woman turned slowly and looked at Cyri. The woman's eyes were cold, almost dull, perhaps bored.

"You will have your vengeance," Cyri said, "although I know that's a about the same comfort as a handful of salt for the thirsty."

The woman nodded, "Vengeance is a wagon wheel that rolls straight to the Blightlands."

Ancient Temptation of the Zombie Butterfly 5

5

- = -

Camel Spine Mountains,  Second month of the Monsoon, 314 APW (After the Precursor War) 

Cinnamon wiped her index finger along the bowl and touched the dry film to her tongue, "Three primary component ingredients. There's a psychadelic ingredient here. I suspect its a cactus that your mother's interrogators also grow."

"Side effects?" Cyri asked, "Withdrawal effects?"

"Virtually none. But it tends induce a certain talkative nature that the interrogators find helpful to their purposes. Then there is the Yaupon black holly, a powerful stimulant. Withdrawal includes painful headaches and aggression issues. There is also something else. I suspect a coca derivative, although that would take quite the elaborate garden set up. Hyper aggression as a primary effect and painful and damaging withdrawal."

Cyri nodded, "The gardens they destroyed at the farm were impressive. I saw a number of buildings. I saw what might have even been the ruins of some glass gardens. More than enough to match what you're describing."

The Dragon Man grinned, "You speak of the person who sent you on this little mission of vengeance? Interesting. Where is she now?"

"I don't know. It's been months. I'm not tracker enough to find her trail when it's grown that cold."

Seraphim clucked his tongue, "You did not study with sufficient diligence."

"This is indeed interesting, "The Bone Man said, "But not relevant. Our duty is to return to you to Lady Vanora."

Cyri looked up from Cinnamon, and her eyes darted as she appraised each of the four in turn. None had let down their guard. All her exits remained blocked, and posture indicated to Cyri that all were ready to draw their weapons before she could breathe in aggression.  Cinnamon looked up, and all four returned her gaze, her former teachers turned opponents assessing her chances and her intent.

She nodded.

"I surrender."

"Oh?" The Dragon Man said, "Really? Just like that."

"Conditionally," Cyri said.

"Then state your conditions protege," Seraphim said.

"I cannot track this woman. I cannot find her after so long. I am not tracker enough. "

"But we are," The Bone Man said and slowly blinked his eyes.

"But you are."

"Are we to hunt this woman down and kill her then?" The Bone Man asked.

"No," Cyri said, "I made her a promise. I must keep it. My condition is that you track her and take me to her, enable me to keep my promise."

"And then? Cinnamon asked.

"I will surrender to you," Cyri said to the assembled hunters, "I will not attempt to escape or to flee on the return trip back to mother's fortress. This is my promise, if you do this thing for me now."

"And after you reach her fortress?" Seraphim asked.

"Well, then you'll have done your duty, and any failure will be the castle guards and not yours certainly." Cyri answered.

"And those are your conditions?" Cinnamon asked.

"And food," Cyri added, "I left the bazaar in somewhat of a hurry."

The hunters looked at each other, communications passed between them in some way that Cyri had never managed to decypher. They held a collective gaze, and Cyri waited.

Ancient Temptation of the Zombie Butterfly 4

4

- = -

Camel Spine Mountains,  Second month of the Monsoon, 314 APW (After the Precursor War) 

Two men stood on a balcony that had listed to an awkward angle centuries ago. The men appeared to have listed to awkward angles themselves. They both held heads in hands and appeared to have minimal interest in keeping any sort of a watch. They wore red armor built of water hardened leather plates and leather sandals, but little else besides their loin clothes. Cyri slid the spear from her back and unhooked her banner, snapping the clasps of her banner to her belt. She crouched on the lip of a stone balcony just above the two men. She tensed and then uncoiled into a springing pounce that brought her slamming down upon the first man- spear point driving through his clavicle into his chest cavity. He spat blood as the spear found his lung. Cyri let go at that point leaving the man to flounder and drown as his lung filled up.

She turned her attention to the other man, who had turned and begun screaming an alarm call as he scurried into the safety of the cavern rather than face Cyri. She drew a forearm length throwing dart from a leg harness and flung it under hand into the man's back. The weight tip popped through the front of his torso between two ribs and he spun in a dainty little spiral before collapsing and sliding downward across the angled floor. Neither man had died yet, but neither would either be attacking her from behind, and so she left them.

She drew forth two more darts, holding one in each hand. Three more of the Forgotten Dead climbed through a title crumbling doorway into the room. Cyri dispatched two with her darts, thrown cleanly through each man's sternum. The third was just registering the demise of his comrades as Cyri slammed the blunt head of her tomahawk into his nose, collapsing the bones there and spraying blood and mucus across his leather tunic. The force of the blood tipped the man backward, and Cyri took a step back to gain range and then brought the tomahawk's head chopping down bury itself in the man's face- slipping the skull in middle and cleaving the already damaged nose into two ruined pieces as it passed through the nose to enter the skull and brain.

The body hit the ground and Cyri planted a foot on the body's shoulder and wrenched the tomahawk from the skull.

"The Cinder boy was right, withdrawal and animal instincts. Not like that makes a hunt harder though. Three done. Let's find a few more." She whispered to herself as she yanked darts from the cooling corpses. She noted a whisper of a smell, smoke on the wind: incense. The rain made detection difficult. The smell might indicate Seraphim, or it might indicate that the gangers used incense to make their drug use palatable. Cyri didn't hold much hope for the latter being relevant.

She found three more men sleeping in piles of filthy rags and killed them silently with her skinning knife before continuing on. In the kitchen she put a dart through the skull of a man who had apparently been attempting to drink away his withdrawal symptoms. The kitchen however, provided not food that wasn't spoiled or high proof home brewed alcohol. Cyri had no intention of trying to obtain nutrition from liquor on an empty stomach, and so she pressed on. She was slipping up behind a large over muscled man holding a bowl with some sort of powder when somebody coughed loudly behind her. The man spun around, chainmail jangling and Cyri swung her tomahawk in a hasty chopping strike.

"She sent you! Didn't she!" The man growled as he clumsily blocked Cyri blow with a handmade machete, "Not enough to cut us off, take her butterflies back. Not enough to leave us to suffer without the butterfly insight. No, no, no. She had to send an assassin for vengeance against our revenge."

Cyri kicked her shin into the man's nethers and he dropped to the ground with another growl, dropping the blade. The man pushed himself into a backward roll and came up on his feet in the back room of the cavern. The room had two entrances, the door the man had just used and a large window looking out into the grey sky and pouring rain.

"You're the last one, you know," Cyri said, blocking the door through which she'd entered, "You can deal with me, or you can go out the window. You might survive the fall, but I don't relish the idea of dying by exposure in the monsoon. But it's your choice.

"What do you want?" The man said, "You're going to kill me when you're done right?"

"I am, but it will be quick and it will end the pain." Cyri answered.

"That's a handful of salt for comfort." The man said.

"You can jump," Cyri answered, "If you think it's a better offer."

The man shook his head, "Ask your questions."

"The woman who sold you the zombie butterfly, you destroyed her farm. You did this in revenge, after she cut you off- wouldn't sell you the butterfly any longer. What happened?"

"We had an arrangement. We'd raid other farmsteads around her. She'd keep seeds and garden stuff. We'd get food and livestock. And she'd give us Zombie Butterfly. Some for us and some we'd sell. But people started putting the pieces together. Started figuring out hints that might tell them where the butterfly came from, or who cooked it. She didn't want that. So she cut us off, started rumors that sent people our way and kept her in the shadows. She was using us as altar goats, sacrifice us to keep her hands clean. So we said, fair's fair. If she weren't going to play fair, we weren't going to play fair either. So we took her down. She weren't there, I don't know how she knew, but she must have. Didn't warn nobody else though. She had three husbands, they died defending her five kids. Died well. They were warriors- like you, like me. So that's why. Now I've told you. Hand me my chopper, it's time you killed me."

Cyri chuckled quietly and kicked the machete to the man. He picked up the blade and, stumbling only a little, charged her with a wordless war cry. Cyri dodged his feinted first blow and rammed a knee into his gut, and then slammed the top of her tomahawk into his jaw. She dropped the tomahawk and the man struggled to reposition. She reached back and pulled a hooked dagger with a hollow pommel from her belt and rammed it into the man's torso puncturing the chainmail rings, curling the strange blade into a lung by driving it through the stomach and diaphram. Blood spilled out the hollow pommel, draining through a hole in the equally hollow blade. Cyri hated cleaning the blade, but it was a nasty end to any argument.

As she caught her breath, she heard clapping. Cyri turned and saw Seraphim and the Dragon Man blocking the door. Looking to the window she found Cinnamon coiling through the opening as the Bone Man stopped behind her crouching to block the way.

"What happened to the Cinder Scales?" She asked.

"We showed them your mother's gratitude," Cinnamon answered.

"You didn't kill my cassowary did you? I have to return it to its owner."

"Killing a beast of burden holds no interest to us, " the Dragon Man said.

"So young protege," Serpahim said, "What shall we do now?"

"Actually," Cyri said pointing at the discarded bowl containing the powdery residue, "I was hoping Cinnamon would give her her expert opinion on the contents of that dish."

The four exchanged surprised looks, and then Cinnamon stepped forward.

Ancient Temptation of the Zombie Butterfly 3

3

- = -

Deep Southern Desert,  First month of the Monsoon, 314 APW (After the Precursor War) 

The rains hit the lands of the great salt wastes and the surrounding regions for only three months of the year. They drenched everything, and then disappeared- swallowed up by a hungry earth that did not give the moisture back. The desert was soaking, and the sands were treacherous, giving way whenever the water and the sand reached some mysterious agreement and become almost liquid. Swimming in such a mud puddle was nearly impossible. Cyri fully intended to return Ashton's cassowary and took her time, travelling very carefully. This could prove disastrous for her, she knew. Her mother's hunters would ride whatever mounts they commandeered into the ground to catch her, and walk here home across the desert if it came to that. Still, Ashton had lost nearly everything when he lost his position in the stables, and she wasn't about to make his generosity to her cost him further.

The rain pressed the usual smells of the land into the earth. All that Cyri could smell was rain. She would not know if the four hunters were there until they wished to her too know. The rain got into everything, leaving Cyri soaking and miserable from smooth round helm to soggy flapping moccasins. She could feel her body temperature dipping well into ranges where torpor lurked in the shadows. The Cassowary appeared unperturbed by the temperature as it nested beneath the chassis of the rickshaw between the wheels. Cyri still had trouble believing the beast could fit under the rickshaw, but it curled up beneath the rickshaw each night as Cyri made camp, so she had learned to accept it. Cyri herself had given up trying to bed with the bird for warmth, the beast would have none of that sort of cooperation. Instead, Cyri crossed her legs beneath her and made herself as compact as possible as she watched the Camel Spine Mountains from a distance of a quarter league or so away.

The Camel Spine Mountains weren't truly mountains. Though they had tilted considerably since the Precursor War, the Camel Spine Mountains could be immediately identified as ancient stone towers of the great golden age early four hundred years earlier. Erosion, wind and sand had filled in the structures. And although many balconies and rooms were still accessible, the structures were more landscape than architecture these days. The Camel Spine Mountains housed a maze of collapsed tunnels that could swallow the unwary. Cyri had no intention of poking her head in to have it lopped off. She needed to know where she was to hunt. And so she watched and had watched. Cyri had sat without food and only rain water for eight days. She focused her mind upon her patron spirit, the great wyrm, and her eyes upon the mountain range.  Her stomach ached, and she had plans to devour whatever food stores the Forgotten Dead had sequestered in their hideaway. She meditated when she could, keeping her eyes open in soft focus. She kept her efforts focused on slowing her body to minimise the need for food while she waited. 

She remained cold as she maintained her vigil, watching the whole of mountain range- looking for campfires. Evidently the Cinder Scale gangers had overestimated the carelessness of the Forgotten Dead gang. Or perhaps the Forgotten Dead had pulled through their withdrawal symptoms and had become more careful as the mysterious Zombie Butterfly had left their systems. Or perhaps they were dead, or had moved on to a new campsite.

Finally, on the twilight of the eighth day, Cyri saw a light on the north most spire of the Camel Spine Mountains. The flickering light of an open flame illuminated a room turned cavern about five stories up the tower turned mountain. Cyris stood, stretched out cramped and tired limbs, and shook the phantom biting of a thousand insects out of sleeping limbs. The cassowary noted Cyri standing and pulled itself out from under the rickshaw and shook a spray of rain and damp sand from its feathers, fluffing and shaking its plumage several times before presenting itself at the front of the Rickshaw. Cyri harnessed the bird to the rickshaw and set off with little preamble. The rickshaw was impractical, even dangerous in the damp sand. But cassowaries disliked being ridden, and had impressive talons with which to pass their displeasure on to the would be rider. The rickshaw wobbled into motion and Cyri and the cassowary headed to the base of the mountain.

They found the gang's war beasts easily, sleeping metal hulks resting in the lee of a series of eroded buildings. Cyri slipped in and took a knife to the beast's tires and twisted open their stomachs to let the rain and sand in to to clog their guts and stop them from going to war. Then she hid the cassowary and the rickshaw further in the lee of the building, out of easy viewing should any of the gangers wander back. Preparations complete, Cyri began to climb up the mountain of assembled straight lines and right angles, moving along roughly parallel as she aimed for some hypothetical perch overlooking the spot where she had marked the fire.

"Alright," Cyri said as to herself as she climbed, "Let's go remind the Forgotten Dead that dead men stay buried."