Forbidden Bones
This book can be found in a chest beneath a hidden trapdoor in Ohmswil's Emporium, just outside Tharxax City. It establishes that the bones of arcanists are extremely powerful as magical tools themselves. It is written by someone who has taken up the task of purging the realm of arcanists, using the bones of their fallen compatriots as extremely powerful weapons against them.
Coordinates¶
| X | Y | Z |
|---|---|---|
| -2158 | 73 | 3784 |
Transcription¶
Their bones are valuable. More than any stick, stone, dawn-dusk crystal, gem, or ancient rehntite scrap. They are of marrow & magic, and it rots their very core. The more tattoos a blasphemous arcanist acquires - the more potentia they draw from themselves - the more abhorrent and powerful their osseous matter becomes. The body was not meant to be a catalyst. Did you know that if an arcanist overexerts themselves, they are consumed by a blaze of chromatic fury? They burn from the inside-out, their plasma vaporizes and their flesh becomes carbon dust. All they leave behind is a pile of bones blackened and stained with golden swirls, ripe for my taking. Forcing an arcanist past their limits is certainly no easy feat - especially for those born with inordinate potentia, or imbibed on debauch khivesbrew.
They never expect the bones of their fallen ilk to be used against them. For their bones are forbidden - it is taboo. I abide no such morals, not when it comes to the immorality of arcanism. They are a blight to be purged. I am That Which Reaps, and their bones are my sickle. Volatile acid rains down as I crush their vertebrae in my fists, the carvings upon them burning a yellow glow between my fingers as the runes are activated by its catalyst’s destruction. When I point their femurs towards them and whisper my sacred words of hate, their insides become their outsides. When their skulls are crushed beneath my boot, ornate with beautifully delicate carvings, they find themselves subject to visions that force a rapid suicide. When I whip their spines, a slash of hyper-sonic air cuts through them like the finest volcano-forged blade of Sahdese make.
Their orders whisper my name with terror, they try to pretend I do not exist, or they dismiss me merely as a myth. I am no myth. I exist amongst them, masked by the awful markings that cover every inch of their bodies. To defeat thy enemy one must become thy enemy. This is the sacrifice I make. For my blasphemy, one day I too shall be reduced to nothing but a smoldering pile of yellow-black skeletal waste. I await the burn with glee, but not until every last one of them has first met my fury.