THE RELIC GUILD (and other stories) Updated regularly.

THE CATHEDRAL OF KNOWN THINGS (part 1)

At times, he played the long game in the strangest of places.

Above, the primordial mists of the Nothing of Far and Deep roiled beneath an angry sky yet to warm its cold days with the fire of a sun; a monumental dome of liquid slate devoid of nights filled with the ruby and silver glares of its moons. Below, unused time congealed into slabs of pulsing colour to create a landscape of blues and reds hued so variedly as to fill the spectrum between dusk and dawn. Raw thaumaturgy dashed the air like static, whipping, dancing, as free and wild as windborne snow. A hum, low enough to be felt rather than heard, vibrated and churned the volatile atmosphere, coaxing shape from shapelessness.

Hovering between the angry sky and the landscape in flux, Fabian Moor was exhilarated by the flakes of higher magic swirling around him, stinging his face, singing to his blood. An age had passed since he had last been able to enjoy the moment.

Defeat at the hands of the Relic Guild was far in the future, yet a distant memory now. Those petty, interfering magickers might have proved much more intelligent, problematic – even more powerful – than Moor had been prepared for, but ultimately their meddling had achieved nothing that hindered Lord Spiral's greater strategy. Yes, details had been compromised, planning required adjustment, new pathways needed to be found; but all the Relic Guild had really achieved was to buy themselves a little extra time. Just a few more years.

With a feeling of satisfaction, Moor looked to the northern horizon, and stared with wonder upon a column of energy that connected unstable land to swirling sky like an umbilical cord of liquid fire. Droning with a mournful song, blazing, spitting bolts of purple at the ground, the column snaked and twisted through the air like a whirlwind. The First and Greatest Spell, that energy was called, and it bore a legend. It had been cast by the only creature of higher magic worshipped by all races: the Timewatcher.

The First and Greatest Spell would one day be contained within a building named the Nightshade. But now, in its raw state, the spell was an immense and untamed formation of thaumaturgy that inflated an ever expanding bubble within the Nothing of Far and Deep. It held aloft the sky while solidifying time into the founding stones of an intrinsic House that would come to be known as Labrys Town, a human haven surrounded by the alleyways of an endless maze called the Great Labyrinth. The creation of this House would prove to be the Timewatcher's grandest achievement, and her biggest mistake.

Among all the Thaumaturgists, only Spiral, the Lord of the Genii, had been able to match the Timewatcher's power; only his command of higher magic had been able to smuggle Moor back to this time, a thousand years before the Genii War, to when the Timewatcher's fabled First and Greatest Spell birthed the most significant epoch in the history of the Houses.

Moor's sense of wonder grew. In this time frame, the Aelfir were warring against each other, out among the plethora of realms, fighting in perpetual, bloody battles that never heralded a victor – a cycle of pointlessness that was already centuries old. When the Great Labyrinth was completed,  would use it to break that cycle, and spell the end of what the Aelfir would come to call the Old Ways. Moor understood what a privilege it was to be chosen to bear witness to such an important beginning, to such ... creation. Labrys Town might give the Aelfir a common ground, give them peace, but that peace would not last.

And to think, in only a millennium, the Great Labyrinth would become the catalyst that caused The Timewatcher to lose so many of her children. Lord Spiral and his Genii were coming, and nothing would be the same again.

An itch crawled across his skin.

Hollowness gnawed inside him.

Fabian Moor sighed.

From the satchel which hung from his shoulder, he took a phial of blood and popped the cork with his thumb. He paused before drinking, staring at the phial and its contents.

A part of Moor had hoped that being present at this primitive stage of the Labyrinth's creation might ease his cravings; that the flakes of raw thaumaturgy, hissing in the air like a storm of static, might substitute the need for sustenance that ached in his core. He wondered: was this chronic need to feed on blood a weakness? Perhaps the virus that he carried meant he had become nothing more than vermin. Or did his condition make him greater even than the Thaumaturgists?

In the overall scheme of things, did it matter?

Lifting the phial to his lips, Moor drained the blood in one go. He was repulsed by how willingly he savoured the rusty tang as it slipped thickly down his throat, quenching his hunger, filling the void inside him. The phial fell from his grasp, and he watched it tumble down, end over end, until it disappeared into the fluxing landscape. There was no time left for musing and marvelling. Slowly, Moor descended. His eyes ever watchful, his instincts alert, almost fearful.

The purple fire of the First and Greatest Spell might have been providing the highest of thaumaturgy by which this House was achieving existence, but the Timewatcher's spell would not sculpt the final design. For that, the Great Labyrinth and its town required labourers ... of a kind.

Moor could see them as he neared the ground, hundreds, thousands of them, scurrying and lumbering and sliding over slabs and boulders that glowed blue and red. Radiating a vague violet sheen, the workers burrowed and dug, carved and built. Labouring tirelessly, in perfect unison, they hardened time to the black stone foundations of this House. Sculptors, creators, the builders of realms, these things were the Timewatcher's loyal pets. They were the Time Engineers.

Some of them appeared humanoid, hefting stone and laying brickwork; others appeared as giant slugs that devoured everything in their path to then excrete lines of dull purple jelly like icing squeezed from tubes. The last of them were arachnids, and they scooped up the jelly upon flat backs and carried it to the humanoids to use as mortar in their work. The Time Engineers needed no sustenance, no rest, and were unconcerned by the hostile environment. They would not stop building until this House was finished.

Moor spied an area of completed ground beside a wide chasm, and headed towards it. Landing near the edge of the chasm, he froze, tense and ready, as an arachnid scuttled towards him, back laden with purple mortar.

For the most part, Time Engineers were apathetic creatures, harbouring no prejudices, incapable of distinguishing between friend and foe. They understood only order and purpose. However, whether Moor be Genii, vermin, or a new and brilliant form of life, he remained fundamentally a creature of higher magic. If the Engineers detected his thaumaturgy, they would regard him simply as raw material to be mashed and ground into the foundations of Labrys Town.

The single arachnid didn't pose much of a threat. But if the one approaching detected Moor, it would summon its fellow Engineers, and one Genii could not stand against the thousands that would answer that call. Should he attempt to fight, they would alert the Timewatcher to the discrepancy, and Moor would have to flee before his lord and master's orders could be carried out. There would be no second chance. Subtlety was his best friend in this place.

Thankfully, the lone Engineer was  focused on its current task. It did not pursue the Genii who had broken into this timeframe, but scurried up to the chasm and disappeared down into it. Relieved, Moor peered over the edge.

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